Getting back into my groove

 

Creativity is a funny thing. Some think it’s some sort of spontaneous will o’ the wisp kind of thing, and I’m inclined to agree, at least in part. I certainly don’t believe creativity is always “turned on” at the same level in an individual. Take short stories for instance—I cannot write one to save my life unless inspiration hits, Once when asked to contribute a short story to an anthology about World War II, I dithered forever about what to write. And then, an idea came out of the blue—I clearly heard an old woman’s voice lamenting her children lost to war. I wrote the first draft in about two hours and called it, “A widow’s lament.” The same is sort of true for novels—an idea has to “hit” me. I’m sure what really happens is that an idea simmers in the back of my brain and then bursts forth in my consciousness.

I thought for instance that I was through writing about my diva faux French chef, Irene Foxglove. But then an idea struck me—as I’ve been telling it, Irene tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Ahem, we’re not through with my story yet. I have to tell about the family I’ve left behind.” My fried Fred, who advises me, says if I ever am really through with Irene, I’ll have to drive a spike through her heart. Meantime, she’s given me the idea for a new story. That doesn’t mean writing it has gone smoothly. There’s that thing called writer’s block.

Writer’s block is an even funnier thing than creativity, though not in an amusing way. The dictionary tells us writer’s block is a state of being unable to think of what to write or how to proceed with writing. It happens to me, predictably, somewhere between 20K and 40K words. I write short—I know writers whose first draft of a mystery runs up to 90K to 100K but mine are often 55K at best. A good traditional or cozy mystery should be about 70K.

When I get to that middle point, my sticking point, my instinctive thought is “There’s so much more to go! How will I ever fill those pages? I’m ready to wrap this up now.” Hank Phillippi Ryan, an author much more talented and prolific than I am, calls that point, “The muddle in the middle.” I have been known to shelve a manuscript at 20K words, go back months later, and think, “Hey, this isn’t so bad!” That has happened with at least two books in the Irene series. And it happened with the current one which I’m calling, Irene in a Ghost Kitchen.

We are told in writers’ groups that persistence is the basis for success as a writer. Classic advice: put your butt in the chair and keep it there. I guess that’s where I failed. I put this manuscript aside at 32K words and focused on my cookbook. Then a friend, whose literary knowledge I respect, commented on what a good character Irene is, and I thought, “Hmmm. Maybe I should go back and re-read that.” I did, and suddenly my head is teeming with ideas. Whereas before I had no idea how it would work out, now I can see the ending. I’m just impatient to get it all down on paper.

Last night, Sophie and I didn’t sleep well, partly because one or the other of us had to pee. But I also lay awake for great bunches of time writing in my mind. I’m not one of those who gets up in the middle of the night to make notes, so I am trusting that some—most?—of that night-time activity is tucked away in my subconscious and will surface when needed.

Excuse me. I’ve got to go now, because I left Irene in a precarious situation. But PS I am delighted that people find Irene funny, interesting, complex, all those things. I call her outrageous. But I hope the narrative voice, which belongs to a much younger chef Henny James, is as riveting with her wry sense of humor and her clear understanding of Irene—well, almost.

Want to start the series? Try Saving Irene. Amazon.com: Saving Irene: A Culinary Mystery (An Irene in Chicago Culinary Mystery) eBook : Alter, Judy: Kindle Store

Am I a Texan or a Chicagoan

 

I’ve lived in Texas since the summer of 1965—that’s a whopping fifty-eight years, well over two thirds of my life. That first summer saw the flourishing of the “Born in Texas” movement, and shopping malls, which we frequented then, had kiosks with T-shirts bearing that slogan and others, like, “I wasn’t born in Texas, but I got here as soon as I could.” You could buy certificates that certified that you were a native Texan, although of course it would have been easy to cheat. In a few years, by the time I had children and wanted T-shirts for them, the craze was over.

People in Texas thought I talked funny with my Chicago flat speech, but after a year, when I went home or talked to a relative back home, they all laughed at my southern accent. To this day, my kids say my accent depends on what I’m talking about—If I am, as I frequently have in the past, talking about author Elmer Kelton, one of my heroes, they say I get a cowboy twang.

