Odd inconveniences, a good dinner, and Omigosh! What are Republicans doing to poor Ukraine

 

This morning I woke to a gray, dull day that seemed to threaten rain at any moment. Stretching and lying in bed enjoying the moment, I thought a day of reading and napping sounded just perfect. Of course, that’s not what happened. Jordan and I were out the door at 9:15 for a doctor’s appointment for me. All is well, and I got a good report, including praise for doing all the things I should—vaccinations, mammograms, etc. But I will have to take a swallow test because I’ve been having difficulty swallowing large pills lately, pills that I’ve taken for years with no problem. My doctor explained I would drink barium and they would x-ray it going down—yuck! It’s been over thirty years since I had to drink barium and I still have not-so-pleasant memories. What struck this osteopathic child was that my doctor did not palpate my throat (he said if it were thyroid there’d be a big and visible mass) and he didn’t look down my throat. He knew, without touching me, what the problem was—almost certainly not serious—and how to deal with it. But I grew up in the old days when a doctor laid hands on. I guess, like many things, I have to learn to adapt. He did come in physical contact to listen to hear and lungs and examine the healing lesion on my scalp.

When we left the doctor’s office, the sun was peeking out, and the day ultimately turned out to be pretty. I meant to get someone to take pictures of my wildflowers but didn’t get it done. But we came home to no water—it’s not as though the whole block was cut off. It was just our house. Christian called the water department, and they said it was probably a problem with our meter. They would have someone out to fix it today. Fortunately, I had leftovers in the fridge for lunch, but it was a bit frustrating to leave the unrinsed decision in the sink. To say nothing of not flushing the toilet. My nap came in handy because when I woke up, the water was back on. I don’t say this often, so here’s a cheer for the Fort Worth Water Department.

Christian fixed chicken piccata tonight following a Southern Living recipe and I made cheese grits from the same source, plus we had the cucumber salad I made earlier in the week. A really good dinner, if a bit lemony. After all these years, Southern Living is still my go-to.

Tonight I shared Dan Rather’s daily column on my Facebook page. I hope you’ll take time to read it. Rather, whom I admire a great deal, points out that by stalling aid to Ukraine Republicans in the House are fulfilling Putin’s every wish. Ukraine, which has already suffered so badly in the name of democracy for all of us, is losing territory (and men) in the eastern part of the country. MAGA Republicans don’t seem to get it through their thick heads that the freedom of Europe is a stake, and if Europe falls America is at best isolated, at the worst without trade partners and vulnerable to miliary takeover. To me, it’s as simple as teaching math to a first grader—two plus two equals Russia steamrolls across Europe. Marjorie Taylor Greene, the dimmest bulb in Congress, says Putin claims he wants no more land, just Ukraine, and she believes him. I have a bridge in Arizona to sell her. As Rather says, men like Mike Johnson are playing politics with people’s lives. Is Johnson stalling because he’s afraid of losing his speakership? I cannot tell. It’s too late to hold his caucus together—that ship sailed long ago. I suspect his motivation lies in his recent trips to Mar-a-Largo, and the idea that trump is pulling political strings to get back in the presidency, as the cost of man’s lives on the battlefield, is so abhorrent I’m speechless. And I can’t even begin to contemplate what would happen to poor Ukraine if trump weaseled his way back into the Whie House.

Please do whatever you can—write your congressman, your senator, anyone who can put pressure on Johnson. I suspect Democrats will swallow hard and support him because they simply don’t want the upheaval of having to choose another speaker, poor choice though he is. Without saying that, maybe reassure him. We’ve got to raise our voices and get the off dead center. It’s unconscionable.

Seems rather silly after that to say, “Sweet Dreams,” but that’s my wish for you. And maybe positive thoughts about the world situation.

The problem that is Russia—and ours

 

 

Like most of my generation and those ten, even twenty years younger, I have vivid memories of the Cold War, that period of deep tension between Russia and the United States that never, thank goodness, blossomed into a hot war—it remained a standoff for too many tension-filled years. If it began in 1947, as is generally accepted, I was nine years old. I remember (or is it just that I’ve heard it so often?) William Faulkner’s acceptance speech for the 1949 award in literature, with its classic line, “I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal … because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance.” I remember Joseph McCarthy and the lives he ruined searching for communists in every woodpile (one might think of today’s desperate effort to impeach Biden). I remember the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962 when we were sure that Russian nuclear weapons were about to descend on major American cities. I was in a small town in Missouri, and I urged my parents to leave Chicago and travel to Missouri. I was sure, by staying, they would die. I do not remember hiding under my school desk to avoid an atomic bomb—how futile that seems to us with our knowledge today—but I think that came along after I had completed my early schooling. What I do remember and will never forget was that Russia was the archenemy of the United States. It was a giant, evil bear lurking over our lives. Eventually into the sixties, the tensions lessened. The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics broke up, Russia seemed less a threat, and life went on. But I never ever forgot our history with Russia, the stories we heard about the KBG and work camps in Siberia, and other horror tales. Russia was always the enemy. Today, Vladimir Putin, with a KGB background, has brought those days back with a vengeance—not only by invading Ukraine but by his handling of dissent—prominent people poisoned, falling out of skyscraper windows, dying in prison. And his plan to infiltrate American politics and social media and influence the direction of our country has been wildly successful.

