Alabama and a cooking dilemma

It’s a strange world when you can’t decide whether to blog about politics or cooking, so here’s a bit of both. Like much of our country, I’m jubilant over the Alabama results. A good friend is coming for lunch tomorrow, the man who years ago shepherded me through the Ph.D. program and continues to read and critique almost everything I write. He emailed to suggest he bring champagne, so we could celebrate the Alabama election—so out of character for him and so perfect for the occasion. I told him I’d supply chardonnay—can’t quite do champagne at lunch.

We were not only spared a pedophile, we were spared a man who openly defied the Constitution, who wanted to abolish the Bill of Rights (or was it the first ten constitutional amendments—who can keep track of his radicalism?), who called some minorities “reds” and “yellows,” who thought homosexuality should be illegal. And who incidentally can’t ride a horse and shouldn’t try publicly. The list goes on and on. We were saved from the worst of the alt-right, but it’s frightening that 68% of whites who voted in Alabama voted for him. We owe the black population of that state an undying debt of gratitude.

Debate rages over the most significant aspect of this victory. I am not a political analyst and can’t begin to understand all the implications, but to me it’s a clear defeat for Mr. Trump, who had endorsed Moore and led his weak party to follow him. It’s a signal that if Mueller doesn’t get him (which I believe he will), the women of this country will. In my dreams, Trump and Moore pay for their sins behind bars and Franken is restored to the Senate—and higher office should he wish.

As for Ryan’s promise that they’re coming for Medicare and Social Security, it’s so wrong it makes me sputter, but I’ll save it for another time and move on to cooking. As I said above, my mentor Fred is coming for lunch. He doesn’t like to back out of my driveway, so I fix lunch here, and he claims to be amazed at what I can turn out without a kitchen. I decided to “amaze” him with chicken pot pie. Found a good recipe.

Then realized I couldn’t do that crescent roll braid in my oven. Decided on puff pastry. Bless Jordan—she tried; first she brought me phyllo dough, which the Albertson’s person convinced her was the same—it’s not; then on a trip to Central Market she triumphantly brought home puff pastry. When I looked at it today, it’s pastry shells that come with a strict warning against baking them in a toaster oven. I debated baking one as a test, or using the crescent rolls dough I’d bought, or asking Jordan to cook the pastry shells—or giving up and asking Fred to bring lunch.

Tonight, I made the filling—looks good though it violates my purity theories and uses Campbell’s cream of chicken soup. But tomorrow, I’ll put it in a Corningware dish, cover it with roll dough that I’ve pressed together into one piece, and bake it in the toaster oven. Cross your fingers, please. Maybe the chardonnay will be so good the pot pie won’t matter. Do I need a salad? Ah, indecision.

This is, though, exactly the kind of situation that leads me to work on that cookbook, Gourmet on a Hot Plate. It’s about exploring what you can and can’t do in a tiny kitchen and what’s the best way to do it. Puff pastry? Crescent roll dough? Forget it?

As for Roy Moore, no sympathy. Cheers for Doug Jones. He’s got a huge task ahead of him, because the country looks to him to make an impact in what seems to me a corrupt Senate. And, of course, McConnell is rushing to push the horrendous tax bill through before Jones is sworn in. Is that legal? The trickery and deception never end.

Nothing new

No blog tonight or not much of one. It has been an uneventful day although productive. Home all day, working on neighborhood newsletter and novel and moving ahead nicely with both. I’ve had a brief visit from Jordan, who is not feeling well and stayed home all day, and a slightly longer visit from Jacob who came out this morning to retrieve his leftover pizza from last night and again this evening to take out garbage and do a few “straightening” chores I needed done before tomorrow morning when a video crew arrives to film me for a promotional video for my hip surgeon and his hospital. More about that after the fact.