Much of my career—as an author, as director of the TCU Press—revolved around Texas, and over the years I began to feel like a native Texan, even if it was a bit of a lie. Still folklorist Joyce Roach and I had a dog-and-pony show we took to meetings and other places—once even performing for an elite group of big donors at TCU. Joyce talked about the glories of being a fifth-generation Texan. My talk was titled, “Notes from an outsider.” I knew my place.

Not every book I’ve written has been about Texas, but a high percentage of them have. I’ve been best known for writing about women of the American West—Elizabeth Bacon Custer, Jessie Benton Frémont, cowgirl Lucille Mulhall, and Etta Parker of the Hole in the Wall Gang. But there were lots of Texas titles—a book about Elmer Kelton, books about Texas food from chili to great chefs, and most recently, three mystery series set in Texas. Yes, I claimed my credentials as a Texas writer.

But in the last ten years, a feeling for Chicago—I’m not sure how to describe it, but perhaps affection is a good word—has increasingly taken a place in my thinking. Years ago I wrote a y/a novel, I Wish I Lived at Eleanor Lee’s House, about something that really happened when I was a teen. I was then published by a small Texas press, and the publisher had no market for a Chicago title, so I put it aside. I’ve recently gotten it out and reread it with some interest.

But it was The Gilded Cage, a fat historical about Bertha Honore (Cissy) Palmer, wife of hotelier and robber baron Potter Palmer, that first renewed my interest in Chicago. I loved exploring the complex history of the city in the late nineteenth century, from the Great Fire to the Columbian Exposition, with the Civil War, the Haymarket Riot, Pullmantown, and a myriad of fascinating subjects.

None of that, though, explains why I set a new series of mysteries in Chicago. What may have sparked my more intense identification with the Windy City is a trip there with all four of my children. We toured the neighborhood where I grew up and the University of Chicago where I went to school, gazed at the lake, ate in fine restaurants, and took the historical tour at the Palmer House. I fell in love with the city all over again.

That may be behind the Irene in Chicago Culinary Mysteries though I cannot tell you where the characters came from. They were just there one day: Irene, the domineering, demanding faux French chef who claims a Cordon Bleu background she does not have, and Henny James, her apprentice, who tells the stories in a slightly snarky tone of voice.

Now, suddenly or so it seems to me, there are four Irene mysteries—Saving Irene, Irene in Danger, Finding Florence, and Irene Deep in Texas Trouble. They haven’t set the bestseller lists on fire, but they’ve earned respectable stars on Amazon and enough people have commented that I think someone out there enjoys Irene’s shenanigans.

A couple of months ago, I started a new Irene book—Missing Irene—and then for reasons unknown to me I set it aside, tried to write a bit on a memoir, fiddled and procrastinated and didn’t know what I was doing. Tonight I went back and read what I have of that new manuscript, and guess what? I rather liked it. Maybe I’m getting bolder but it will revolve around a case of incest. I think for the time being I’ll go back to it. I hope you’ll read it one day.

Texas is on fire—and so am I!

 

Here's the illustration for the post that nobody seemed to read.
Hope the picture isn't a jinx. I will not post a picture of my dying garden.

The wonderful herb garden I was so excited about has dried to dust, the pentas are shrinking instead of growing and nary a bloom on them (last year they were so gorgeous!), and the grass is brown. I’m sure it does not come as news to many of you that Texas is burning up. We’ve had days over a hundred degrees for a least two weeks now, and the forecast is over a hundred through the end of the month--no rain. The first three days this coming week are to be between 108-110. It’s brutal. And it’s taking its toll not only on our yards and gardens but on our dispositions and sense of well-being. It’s like being haunted all the time by a nameless, shapeless, invisible enemy.

I run two of those ceiling air conditioners—one in the living area and one in the bedroom—twenty-four hours a day, although in the early morning and late evening I can open the patio door for fresh air and freedom for Sophie.

In weather like this, all you can do is stay inside. So that’s what I did this weekend. Jordan and Christian visited friends at a lake house not far from here, and Jacob had a buddy spend the weekend. So, I was on my own. Had a welcome visit Friday from Sue and Teddy who are headed tomorrow for an intriguing far north Scotland resort hotel—so far north that it’s on an inlet from the North Sea. You may wonder about a resort in such rugged country, but it’s a place for hiking and maybe fishing, enjoying wonderful food, and lots of peace and quiet. I admit to a bit of jealousy—if I could go, I’d let everyone else hike, and I’d stay in the studio with a desk and write. Pictures of the interior of the hotel are captivating—imagine Scandinavian modern in a nineteenth-century stone manse. I admit I’m more than a wee bit jealous.