It boggles my mind today to read that some Republican members of the House will admit that Russian propaganda has infiltrated some members of the Republican Party, and sometimes the Russian line appears on the floor of the U. S. House of Representatives. (Heather Cox Richardon has an explosive column about how the Russian propaganda machine has been effective in America since trump’s election: (61) April 8, 2024 - by Heather Cox Richardson (substack.com) MAGA representatives oppose aid to Ukraine, saying that we need to spend those dollars at home to help the poor—disregard that they are the party who is desperate to cut social security, Medicaid and Medicare and continually votes to close school lunch prograns and anything designed to help low income families get a grip. Disregard also that stopping Russia now ensure the security of America in the future, and also that economists point out that helping beleaguered countries boosts our trade partners in the future—when that war is over and Ukraine stabilized, that country’s grain supplies will again become crucial to the world—and to America.

The presumptive MAGA leader, one former president of our country, has a plan to end the war in Ukraine: he will simply give Ukraine to the Russians, and then fighting will cease. (He has apparently not consulted Zelensky about this). MAGA followers have no idea that stopping the Russian incursion into Ukraine is vital to our country’s security. If Russia is allowed to swallow Ukraine, it will have been rewarded for breaking international law in an unprovoked attack on another country. Russia will then be free to march across Europe, swallowing countries. America will be left without major allies—in addition to defense, that would weaken our trade with other countries, our sales, our whole economy. People who advocate isolationism simply don’t realize what a small world we live in today—America would not survive without its allies.

Have these MAGA folks not studied their history? Do they not know about the Cold War, the Cuban Missile Crisis? Do they not know a bit of earlier history about Germany doing just what Russia is now trying to do—march across Europe subjugating countries. In the late 1930s British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain agreed to let Germany annex Sudetenland, a German-speaking part of Czechoslovakia, because Hitler promised not to take any more land. We know how that worked out. Chamberlain’s disastrous policy of appeasement led to WWII.

Does Marjorie Taylor Greene not know any of this history? Matt Goetz? Mike Johnson? It is appalling to me that we have elected so-called leaders who are so blind to the basics of democracy and to our history. I don’t know whether to blame our education system for not teaching them history or to place the blame squarely on their shoulders for being seduced by power and notoriety. Either way, we need leaders with a grasp of history and diplomacy and international relationships. Trump and his minions are not that.

Rant over.

Texas on my mind

 

Given that much of my career has been built around the literature and history of Texas, I suppose my dream last night was not a surprise. I notably have colorful dreams—yes, in technicolor, and I hear sounds and smell good things. And sometimes I remember them well into the next day. I used to say my best writing was done at three in the morning when I was asleep. Alas, that’s not true anymore, but last night’s dream has stayed with me.

I was getting ready to go to school, though I wasn’t certain if it was high school or college or what I was doing there. (I frequently have that college dream where I haven’t been to class all semester and now it’s finals and I’m in a panic, but this was different). I remember putting on makeup, including that horrible blue eye shadow we used to think was so smart. And then, somehow, I was teaching a class—in an outdoor classroom with a huge body of water in the background (the Gulf?). I had to go back inside to get my sunglasses.

The class was on Texas culture, and I decided to let the students teach the class. (That’s a favorite technic of mine: I once taught a writing seminar using the City of Fort Worth as a focus and even took the kids on a bus tour and supper at Star Café in the Stockyards—medium successful). This time I said each would be asked to do an in-depth study of some aspect of Texas culture—not just the usual broad categories of food, music, geography, but digging deeper. And then the class and I began to come up with topics: how do Texans raise their children? What are Texas religious values? How does geography shape our lives—divided into regions like coastal South Texas, the High Plains, etc. Now I can’t remember all the topics we came up with, but at the time they were brilliant.

I decided this dream is worth mentioning because it illustrated to me what a wonderful place Texas can be. And knowing my sympathies, when I woke it led me to the next thought: we must not, we cannot let hardline, alt-right conservatives constrict Texas with their tight laws on abortion trans kids, LGBTQ lifestyle, school curriculum and library books. Texas has a wonderful and rich heritage—okay some myth, mixed with a lot of truth. And today we are a rich and diverse culture, with contributions from many heritages that blend to make a remarkable whole. We cannot let that be erased and consigned to the dump heap because Greg Abbot, Dan Patrick, and Ken Paxton want to play to their base and further their political careers. Folks, our ancestors (okay, I’m not a native Texan and can’t claim them but many can) fought and died in the Texas Revolution for the life they wanted to live in Texas. I’m not at all suggesting we take up arms, but I am suggesting we have to fight—and fight hard—at the polls, in public meetings, in school board meetings, any place we can make our voices heard.

I was impressed with many articles about Madeline Albright, several of which repeated her statement that she was late in coming to make her voice heard, but once she found her voice, she would not be silenced. I so agree with her, and I think it’s up to each of us—particularly Texas women—to make our voices heard. Women are so involved in abortion, child-raising, education, and we can make such a difference.

That thought logically brought me to Ukraine, where women are fighting alongside their husbands and sons. I cannot say strongly enough how overwhelmed I am with the spirit, determination, and resilience of that people as a nation. The world has not seen anything like it since the resistance fighters of WWII. But you know what makes me love those people all the more? The ones who flee to safety, leaving loved ones behind to fight, take their dogs and cats with them. I find that a remarkable show of loyalty and courage. That they would look out for their pets is such an important statement of who they are.

Pray for Ukraine, for the people, for the animals, for their charismatic leader. Who knows when the world will again see such courage and determination? And pray for Texas, that we can be free to live our lives as we want and not according to dictates from our state government. Make it happen!