The video should be fun, but I had other lessons today in how medical problems take up my time. I had an appointment already to see my general physician about a spot on my back that I fear needs to come out—sent a photo to the doctor, and he said to come in and they’d remove it So today I called to ask if they could also do my clearance for eye surgery at that appointment, and I ran into what I think of as the reception-area block. Oh, no, the doctor couldn’t possibly do that. He’d look at the spot and if it needed to come out, I’d have to make another appointment, and he couldn’t possibly combine it with the surgical clearance appointment. I’d have to come in one day for blood work and then come back for the exam. Let’s see—that’s five appointments, right? I explained that I cannot drive and must rely on others and that was a lot of doctor appointments and a terrible imposition on those who carry me around. The receptionist reluctantly said she’d explain to the doctor and ask if it was all right. I told her he was more than familiar with my situation—I’ve spent half the fall in his office, for pity’s sake—he’d need no explanation. She called back with word it would be okay.

All this came about because my eye surgery is now scheduled for December 21. Awful close to Christmas, but I guess it will be fine. I have mixed emotions—want it done in December to get it off my mind and to roll it into other medical expenses for this year since I think I’ll qualify for the medical deduction, which may well go away next year. But having a definite date gives me the willies. Yes, I want it done and over with. Last night I couldn’t read the menu or the bill in a dim restaurant, and then, because my depth perception is off, I poured wine onto the counter instead of into the glass.

But other than these non-adventures, to me it’s been a day to make my heart heavy. The congressional vote for the tax bill was not unexpected but it still hurts—it will hurt me, but it will hurt a lot of others much more, and I worry about the poor and sick. Congress has struck a double blow—taxes and health care, and Paul Ryan is jubilant. Betsy DeVos has taken away protections for disabled students, and 45 has struck down the ban on importing ivory, thus opening the way for poachers and his own big-game hunting sons—another of his distractions from the Russia scandal which tonight threatens to engulf Jared Kushner. Al Franken has been accused of harassment; he apologized and called for an investigation of himself—but the Republicans are out for blood. I’m sure outspoken Franken has been a thorn in their sides all along, and they see a chance to get rid of him.

And they may be concerned about Roy Moore—he would be an inconvenience, after all—but are totally unconcerned about all the women who have come forward again today to accuse 45 or about 45’s own braggart confessions of groping and other gross details. The hypocrisy on Capitol Hill is appalling.

I echo the blogger who said tonight he is deeply ashamed of his country. Where have these people come from? How have we sunk so low?

I hope to have my optimism back tomorrow, but now I’ll just say goodnight. Try to love each other and pray for our enemies within.

Feeling a bit ditzy

Today was the monthly meeting of the Book Ladies, a group I’ve belonged to for over thirty years, gulp! One other woman shares my longevity, but the rest are newcomers of various duration. We never meant to be a ladies group—all those years ago, we just gathered friends whose lives revolved around books and they happened to be all ladies. No men applied. We have no dues, no minutes, no agenda. We just gather at The Neighborhood Grill, order breakfast, and sit and talk, sometimes about books, sometimes not. By serendipity or good fortune, I don’t know which, we are all liberals or progressives or whatever you want to call us. Years ago, there was one woman among us, someone I really liked, who stopped coming to breakfast because she was uncomfortable about the politics. I think this was in the days when George W. Bush was working up to invading Iraq.

I enjoy these breakfasts, am fond of several of the women, but I confess these days when the table is crowded and the restaurant noisy, it’s hard for me to keep up with the conversation. Darn, some days I hate this aging business. Today a woman who I used to work with sat across from me, and we had a good conversation.

Home to work for a bit and then to lunch with Mary Dulle. Mary always asks if I have errands to run and today I did, so we went to Albertson’s where I bought wine and shampoo (essentials), but the main focus of my grocery list was items on the Food Bank list. Mary admired my skill with the automated cart, but when I got out in the parking lot, it was apparent that cart was losing its battery. I practically had to push it the last little bit with my feet. What should have been easy turned complicated. Then we went to CVS to pick up prescriptions, and I somehow managed to sign the cashier’s slip and return my debit card to them with that slip. Came home, frantically searched purse, bags, etc. Mary searched her car—nothing. I finally called CVS and yes, they have it. Mary will drive me up there tomorrow.