Saturday, Jaimie and Greg Smith came for happy hour—they live at the other end of the block, but the heat is so bad they drove from their house to my cottage! We had a good visit, caught up on each other’s doings—they had just been on an Alaskan cruise, another thing to make me jealous except they ate no salmon. Who goes to Alaska and doesn’t eat salmon? We ended, as we often do, talking politics, and it was a lively discussion but got us nowhere because we all agree, loudly and fervently. They are good neighbors and I treasure their friendship.

But most of all this weekend I wrote and researched like a mad fool—got the material I have for next month’s newsletter edited and ready to go, just waiting for final submissions; wrote my monthly column for the online newsletter Lone Star Literary Life (check it out every Saturday if you haven’t already) and wrote the first draft to a foreword of a forthcoming cookbook. Imagine that! Me, asked to write a foreword to a cookbook. I’m beyond flattered. And then I did a lot of research on Helen Corbitt. The next chapter is beginning to take shape in my mind, but the draft is still woefully short. And today, I wrote a thousand words on the next Irene novel, just because I miss being with my friends from that novel. For now, the next installment is titled Irene Goes to Texas but that's blah, and I hope to come up with something better. I am, however, ignoring the suggestion of Irene Does Texas. Bad connotation.

You may have noticed I didn’t blog. That’s because I’m a bit puzzled. Friday night I wrote what I hoped was an interesting post about the reprints of three of my historical novels about women of the nineteenth-century American West. Twenty copies of each suddenly landed on my coffee table—and that’s where they still are tonight. I gave a synopsis of each book, hoping it would attract readers. Nada. Not a single like nor comment. Now I don’t mean to whine, but there are some who comment on almost every post, which makes me wonder if this one somehow didn’t make it. It shows up on my Facebook page, but maybe not yours. Here’s a link if you missed it: View from the Cottage: Where is my librarian? (judys-stew.blogspot.com)

Tonight, the Burtons are back home, and I fixed us a sheet-pan supper of King salmon, potatoes and onions. I slow cooked the salmon—twenty-two minutes at 285^o. Salmon was delicious; potatoes and onion not so much. Undercooked. Close to raw. And those sweet onions I ordered? They weren’t. A substitution. Still the salmon with Jordan’s great salad was enough to make us all satisfied. And there’s cold salmon for lunch tomorrow. Who cares about potato and onion?

Stay cool, my friends.

 

Bad days and good days

 

We all have them—ups and downs—but this week was particularly chaotic for me. Early in the week, I bumbled along writing my neighborhood newsletter which came out this month to a whopping thirty-two pages. Not sure if that’s a good thing or not, but I was pleased with a lot of the content.

But then Wednesday was an unsettling day. Tuesday night when neighbors Mary and Pru came for happy hour, we sat on the patio, and my Sophie joined us. Nothing she likes better than company on the patio. But that evening, it was clear that she was having stomach issues—I shall not get more specific. But she woke me to go out several times during the night, and I am one who values sleep. By three a.m. she quieted and slept until we both got up close to nine. Still, I dragged all day.

And I was barely up when Christian came to tell me Brandon, my Austin son-in-law, had spent the night in the ER. That was all Jordan, also in Austin, told him in the middle of the night. So we were left to wonder much of the day. Gradually we learned that he had checked out one of Austin’s city electric scooters and fallen, broke his jaw. By that night, we knew that he had surgery and, a biggie in my mind, did not have to have his jaw wired shut. Now, he’s recuperating, sleeping a lot, taking his meds, the swelling is going down. But Wednesday was his fiftieth birthday--bummer. The “epic” party scheduled for this weekend has been postponed.

Today has been a much better day. Because I’m a foodie at heart, grocery shopping, while a chore to many, is a delight to me. I love to wander the aisles of Central Market (for non-Texas folks, it’s an upscale market with a wide selection, but I especially appreciate the freshness of the vegetables, meat, and seafood). Jordan doesn’t like to go there, because parking is difficult, and she is so busy it’s easier for her to just shop without me. We order curbside pickup from Central Market about once a week.