 

The dichotomy of a nothing day

 

Some days there’s just nothing to say. The world at large goes on—the violence and destruction in Ukraine continue to break our hearts, Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelensky and his resistance troops continue to amaze and inspire. Another covid variant surge looms on the horizon, supposedly less lethal but much more contagious. Political ideology and disinformation continue to divide our country—most of you know where I stand on that, so I won’t belabor the point. The supply chain is still iffy, predicted to get worse because of Russia’s invasion and another round of covid. Food shortages are expected throughout the world as the Russia/Ukraine war destroys crops in the breadbasket of Europe. Gas prices increase, but before you moan about that look at what they are across the rest of the world—of course in England, for instance, they are not driving the tremendous distances that we in Texas are.

And when the news comes to Texas, we are now worried about wildfires. Much in Eastland County has been destroyed, and new fires have appeared around Cisco. To the south, evacuations are now being ordered in Lipan, as there is a spreading fire on the border between Erath and Hunt counties. Further south, fires are reported near Huckaby, which I’ve never heard of, but which alarms me because it looks too close to Tolar, where my brother’s ranch is.

The world picture is not pretty. But at home, it’s been the most quiet of days. We had, as I’ve posted, twenty-four hours of lots of company and good food and hilarity, including a welcome if brief visit with three of the four Tomball Alters. Today we’re apparently recovering. I have had only sporadic visits from Jordan and spent most of the day putting together the April edition of our neighborhood newsletter. Who knew when I asked for pictures of spring break trips, I would be inundated with so many? I’m not complaining at all—it will make for a more interesting newsletter.  

Tonight, having expected Christian to fix one of his delicious Asian meals, I instead had a dinner of scrambled eggs. It wasn’t bad at all—I fried some bacon and sauteed the tiny potatoes, left from my corned beef dinner, in the bacon grease before I scrambled the eggs. Made a most satisfactory dinner. So now. My stomach full, my soul soothed by a couple of glasses of wine, I’ll toddle off to my comfortable and safe bed.

And therein lies the dichotomy. I am not alone I’m sure in feeling almost a bit of guilt that I am so safe and content and happy while half a world away people are dying, desperate, sending young children away by themselves, hiding in shelters and wondering if they’ll live until morning. Much as we hear about the contrast between the two worlds, it will never become a hackneyed image. What’s happening in Ukraine is too terrible—and too inspirational. The courage of the Ukraine people puts me to shame for whining about an eye appointment and a root canal—both on my calendar this week.

I want to do concrete things to help, not just sit here at my computer and moan. I have contributed to World Kitchens and ordered a blue-and-yellow sweatshirt and contributed a book to Authors for Ukraine, but it all seems too petty. And, of course, I’ve prayed a lot. But one of our ministers recently said we must never think we’re a step ahead of God. When we pray for peace in Ukraine, God doesn’t throw up his arms and say, “What a great idea! Why didn’t I think of that?” He is ahead of us always; his eye is on the sparrow—and on the big war.

I don’t know that any of this makes sense, but these are the thoughts that go through my mind these days. How about you?

PS: If you want to know about Authors for Ukraine, check out their Facebook page: (13) Authors for Ukraine | Facebook. An auction, March 29 through April 12, will offer books by over 150 authors (including yours truly). All proceeds benefit Ukraine. It’s the least we can do. I still feel I ought to be over there across the Polish border cooking huge quantities of food under the watchful eye of Chef José Andres.

A perfect day—or calm after a jolly night and morning

 

My new good friend, Pierre.
I was always a sucker for a sweet gentleman.

This morning daughter-in-law Lisa asked me what my plans were for the day, and I said, “Nothing. I don’t have a plan.” It was delightful to wake up, know fun visiting waited for me, and not a single deadline, not even one of my self-imposed ones. Yes, tomorrow is the neighborhood newsletter deadline, and I could have been proofing what articles I have, but I didn’t. I’ll worry about that tomorrow.

By eight o’clock this morning, Sophie and Pierre were chasing each other around the back yard, an activity that they pursued indoors and out all morning, usually under Gary’s watchful eye. Poor Gary spent his morning saying things like, “Pierre, get off the dining table.” Pierre is definitely a goofy teenager.

About ten Colin, Lisa, and Kegan arrived on their way home from their annual Colorado skiing trip. Jordan and Christian served fruit salad left from last night, cookies, sausage-and-cheese sandwiches in biscuits. I contributed some cranberry/orange scones I had in the freezer. We sat in the living room, munched, ate, and visited.

Just about when the Tomball Alters geared up to get on the road, Colin remembered he wanted to work on my computer, so that kept them here another thirty or forty-five minutes. But I think he fixed the WiFi connection. Of course, now my printer is offline, and efforts to reconnect have so far been unsuccessful. I am thankful for progress, and that recipe for pasta with anchovies, garlic, and tomato paste can wait—but doesn’t it sound good?

The Tomball Alters finally got off, and Jordan, Gary, and I sat on my patio in the lovely sunshine, with the dogs, now exhausted, sleeping at our feet. Jordan and Gary were drinking champagne—I was not!

About one I said goodbye to Gary, who would be heading back to Dallas, came in and did a bit of work at my desk, and then had a good nap. Sophie was so tired she did not wake me up for once.

This evening, after all the hilarity of twenty-four hours, it’s almost eerily quiet around here. Christian has gone to someone’s house to watch basketball, Jordan is asleep, and I don’t know what Jacob is doing though I saw him come home with his golf clubs. I lingered over emails and Facebook, started reading a new book, and fixed my supper such as it was.

What do you eat after a big party? Leftovers, of course. For a late lunch I had salmon spread on crackers and a half of a green deviled egg that Jean brought last night. For supper, I repeated my lunch menu as an appetizer and then made a half a corned beef and Swiss sandwich on rye and sided it with some leftover cabbage from the St. Patrick’s Day dinner. We have an abundance of leftovers, and in my book that’s good. I love gnashing on party food the next day. When I used to give huge Tree Trimming parties at Christmas, I ate caviar and cream cheese, sausage balls, cheeseball, and chocolate cake for days afterward.

