Sunday, ah Sunday!

 

My simplified Salade Nicoise
Sorry, Julia Child, no olives.

Somehow Sundays are do-nothing days. It’s not that my routine is any different than any other day, but something inside me knows it’s Sunday and doesn’t want to buckle down to any serious work. Today, I “went” to virtual church, cooked supper for myself, did a couple of small, list-making chores, and spent an incredible (and wasteful) amount of time playing on the web.

For instance, my son-in-law sent pictures of the Mahr Building in Telluride, once a bank and the very first bank that Butch Cassidy ever robbed. It’s been almost thirty years since my version of Butch’s story (really Etta’s story), Sundance, Butch, and Me, was published, and I really don’t need to do any more research on Butch who, in my view, was a Robin Hood character and did not die in Bolivia. Nonetheless, I followed that rabbit hole for a bit—that’s what Sundays are for: odd little bits of knowledge and investigation.

I have been reading or trying to and am beginning to worry about myself. I am a picky reader and I have tried four books and given up on all of them. One, set in 1947, had flashbacks to a female spy in WWI—she had been tortured and I didn’t want to read about that, although the main plot interested me. Another was a murder set in Provence, according to the title, but it proceeded at far too pastoral a pace; a third proposed to take cooking out of the realm of domesticity and make it a respected occupation. I opened it eagerly, only to find a series of short stream of consciousness entries about the physical sensations of cutting through a pumpkin. Scratch that. The final book, which I opened with enthusiasm, was almost a spoof on romance and cooking. It’s a popular book, one I’ve heard much about and thought I should read. At first, I read it with pleasure but then I began to wonder how long the author could sustain the literary conceit on which it was based—a very unlikely (and not particularly likeable character) in a kitchen. Not quite halfway through I decided I was done. So I am an author in search of a good book to read.

Sundays are also for napping, and I am one of those who remember vivid dreams. I’ve had a couple of doozies this weekend, both what I think experts would call Freudian. In one, I was cleaning out my VW (not far-fetched—it’s nineteen years old and Jordan still drives it), getting rid of a bunch of detritus an ex had left behind. I thought that man had moved out of my head a long time ago, so why was I still dreaming of getting rid of him? The other had to do with my office—everyone was going to Austin for a meeting that we all enjoyed annually, only they had all made plans to travel with others and nobody asked me, asked me where I was staying, acted like they planned for me to go. Even one of my sons, who never had any connection to my office. I’ve been thinking a lot about aging lately, and I think that dream was subconsciously reinforcing what I say every day I know: let go of the past and enjoy the good memories. In this case, let go of the job I loved so much and treasure the memory of all those book festivals and conferences. Makes me a bit nervous about going to sleep tonight.

I’ve been on my own, without company, for dinner two nights in a row, and I’ve taken advantage of that to fix a couple of things I really like. Last night I fixed brinner—breakfast for dinner, consisting of soft-scrambled eggs, smashed baby potatoes, and grape tomatoes. Tonight it was a modified Salade Niçoise with a good anchovy vinaigrette. Enough left for lunch tomorrow.

I think I’m glad tomorrow is Monday. I have some serious writing replaying itself in my head, and I need that new keyboard to get it done!

Maybe more thunderstorms tonight. I hope they are like the one we just had—gloriously loud and noisy, with lots of rain, but nothing destructive—no hail, no wind. Hope everyone else in the area was as fortunate. Sophie, of course, barked furiously as though she could intimidate the thunder. It didn’t work.

Brinner

Resting on the Sabbath – maybe

Sundays always just “feel” different to me. Maybe it’s because even in quarantine I know I’m going to church. This morning, Jordan wanted to “attend” the nine o’clock service because she wanted to spend mid-day at a neighbor’s pool. So I was barely up and into my morning routine when we put everything on hold for church. Another inspiring service, with Russ Peterman’s theme of “What Now?” After Easter, what now? What lasting impact does the Easter miracle have on our lives?

This morning he talked about anxiety and said his family decided they didn’t yet have enough stress and anxiety in quarantine, so they adopted a border collie puppy. He showed clips, and she is adorable but energetic with both puppy playfulness and border collie unquenchable enthusiasm for life. The clip showed her deviling the family’s older dog—biting at her ear, her collar, her face. The older dog’s look, according to Dr. Peterman, said, “Are you just going to sit there and let her do this?”