But today, neighbor Mary took me. I drove through the store in one of their motorized carts and only had one near miss—a trash can latched on to my cart and wanted to go with me. Honest, it was a great delight for me. I bought groceries for the family, but a few treats for me, like smoked salmon. Plus Mary and I had fun together—she was great about reaching items off the shelf for me, returning the cart from the car, etc. We hope to do that again. And yes, I had a long list and spent a lot of money. The last thing Mary’s husband said to us was something like, “Try to make considered decisions.”

This evening Jean came for supper—she had been on a museum outing to Mineral Wells where they visited various sites, tasted some mineral waters, learned some history, and had a good time. She came straight here, and we relaxed. Dinner was good—fresh beets with greens, cod, and half an artichoke each. Beets take a long time to cook and then I waited for the pan to cool so I could roast the fish in it. So we had a good long time to visit and catch up. A lovely, pleasant evening.

This has not been a good week for writing, and I intend to focus on my work-in-progress this weekend. But a friend in a writing group talked about “brain writing,” when you’re not actively working on a project, but your brain is always busy with it. That’s what I’ve been doing.

I’m happy to report Sophie is feeling much better and was unbelievably demanding for attention tonight. The vet sent home some prescription canned dog food. That dog has never had wet food in her life, and now she’s ruined—I am afraid she’ll never settle for kibble again. She loves the wet food, and I can easily hide medicine in it and she never knows.

So here we go, sailing into the weekend. Jordan is to be home Sunday, so maybe Monday we can get back to normal. Meantime I have much enjoyed having the attention of two men—one almost fifty and one almost sixteen. There’s a silver lining to every cloud (wasn’t that a WWI song? I remember my mom was offended when I as a youngster suggested it was a Civil War song). Anyway, it’s a good thought, so make it yours for tonight. It sort of describes my week.

Fiction as disguised memoir

 

Georgia Arbuckle Fix (and Mattie) did not consider herself attractive.

“Write what you know” is classic advice to beginning writers. Sometimes it’s true. I probably shouldn’t write about traveling to Antarctica because I’ve never done it, and no amount of research will make me warm to the subject (okay, bad pun). The flip side of that advice though is the general belief that creative writers pour some of themselves into everything they write. I’ve had a strong lesson in both these truths this week.

I’ve been reading proof of Mattie, my 1988 novel that will be reprinted by Two Dot in coming months. First published by Doubleday in 1988, it tells of the life, career, and loves of Mattie Armstrong, pioneer woman physician on the vast and bare prairies of western Nebraska in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The novel is loosely based on the life of Dr. Georgia Arbuckle Fix, who was the first woman physician in Nebraska and who really did leave Omaha to heal the widely scattered settlers in sod huts on the prairie. But don’t attribute everything in the novel to Dr. Fix. That the novel won a Spur Award from Western Writers of America as the best novel of the year, was high praise, especially in a category one man angrily declared was for the men’s action adventure novel.  The funny news about the original Doubleday hardback is that it was in their Double D Western line, which sold mostly, I’m told, by subscription to prison libraries. The digital edition, indie published by me at something like ninety-nine cents, sold well for years, making it the bestseller of any book I’ve written. Now it will be in a hardback again.

If you can’t attribute the fictional story to the real Dr. Arbuckle, you can attribute a lot of Mattie’s story to the real Judy Alter. Re-reading it, after all these years, I realized that in some ways I had written the memoir that I was always reluctant to attempt. When she was first settles on the prairie, Mattie meets a charming, charismatic man with a sad story about being disowned by his wealthy family back in St. Louis. Against the advice of her brother and stepfather, Mattie marries Em Jones, who turns out to be, as we would say in Texas, all hat and no cattle. In 1964, against the advice of my family, I married a medical student and followed him to Texas (the Texas part worked out well). The two stories are variations on a theme, but it’s all there—the sweep-you-off-your-feet joy, the domesticity, the quarrels over money and child-raising (I had a few more children than Mattie’s lone daughter), the growing estrangement, and the final betrayal. My ex and I divorced in 1982; the book was published in 1988. I had had time to process, but I don’t think at the time that I realized that I was writing my own experiences into Mattie’s life.