I am, I fear, being a baby about my upcoming root canal—Tuesday. Buffered by an eye doctor check-up on Monday—new doctor, new experience but just a check-up. No problems. I have decided not to try to be an author until after all the dental work. I am aware that the thought of the tooth procedure hangs over my head, though I am grateful to my family physician for prescribing a bit of valium for me to take to ease through it. I’ve never taken valium in my life, never intend to again, but I know my own tolerance for anxiety is not great.

So tonight, I’m going to write a book review, read, go to sleep as early as I can get Soph to come inside. It’s really nice to be lazy.

I saw a devastating picture on the internet today. A young boy, couldn’t have been more than five or six, walking alone, bundled up, his face red from cold and crying. In one hand, he had a toy; in the other, a bag of sweets. His parents had sent him, alone, to cross the border from Ukraine into Poland. The picture broke my heart and will not leave my mind. Damn Putin! As I count my blessings—the life situation that allows me to be lazy—I pray for the people of Ukraine. I hope you will too.

 

The oxymoron of war.

 

In many nations tonight, people are outraged that Russian planes bombed a maternity hospital in Ukraine. One case made headlines—a young mother-to-be, in labor, who died, along with her baby. The cry is that bombing such a civilian facility violates the rules of war. This heartbreaking case is classified not as a casualty of war but as a violation of the rules.

The idea of rules of war has always struck me as an oxymoron. We’re not talking about a chess game here—we’re talking about deadly combat in which lives are brutally lost. Who sets the rules? And who says whether you follow them? According to Wikipedia, violations of the rules of war include intentionally killing civilians or intentionally killing prisoners of war, torture, taking hostages, unnecessarily destruction of civilian property, deception by perfidy, wartime sexual violence, pillaging, the conscription of children in the military, committing genocide or ethnic cleansing, the granting of no quarter despite surrender, and flouting the legal distinctions of proportionality and military necessity.”

Thos rules leave little leeway for what you can legally do in a war, but Mr. Putin seems to have violated most of them. Who is going to say, “Tsk, tsk! You know that’s against the rules.”? If you’re hell-bent on killing people and conquering another nation, why should you listen to rules? I’m sure authorities from the Nuremberg trials had a good sense of what to do and some success. I am less hopeful about Putin being brought to justice, and yet he is just as inhumane as the Nazi officers tried at Nuremberg.

Walter Cronkite, the late, great newsman who fought in WWII, once wrote, “War itself is, of course, a form of madness. It is hardly a civilized pursuit. It’s amazing how we spend so much time inventing devices to kill each other and so little time working on how we might achieve peace.”

One of the most poignant clips I’ve seen recently showed a young woman, dressed in outdoor gear, in an apartment clearly destroyed by bombs. The camera panned to show the extent of the damage, and it was horrific. But she sat, pulled protective blanket off a piano, and began to play an excruciatingly beautiful piece. The caption was something like, “One Last Time.”

We are horrified and yet helpless. We contribute to various welfare agencies—I sent money to the World Kitchen recently since Chef Jose Andres is feeding the thousands of refugees who stream across the Ukraine border into Poland. We pray, beseeching whatever god we pray to, to spare the Ukrainian people, recognize their courage, deliver them from evil. Our country supports them in every way possible, short of igniting WWIII, which no one, except perhaps Putin, wants.

And yet, we are helpless. Decisions are made by governments, and we can either support or condemn. My personal take is that it is a time for us to pull together, to condemn aggression and to support the best efforts of our president and his advisors, both in and out of Congress and the military. Others choose to disagree and blame him for weakness, for the high price of gasoline, for everything but the weather—and they may get around to that too. Many who carp and complain can’t seem to get beyond themselves to see that we are all in this boat together—what happens to democracy in Ukraine will eventually make its way to our shores. Indeed, we had a close call last November in the election and ever since while we combat the “Big Lie.”

To me, it’s foolhardy to grieve for what’s happening in Ukraine but take comfort in the fact that wars will always be fought on foreign soil, never make their way to the U.S. I wish I could feel confident about that. I may be in my twilight years, but I have grandchildren to whom I leave the world—and I want it t be a world of democracy.

Meantime, life does go on. Friend Subie took Jordan and me to the Fort Worth Club today for a pre-birthday lunch for Jordan. I couldn’t help myself. I sat there in elegant surroundings, eating a sophisticated lunch, enjoying the company of two of my favoirte people, and thought, “People are dying. They are hiding in subway stations and basements. They are dying in maternity hospitals.” I remembered seeing an old woman in Ukraine who said they just want us to pray for them, and then they want us to go on and enjoy life. I did what she said—it was a terrific, happy lunch, full of laughter. But always, these days, there’s that little cloud hanging over us. Or maybe it’s a big cloud.

A staycation day

 

How I spent my staycation day

In his column this morning, New York Times food editor Sam Sifton wrote that everyone needs a day away in these troubled times. We are in the third year of the pandemic and the third week of Russia’s brutal, bloody invasion of Ukraine. Be kind to yourself. Take a day to lie on the couch (notice I said lie, not lay) and read a book.

For me, it was a lazy day to begin with because we got a late start on it, due to daylight savings, which I welcome wholeheartedly. I know a lot of people moan and groan, but I love sleeping a bit later in the morning, and I love the long, light evenings when we can sit outside, barring mosquitoes, until eight or nine. Some people claim they’d be happy if the government would just choose one or the other, but I would be devastated if they chose central time. All those dark depressing days when it gets dark before supper.