Meantime, I came home and minded my own business. Feeling domestic, I baked oatmeal raisin cookies (frozen, a band fund-raiser for Jacob) and oh my, they were good. Then I baked the frozen spanakopita Mary brought me from the Greek Festival—baked the whole pan and will refreeze it. One piece was plenty—so good but so rich.

Mary said there used to be a column in the newspaper where people could air their gripes. In our neighborhood newsletter, a neighbor has started a “Cheers” column which I think is much more positive, but I can see the need to gripe. So my gripe today: is the proposed tax bill really going to include an exemption for owners of golf resorts? How much more toady can Congress become? And 45, as our president is licensing an escort service in China under his name? Surely, I’m mistaken, but I fear not. What ever happened to the dignity of the office? I agree with whoever said they would now vote for any functioning adult.

A day of trivia

There’s nothing like being completely relaxed and confident of your safety, as Sophie demonstrates in her favorite chair. I’m thinking of switching chairs around, so that the two matching club chair wear evenly from her attachment to them. This thought became more insistent today when I crawled into my unmade bed to nap. Did you ever sleep in a beach bed? One with sand that you could not brush entirely away? That’s what this felt like—gritty, only there’s no sand around. It was grainy old dirt from the back yard. My bed is another of Sophie’s favorite spots. She’ll teach me to make it earlier in the day, though my mom taught me to let a bed air out before you pulled the covers up.

I come from a family of nappers. We believe in good, solid afternoon sleep. My dad walked a mile home from his office for lunch every day, took a 20-minutes power nap, and walked back. My power nap today stretched into an hour-and-a-half of solid sleep. In my own defense, because such a long nap makes me feel lazy or guilty or something, I will say that I didn’t sleep well last night. But I dreamt heavily this afternoon. My family was caravanning in several cars—no idea where we were going, but we were in mountains. And I ended up in a small pickup, going at a high speed down a steep mountain road, with son-in-law Brandon driving. It was not hairpin curves but a road that clung to the side of a mountain and wound around it. B is and was in the dream a good driver, but the dream was so intense that I lay in bed for 30 minutes, trying to get rid of it. I think it may having automatically converted my heart back to a sinus rhythm!

I am a bust at radio interviews—there’s no way around it. After confessing the mix-up on my last interview and detailing the preparation I’d done for today’s, nothing happened. I called the designated number two minutes before the show was to start and got a recorded message that the show had not yet started; please call back within 15 minutes of show time—did that mean 15 minutes before? After? For the next 17 minutes, I called at least 17 times—and got the same message. Emailed the publicist who said to let it go; she’d find out what happened.

My rant for the day: every day I think the man in the White House cannot do anything more outrageous, but he exceeds my expectations. Now he’s demanding a rush to a tax bill because it is urgent after the hurricanes. I’m sorry, but how were the rich damaged, other than a few wrecked Caribbean second homes? It’s the poor, those who live at the edge of poverty, who were pushed over that edge. The bill does nothing for them, not one blessed thing. The NBC coverage of the devastation on Tortula only emphasizes where America needs to put money—and it’s not in the pockets of the rich.

And I’m puzzled as I can be by the news of the deal Senator Schumer and Representative Pelosi made with Trumpf about DACA recipients. Trumpf alternately denies it and confirms his support for DACA recipients. How do we know what’s true?

I’m now following the daily newsletter of high-school student Gabe Fleisher, and I’m in good company—a lot of well-known political journalists also read “Wake Up to Politics” every morning. I’m hoping young Gabe can do what others can’t and get us the straight of the story.

Not a rant but a sad obituary: I know many of my friends disagree with my stand that we are being hasty in dismantling Civil War statues, but I am saddened by today’s removal of the General Robert E. Lee statue in Dallas. Fellow mystery author Janis Patterson put the case best here: https://ladiesofmystery.com/2017/09/14/privacy-responsibility-and-general-robert-e-lee/  Read it and weep, because I really believe we will come to regret this haste to change history, which cannot be changed. A GIF on Facebook also says it well: We will change nothing by taking down statues until we can change what’s in people’s hearts.