In her forties, Mattie Armstrong developed an unlikely relationship with the uneducated but skilled workman who single-handedly built her a two-story sanitarium on the prairie. Here’s a spoiler: the relationship was never meant to last, and he rides away, both of them filled with regret for what could not have worked on a permanent basis. As I was writing the last pages of this book, I was in the midst of the one serious relationship I had after my divorce. I clearly remember sitting at my desk and pecking out the scene where he leaves—and the realization came like a load of bricks that the man I thought loved me—and who I thought I loved—was going to leave. As it was for Mattie, so it was for me—decisions turned out to be right, and a more than satisfactory life followed.

I have talked before about my reluctance to write a memoir. Oh, I wrote Cooking My Way Through Life with Kids and Books, but it was a surface memoir, hung on a peg of cooking. I don’t think in it I came to grips with the emotions involved on my journey. And I have since shied away from memoir.  With minor variations, this novel is the memoir of two significant periods in my life. I’m still processing that realization.

My children may say this is TMI, as they put it, but it’s something I felt I needed to say. And one other thing: Mattie’s husband was Em, short for Emory; the builder was Eli (okay I hadn’t yet learned the lesson not to give two characters names starting with the same letter). The original dedication to the book was “For Em and Eli/They know who they are.” Em is dead now, and I suspect Eli maybe too. But I have asked the editors to restore the original dedication, replacing the one now that says it is for my daughters. They have enough books dedicated to them. I want them to know how close this story hits to home.

 

 

 

 

 

The Monday blues

 

Watch for it soon on Gourmet on a Hot plate

Whining about a minor problem: I slept wrong on my left hand. Not sure what I did but this morning it felt like I had either sprained it or had a deep bruise. It hurt to wash my hands, to comb my hair, and, worst of all, to type. In my world, that’s a disaster. It wasn’t till I tried to nap—and was aware the entire time that my hand and shoulder hurt—that I had the good sense to take two Tylenol. Amazing. All better. I did read today that Buddhist practice preaches that it is more healthy to sleep on your left side—the physiological explanation was complicated, but apparently most things in the body drain to the left. I’m in with that, if I could just keep my hand from underneath my head.

But that soreness set the tone for my day. I seem to sing this song too frequently, but I did a lot of work this morning. Just none of it on the novel I keep telling myself I am writing, although scenes go through my head all the time. Want a glimpse into the life of a writer? Try the word procrastination. Right now I am kept busy following various political developments in our country. Some days I’m really optimistic; other days, like yesterday, I feel corruption is winning. It’s sort of like being on a seesaw. But it does take a lot of my time just to keep up.

And today the wonderful lady who cleans my cottage was here, so we had long conversations about whether or not the lettuce in the vegetable bin was ready for the trash—a lot of questionable stuff went out. And we spent a lot of time while she looked all around on my desk and on the floor for a tiny yellow pill that I’d dropped. I didn’t want a dog to eat it. Finally, triumphantly, she produced it from a corner of the bookcase across from my desk which is where I last saw it. I guess I brushed it off, and being light, it flew across the room. I conferred with Jordan—should I brush it off and take it or discard it? This particular pill costs like gold. Her advice: take it.

What I did accomplish today was to proof the neighborhood newsletter and get it off, plus take notes and exchange emails with a friend who has a food-related business that I will feature in an upcoming Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog. Like salsa? Just wait for this one. Thursday is my food blog day, but this week I may just wish everyone Happy Thanksgiving and hold the salsa until next week. Because no, you definitely cannot cook Thanksgiving dinner with a hot plate and a toaster oven. Jordan tells me she will cook at least one side dish in the cottage. She and Christian will be hosting his family.

I, meanwhile, will be in Tomball with Colin and his family. First time I’ve traveled since quarantine began, and while it’s not far (four hours?) it seems a major trip. Sophie will go with me, and one of my projects today was to begin to assemble clothes, etc. It’s remarkable how much stuff it takes for an old lady to travel—and for a writer who cannot go without computer, legal pad, books, etc. My packing list is extensive.

Now we have a new crisis. Jacob just came out to say that his dad disconnected the wifi to reboot it but forgot the reboot part and went with Jordan to visit neighbors. So neither Jacob nor I can do much—and they are not answering their phones. Life’s little distractions.