On my agenda today was—not much. Virtual church, check my email, that’s about it. Christian is cooking chicken piccata, and my only responsibility is green beans. I’m trying a new, easy cook method I read about—toss with olive oil, lemon, salt and pepper and bake at 325 for 25 minutes. Supposed to come out crisp as French fries. I’ll let you know. (They weren’t crisp, and Jordan had a texture problem; I thought they were okay but nothing to write home about.)

So I spent much of the day reading Bitter Roots by Ellen Cosby, the latest in her mysteries set in the wine country of northern Virginia. It is hands down the most expensive Kindle book I’ve ever read. I guess the publisher was counting on avid readers like me to throw budget to the wind. I am savoring every word at that price and hoping it ends being worth the cost. I have never been comfortable reading in a prone position, so I read sitting at my desk, with the text on my screen. My place of comfort.

Tonight I did have an inspiration for getting my novel out of the corner I’d written myself into, but again I could not get my computer to hold a WiFi connection. Last night I gave up and went to bed, but I really wanted to get this scene down tonight. A hard boot seems to have done it. I couldn’t even contact ATT technical service because I had no service. Fingers crossed please that this connection lasts. But I really need to call AT&T, a conversation I dread. It’s never their fault, and the fix will cost you bigtime.

A meme I saw today that hit home with me: someone wrote that their morning routine these days is, “Get up. Check on Zelensky. Make coffee.” That’s how I feel too. I am so afraid for that heroic man—he needs not to be a martyr but to continue to inspire and lead his countrymen. If Kyiv falls, as it looks like it will, I hope they get him out. I’m sure he won’t leave Ukraine, but he might be persuaded to leave Kyiv. The world is too much with us.

On a lighter note: I looked at the box of Ritz crackers I used last night for the crumb-topped fish and thought of my mom. Salmon croquettes was one of her favorite dishes and remains mine, but she always insisted you must use saltine crumbs and nothing else. These days I use Ritz—they are richer and much easier to crush. Make such good salmon patties. And for just a moment there, I wanted to make Mom my salmon patties. She’s been gone over thirty years, but you never get over missing. And wanting to call and say, “Mom, do you know how I’ve learned to cook salmon croquettes?”

Blessed Sunday everyone as we head into a new week. May it bring peace and health to the world—and joy to all of us. We need a bit of that.

A discouraging day

 

T

Tonight, I have my writer’s hat on, but it was not a good writing day. I always start my morning by reading emails and then the news briefs—and that’s where I got bogged down today. I hang on every word about Ukraine and politics in our country and in our state. This morning, because of the ongoing assault in Ukraine and the powerful State of the Union address last night, it took me longer than usual to get through emails, msn.com, and Facebook notifications. So, it was closing in on noon before I began to write. Bad timing for a person like me, who lives by the clock, much as I’ve tried to break that compulsive habit.

Another compulsive habit I have is thinking I must add a certain number of words a day to the work-in-progress. For me, with this Irene story, it’s a thousand words a day. In the late morning I started in where I’d left off and wrote maybe six hundred words. Then I went back and discovered that I had contradicted everything I wrote the day before. I erased most of what I wrote today and then wanted to kick myself because I could see a way to make it work with a few minor adjustments.

But tonight, I did what I should have done: began reading the last full chapter I’d written, fixed some rough spots, and then moved ahead. This morning I lost words; tonight, I added 1200. Not a bad day's work. But of course, it’s not the number of words that make readers enjoy or discard a book—it’s the story told. There’s a lesson there. There’s also a lesson about how work habits change—for years I would have told you I write in the morning and cannot write at night. But lately, I’ve been writing at night, plus doing my blog.

There is a contradictory theory among many writers: if you can just get that first rough draft done, you can then go back and fix it. The whole point is to get words on paper. I think I’m somewhere in the middle.

In the small work-in-progress group I cherish, Wednesday is the day I ask what each is reading. Today I added a question about whether they found it hard to concentrate on reading in these tumultuous times. Six or seven out of a dozen or so said they were indeed having trouble concentrating.

I find that I am also having trouble sleeping. There is illness in my family that concerns me, apart from Ukraine. This morning at 5 a.m. I woke up because Sophie was demanding a refill to her water bowl—she does this by banging the metal bowl on the floor. Very hard to sleep through. I was sooo sleepy, but by the time I gave her water, made a side trip to the bathroom, and crawled back in bed, I was wide awake. And I lay there worrying. For some reason I got it into my head that something had happened to Zelensky overnight—so relieved to find that was not true.

Today I donated to World Central Kitchen, the outfit that the DC chef José Andrés started to feed people in crisis situations. Today he is in Poland, jus ten miles from the Ukraine border, feeding refuges. Somewhere in my wanderings today I read that if the people of Kyiv cannot get food, they will be unable to fight and the resistance, which has so astonished the world, will collapse. Sustainment is a primary concern. For me, out of the many charities that are suggested online, this one seemed the most appropriate. Perhaps because I’m a foodie.

As I ate my dinner tonight—a patty melt that was so good—I thought with a twinge about the hungry people of Ukraine and particularly about the frightened children.

I had hoped that my Jamie was coming to Fort Worth today and taking Jordan and me to dinner at The Fitzgerald, the new upscale seafood/steak place in the Camp Bowie/Ridglea space occupied years ago by Café Aspen. Jamie worked his way through college waiting tables at Café Aspen, and it became our family restaurant. I thought it would be fun to go back to that spot. But he called today, obviously sounded like he had a cold, and said he didn’t think it would be smart for him to bring me his germs. He’s pretty sure it’s not covid but promised to test when he got home. So, it was a patty melt for me, though I have good leftover meatloaf in the fridge. The life of plenty. Aren’t we blessed!