I could identify because Sophie is half border collie. Now, at nine, she is more sedate but she was wildness on wheels as a puppy. Dr. Peterman said it was actually a good time for a puppy because everyone was home and could train her. I remembered that I didn’t get Sophie until I was retired and home 24/7 with her. And I remembered my  scratched and bitten arms. One Sunday Jordan was so embarrassed by them she urged me to wear long sleeves to church.

After church, I piddled. I decided I would not work. I would take a rest from my novel. So I dawdled on Facebvook and read the entirety of the New York Times Community Cooking page. Then the Sisters in Crime posts, and truly whatever. But I knew in the back of my mind that I was avoiding the novel because my mind was in turmoil about where it should go next.

So I reviewed the notes I had made, and almost before I knew it, I was writing. I didn’t add much but it got me off dead center, and I went back and plugged some holes in the plot consistency, added some motivation.

But when I took my usual afternoon nap, I couldn’t sleep because I was still writing that novel. Woke with notes of things I must plug in tomorrow. I fear I am at the point where the novel is with me night and day. When I told Jordan it was costing me sleep, she said that’s the time you take a vacation from it. She’s right, and I should have done it today.

So chalk up one more day of distancing. Twelve of Jacob’s friends went to lunch today, and he was uncertain what to tell them about why he didn’t go. Jordan suggested, “I didn’t go because I don’t want to kill my grandmother.” I appreciated that. Much as I don’t like the idea, I can see two years of mostly being quarantined. Infections and deaths are already spiking where re-opening is happening, and I look with horror at people shown on TV eating on patios, shopping, going to the beach—all without maks. But we are also hearing that some of the most adamant protestors—a pastor, a bar owner, etc..—who decried the isolation policy are dying. I’ll stay home, thank you, and I am grateful that my family is protecting me—and themselves.

Time for chili

There’s a definite fall tinge in the air, a touch of cool in the early morning and even by early evening. I’ve taken to shutting my patio door except in the middle of the day, and I’ve finally mastered turning on the heat so I can take the morning chill off. In the wee hours this morning, we had a storm with good rain and truly impressive thunder. It was okay, because I was protected by one small, black dog who first barked at the thunder to scare it away and then slept right by me to keep me safe.

As we say in Texas, it’s chili weather. Fitting that Christian fixed chili tonight—a recipe he cobbled together from this one and that. I gave him one from the New York Times that is really complicated. Billed as a combination of chili and gumbo—the combination made me curious. Christian said he didn’t have time to do it tonight, and he couldn’t find the one from my book he wanted to do. It’s Dan Hogan’s chili, and I swear it has everything in it but the proverbial kitchen sink. What Christian made, his cobbled together version, was good and hearty with just enough spice. He complained he couldn’t find his red pepper flakes; I told him I was just as glad.

In case you all didn’t know, I did a book on chili a few years back. Texas is Chili Country is a history of the dish—no, it’s not from Mexico, an attribution Mexicans consider an insult. It began in the cow camps of West Texas. And no, it doesn’t have beans (Christian’s had beans tonight, and truthfully, I like them).  A lengthy chapter discusses the two chili cookoffs, which are about to take place next weekend in Terlingua, along with the reason that remote spot was chosen. This year is the fiftieth anniversary of the original chili cookoff, started as a publicity stunt by the legendary Frank Tolbert and his sidekick, Wick Fowler. It was more hijinks than serious, but these days chili is serious business—at least in the original cookoff. Not so much at the CASI cookoff. Chili cookoffs are not for amateurs—you have to win local contests to qualify. Anyway, you can read all about it.

And then you can prowl through pages and pages of chili recipes—seems everyone on the planet has their own recipe. These days you can cook fat free chili, vegetarian chili, chili with turkey and other meats alternate to the beef that started the whole thing. Fascinating what peple come up with. Shhh. Don’t say I said it, but chili is one of those dishes you can cook blindfolded without a recipe.

Pardon the sales pitch, but you can find the book on Amazon or from Texas Tech Press

Aside from the hearty chili and an interesting dinnertime discussion of childbirth with Jacob, it was a long Sunday. I so often have a much better social life during the week than on weekends, and sometimes long Sundays lull me into speaking out on Facebook among other things. I did today and found myself embroiled in several discussions. To my delight, my Megan chimed in a couple of times but once it was to second someone’s suggestion that I clear myself of haters. I think it’s a Facebook thing—people I know are not on my “Friends” list respond. Someone suggested they are bots—something else for me to learn about. At any rate, I continue to speak out because I think it’s important. Misused as the term is these days, I think speaking out about our government is patriotic (45 wouldn’t agree).