The Joy of Cooking

 

I forgot to take a picture of the meatloaf, and it was grand,
so this is me eating leftovers at ten o'clock at night. Still good. 

Where is Irma Rombauer when I want to talk with her and compare notes? The sum total of my accomplishments today: I made a meatloaf. Not just any meatloaf though. The old-fashioned kind with both pork and beef—my mom always combined the two in her meatloaf—and lots of vegetables—onion, carrot, celery, and parsley. It took me a good portion of the morning to put it together, but about halfway through rough-chopping carrots and onions and celery I realized that I was happier than I have been in days (my mind was off Ukraine). I also made my own breadcrumbs. Salt and pepper, Worcestershire, Pecorino, and marinara sauce went into the mixture before I hand-shaped it into a loaf. The marinara sauce was store bought because one can only do so much. The TV was on, but I wasn’t paying attention, lost in my own little world of vegetables. And when I got the meatloaf ready to cook, I felt an amazing sense of accomplishment, as if I’d just written a good blog.

This evening it will go in the oven to bake, and then I’ll slather it with more marinara sauce and mozzarella. It’s large—a pound and a half of beef and a pound of pork. We’ll be eating meatloaf all week, but that’s okay with me. Great lunches.

One thing I did not accomplish: voting. But Lord knows it wasn’t for lack of trying. If you’ve been following my saga, you know that it took me three applications to get the mail-in ballot that I usually get with one try. First, they lost it, then it wasn’t filled out properly (SB1 in Texas stuck in new requirements, in fine print, without alerting the public). When I finally did mail in my ballot, it was rejected because I didn’t put my social security number (last four digits) or my state identification number on the outside of the envelope—another of those fine-print, new requirements.

I am not overly concerned because I didn’t see any tight races that I felt strongly about on the Democratic ballot, and in some down-ballot races, I didn’t recognize any names. (If I’d have voted in the Republican primary I’d have had a long list of people to vote against!) But I am angry that the privilege of voting was deliberately taken from me (along with apparently thousands of other Texans). In a democracy, the goal should be to get as many people as possible to vote, not to eliminate as many as possible. Believe me, come November I am armed and ready for them. My vote will be counted.

My laugh for the day: if you’re on Facebook, you know that standard post with which men try to troll women. It begins something like, “It’s weird talking to someone you don’t know ….” and goes on to say how the writer is charmed by the woman’s appearance or humor or wisdom, but his efforts to friend her have been unsuccessful and could she please friend him. Today, the same man posted his identical message on comments made by not one but five of my friends, each on a different post but all on posts that originated with me (some were shares but all had my name on them). Disqualify that one because he has no brain. I’m never sure what such men are looking for, but I presume it’s lonely, wealthy widows (all five of my friends that he hit on are happily married). Since he posted on my wall, I took the liberty of deleting all of them—with some glee.

And a PS for the evening: The meatloaf was delicious. I did not slather it with as much marinara as the recipe called for, but we did top it with one cup and shredded mozzarella. Ran it under the broiler. Served it with a green salad with Paul Newman’s Own Vinaigrette and grated Pecorino. And fresh green beans cooked with just a bit of white wine and a pinch of sugar. Mom always told me sugar heightens the flavor of fresh vegetables. One of my better meals, if I do say so.

And yes, I watched the State of the Union message, found it powerful and strong, especially in the opening parts about Ukraine. I read today that Politico, that conservative voice, published that Joe Biden has done a masterful job of uniting the free world against Putin and that no one else could have done it as effectively. It is, they said, what his whole career has been building toward. Let’s hope this counters the conservative misinformation machine and raises his ratings.

I may not sleep any more soundly tonight, for I am very worried about President Zelensky and even more about his family. To think that Putin has put a price on their heads. I am aghast if that includes Mrs. Zelensky (is Madame Zelensky the proper address?), as it apparently does, and even more so if it includes their children. But I am reassured by Biden’s resolve and strength and the coalition he has built. I find this week as I go about my life that the Ukraine invasion is like a black cloud hovering over my head. Anyone remember Joe Bftsplk from Li’l Abner?

Spa day

Skinny, clean Sophie.

No, not for me! I’m not a spa day kind of a person, though my daughters are. Today was a spa day for Sophie, and I am so relieved. I predicted she would lose five pounds when trimmed and groomed, and while we haven’t weighed her, she looks so much thinner. My Colin had said that she was getting broad across the beam, and I did worry about her gaining weight. I also worried about her being dirty—she was out in all kinds of weather, seeming to love the cold, running and chasing squirrels through dirt and flower beds and whatever. And I admit there was a certain eau d’doggie about her.

I had let her go too long by the time I called for a grooming appointment and then, when it was finally scheduled, an ice storm cancelled it. So today, at long last Nathan, the wonderful young man who grooms her, came to the house. When he brought her back, looking like a new dog, he admitted there was a lot of dirt in her coat and said he thought she felt a lot better with all that extra fur and dirt gone. So tonight I am loving having a clean, fairly thin—okay reasonably proportioned—dog.

Highlight of my day was not so much fun but then again not serious, just a slight inconvenience. Jordan had to drive me to the cardiologist’s office at 8:45 this morning—far too early for me—to be fitted with a Holter monitor for 24 hours. No big deal. The doctor thinks a slight adjustment of medication is needed but wanted to check first, and I’m grateful for the precaution. Though tonight I am “wired,” literally. I have stuck the monitor itself in my jeans pocket—guess who will be sleeping in her clothes!

Other than that, a typical workday. I am moving ahead rapidly on the Irene mystery, even if tonight it was after eight o’clock before I turned to it. The day seemed to go by with emails and news briefs—I cannot tear myself away from the horror in Ukraine nor from the worldwide condemnation of Russia. Dinner was all fixed—Jordan made our favorite casserole Saturday for a neighbor who had surgery, so we feasted tonight on the extra she made for us.

One of those nights when I literally don’t have much to say. Maybe that’s a blessing. But I did want to share the picture of clean Sophie and to wish everyone well. We are living in unforgettable times. I read a commentator who said today our world will never go back to being what it was before the Ukraine invasion. So think about what we’ve lived through in the last two or three years: a pandemic which killed hundreds of thousands of our neighbors, an unprecedented snow and ice winter (and almost a second one this year), an attempted coup against our government, a contested election which has never happened in our history, and now a violent, greedy land-grab invasion. Granted, it’s in a distant land, but the world is small these days. Isolationism is impossible (sorry, Mr. trump) and what happens anywhere in the world impacts all of us. My take? This invasion of Ukraine will separate the true patriots for the selfish, sunny-day people who yell a lot about freedom and democracy but understand neither and do nothing to protect them.

God Bless America!

Misadventure in the kitchen

 

Picture from Honest Cooking
note the charred lemon

My friend Phil Green loves anchovies. I somehow got the impression he would not eat them, but Subie said, “Oh, no, he loves them.” So I suggested supper Sunday night—I’d make an anchovy entrée, if Subie would bring a salad. I had in mind a New York Times recipe I’d saved for smashed potatoes with anchovy and tuna.

But the more I looked at that recipe, the less sure I was. What if Phil doesn’t eat tuna? Several men in my family refuse to have anything to do with even the really good stuff I buy from the cannery in Oregon (Colin on the other hand loves it, so it’s a frequent birthday gift for him). I wasn’t sure about potatoes, and then I looked at the fingerlings that Central Market sent with my order. They are, at the least, thumb potatoes. When I wanted delicate Yukon Gold fingerlings, I got fat, odd-shaped red potatoes. I lay awake in the night worrying about this dinner until it dawned on me that I’d cook an anchovy pasta. Problem solved. I slept.

This morning I searched for anchovy pasta recipes—you have no idea how many there are online, many of them identical and many calling for capers. I did that once several years ago, and the capers overshadowed the anchovies. So I settled on a recipe that suggested artichoke hearts, chopped, as a substitute for the capers, and all of it in a brown butter sauce. And charred lemon cheeks—I who dislike the current fad for charring everything in sight, charred some lemons by putting them briefly, cut side down in a hot skillet. If you don’t know what a lemon cheek is, it’s the half lemon you get when you slice the fruit vertically instead of horizontally. I couldn’t see that charring affected the taste of the lemons or the sauce, but it sure made the skillet hard to clean. I laid out ingredients and dishes and went off to take a nap.

A deep but not comforting sleep, in which I dreamt my mom and I were cooking, and she kept cleaning up where I was cooking, causing me to spill everything. I swear I went through two pounds of butter in that dream! And somehow carrots got into the sauce but when I tried to cook them, they shriveled into tiny, charred lumps (that must have been Christian’s influence because he won’t eat cooked carrots). I decided reality was better than my dream and woke up.

Dinner turned out better than I could have, should have hoped. Instead of cooking right up to the last moment, I chopped the parsley and artichokes, made the brown butter sauce, laid out the pasta plates. After the Greens had settled in with some wine and brie on crackers, I turned up the pasta water that I’d had simmering and cooked the pasta. Subie helped me with draining the pasta—some things are awkward to do from a wheelchair—and I stirred in chopped parsley, topped each pasta bowl with grated pecorino—and forgot to take a picture. But it was good, and my guests raved. For dessert? Those mini chocolate ice cream cones Jordan gets at Trader Joe’s.

It was a pleasant evening visiting with old friends. We talked about politics, but we also talked about old times and people we know—and the talk took me away momentarily from the world crisis. For me, the day started with uncertainty—the news that Putin had put his nuclear detection force on alert was alarming to say the least. That he would even put the “nuclear” word into play. And tonight news followed that Belarus has declared it is no longer a nuclear-free territory. I’m uncertain about that. Does it mean they’ve had nuclear capabilities all along and have been hiding them?

Balancing that was a bit of news that didn’t get much play—Ukraine officials have agreed to meet with Russian representatives on the border between Ukraine and Belarus. At this critical point, any meeting seems to me to hold out hope. Putin is not finding the invasion as easy as he thought, but still Ukraine is being devastated. Pray that they can come to some mutual ground over the negotiation table. Disconcerting rumors about Putin’s mental status are another scary factor—he wants to rebuild the Soviet Union and none of Europe can let him do that. Terrible times.

There’s a distance—I don’t know how to describe it. Maybe a disconnect between the destruction and suffering and amazing heroism in Ukraine and my life as I sit here in my cottage, visiting with good friends, eating a good supper. This morning in church Dr. Peterman talked about what Celtic cultures call the “thin places,” those places where heaven and earth seem to meet for rare moments. This is not a thin place. It’s like those supposed-fingerling potatoes—at thick place like a clumsy thumb. For me, it’s prayer time. For you there may be another answer. For all of us, I urge you to support President Biden and his heroic efforts to curb Russia. And cheer and pray for President Zelensky, the hero who is leading Ukraine and who does not appear to flinch. Mask mandates, truck convoys, “freeduhms,”—pfft!

World horror overwhelms the trivia of cold weather and hobby cooking

 

The national flower of Ukraine

Cold, wet days have become the norm this winter, and today was yet another one. I so wanted to crawl into my bed and hide there, and I did take a longer nap than usual, just because I was so warm and cozy. I just might slip back into bed earlier than usual tonight. The low is predicted to be 29, and tomorrow is not going to be a lot better.

Tomorrow is the Cowtown Marathon, and sometimes I think it is as predictable a weather forecaster as the stock show. All those years ago—1978—I remember sitting in our bedroom and hearing my then-husband swear forcibly, followed by, “Sleet. I did not want to hear sleet.” He was one of the lead organizers of the new venture. Next morning I piled four little kids into the car and headed for the Stockyards, over icy roads, to be part of the support crowd. I look back on that and wonder where my brain was. Oh to be young and fearless again.

As it is I did not poke my head out of the cottage today. Nor did I cook as I usually do on weekends. Still, it is sort of a foodie weekend. Last night I made a skillet of sauteed mushrooms and sweet onions. I honestly think I like the onions as well as the mushrooms—a new revelation for me. I sauteed them in olive oil and butter, added garlic and the white wine. After they were off the heat, I added lemon juice and zest. Jordan and I are the only ones who like mushrooms, but we enjoyed them.

My mushroom skillet

Not so good were the salmon balls I impulsively bought from Central Market. They had Parmesan, which I thought sounded good but now think made them dry. And they had too much of some herb—oregano, maybe. I kicked myself, thinking I could have made my regular salmon patties and we’d have been a lot happier.

Doris' casserole
with one serving out for guess who?

Today Jordan made family favorite Doris’ casserole (think American lasagna or something similar) to take to a neighbor who has just had surgery. I got some for my dinner, and it was delicious. Also a pretty casserole. The Burtons meanwhile have gone to an upscale sushi restaurant for a fundraiser. My sushi palate is not wide—I love salmon sashimi and I’ve had some lobster rolls I exclaimed over, but I’m not adventuresome—and they are downright stodgy. Far as I now, they stick to California roll because neither wants raw fish. The restaurant where they are going is so much for an “in the know” crowd that I had no idea how to order the one time I went. I will be interested in their report.

After a week of distractions ranging from doctor’s appointments to Zoom meetings and a Podcast interview, I am glad to say that I wrote 1300 words on Irene’s latest adventure today. But I find it hard not to watch the TV with one eye or check the news feed constantly. I am waiting of course for what will probably not happen—Putin returning to the negotiation table. The invasion he apparently expected to be a walk in the park has not turned out that way.

So many stories coming out of Ukraine to inspire us: the Russian battalion that surrendered because they thought they were on an information-gathering mission and had no idea they were expected to kill people; the old woman who gave Russian soldiers sunflower seeds (the national flower of Ukraine) to put in their pockets so that when they die on Ukrainian soil flowers will bloom; the families with young children who are making Molotov cocktails; the street signs that have all been changed in order to confuse Russians—now, in Russian, they read “Go f--- yourself.”

I’ll leave you tonight with one thought that came to me today as I contemplated the international condemnation of Putin and support for Ukraine: what would have happened if trump were still president. Nothing would have played out the same. President Biden has been the point man in organizing international sanctions and resistance, and he has done it with wisdom and grace. Just my opinion, but trump having alienated most of our allies, wouldn’t have known how to begin to get them to pull together and given his loyalty to Russia, probably wouldn’t have tried. Resistance would have been scattershot. As it is, with Biden at the helm and joined by other NATO allies, the reaction has been unified and forceful.

My mom always told me the gods work in mysterious ways their wonders to accomplish. Perhaps this is another instance. Pray for the people of Ukraine tonight, but also pray for the people of Russia who are innocent pawns in this mess and who are risking life and freedom to protest. Hardly a night to wish everyone, “Sweet dreams.”

 

Did somebody cancel today?

I think the world cancelled today and forgot to tell me. None of the things I expected to happen came about. I thought I was going to lunch with a friend, but he had a stomach bug, so I stayed home and ate leftovers. What really bothered me about that was I had already put on make-up.  Jordan was going to come for our occasional afternoon happy hour after her work--but they had workmen at her house and she had to be home. She might, she said, need me to pick up Jacob. I did odds and ends all morning and got lots of little things done, After lunch I napped, woke up late, and called to see if I should go get Jacob. No, he was already home so he could see all the digging in their front yard. Result: I spent the entire day in my pajamas, with only Sophie for company--but she's good company.
The day left me with time to contemplate world affairs which is not a happy thing to do these days. Bob Schieffer said it best in a recent broadcast: we are in the midst of a world gone mad. Russia's encroachment on Ukraine; the horrifying Palestinian-Israeli conflict. That one I really don't understand, but perhaps I don't understand such age-old violent hatred. It seems to me that Israel keeps building settlements on Palestinian land; Hamas incites warfare, knowing that its citizens will be slaughtered--men, women, and children. I saw a cartoon recently that showed a group of supposedly Palestinian men milling around. The caption read, "Hamas loves us so much they even gave us T-shirts." On each shirt was a bulls eye. Gold Meir said years ago, "We can forgive the Palestinians for killing our children; we cannot forgive them for making us kill their children." One hardly dares use the term "fair" in this situation.
Then there are the children at the border and that horribly botched execution in Arizona, wildfires destroying eastern Washington state, violent storms in the Midwest and South. As long as we keep destroying our environment, the eccentricities of nature are beyond us and will only increase. But we could work with the atrocities wrought by man by teaching the world one word: compassion.
Oops, I slipped into the pulpit by mistake--that's what a contemplative day at home will do for you. But our minister said it well yesterday. Paraphrasing, but all we can do is take care of our own corner of the world with compassion--our family, friends, community. And vote, folks, it makes a difference.
My goodness, solitude also makes me ramble.