Ten o’clock, and no, I don’t know where my children are. But I know one grandson is safely inside, and I know the wifi is working again. My hand has stopped hurting. I haven’t solved the problem of Kevin McCarthy and his gang of outrageous Republicans, but hey! Joe Biden is working on that. All seems almost well with the world tonight. Sweet dreams, y’all.

Monday's child

 

Tonight's light supper
copying my mom's salmon supper

Monday’s child may be fair of face, as the nursery rhyme tells us, but she also is hard at work, at least this one was. At least that’s the way it was around my cottage today. The wonderful Zenaida came to clean, do my laundry, and change the sheets; the yard guys came, and Sophie worked hard barking to warn them that she had their number and was on guard dog duty; and I spent most of the day working.

My main task today was marketing chores for Irene in Danger—getting the ISBN (international standard book number) for print and digital editions, writing a blurb, and writing a news release. I had fun with the blurb and came up with two versions—I’d love to know which one you like best for the back of the print edition and for the page listing on Amazon and other sites. Here are the two:

Want a French recipe? Irene will teach you to make salad niçoise. Want murder and mayhem? Irene seems to attract both. With one week until her wedding, Henny James is convinced Irene’s arrival from France will ruin the biggest day of her life. One week to save Irene from the trouble she brings with her and save the wedding. Recipes included.

And,

Irene Foxglove is back in Chicago, Henny and Patrick are getting married in a week, there’s cocaine floating around, and someone wants to kill the diva chef. Once again, Irene brings murder and mayhem to those around her, and Henny must save her. Good thing she has Patrick for help.

I’m thinking the first will go on the back of the book and the second on a news release, but I’d love some reader input here.

Writing the news release, I got caught up in reading review of the first book, Saving Irene, and found a coupe of people for whom that was the first book of mine they’d read but they said it would not be the last. Music to my ears. And I found one reviewer who made me laugh:

Saving Irene was my first introduction to the work of Judy Alter and the fact that I found myself talking back to the characters (Sorry, Henny, but no legit Italian cook adds oil to pasta unless they're making aglia e olio) says a lot for how real they felt to me.

Since I am into book news this evening, here’s the big event of the week: after what seems like years, my book on the Waggoner ranch, The Most Land, the Best Cattle: The Waggoners of Texas, will launch this Friday. I was thrilled to get an endorsement from cowboy singer and entertainer par excellence Red Steagall. Here’s what he said,

The majesty and intrigue of a ranch is of course invested in the land and livestock. But the true soul of a ranching property rests with the humans involved, both staff and owners. Judy Alter has done a magnificent job of explaining and describing the amazing family of the world-famous Waggoner Ranch, all under one fence

Tomorrow, Tuesday, Priscilla Leder will do an hour-long interview with me at 4:00 o'clock about the book on Radio Station KZSM out of San Marcos TX. To tune in, click on https://kzsm.org/ and then click play. I hope I won’t stumble over my words.

Thanks for letting me quote and brag and get carried away with myself and my books. I promise to be more circumspect in future posts. Meantime, this evening, a nice surprise. My longtime friend, Subie, called and was at loose ends for supper. I thought, with a slight sinking, she wanted to go out whereas after a day at work in my pjs, I had decided against getting dressed and intended to fix myself a light supper. I offered her three choices—creamed tuna on toast (no groans, please), salmon croquettes, or a cold salmon platter. She said any of those sounded great—my kind of dinner guest! —and I fixed two small salmon platters with pickled cucumber, hearts of palm, avocado, tomato, and hard-boiled egg. After I talked to Subie, I quickly put the salmon in the fridge to chill, put two eggs on to boil, and, yes, I put on cargo pants and a T-shirt. Not much of an improvement but better than pjs.

We had a lovely evening, lots of girl talk that ranged from family and food to politics. I’m ready for an early bedtime. Tomorrow is shaping up to be twice as busy as today.

How my garden grows

 

Okay, ignore the picture. Me in my work-day outfit, which means pajamas, no make-up, hair barely combed. But a happy smile on my face. I’m digging into the dirt and planting herbs in my new portable garden. It’s exactly what I wanted, because I can sit on my rollator and work in it. It’s taken us a while to get to this point—Christian wanted to varnish the outside, but with the rainy weather we’ve had that didn’t go as quickly as he wanted.

Then I had to buy some gravel to put in the bottom. As usual, I overthought the whole thing. At first, I thought there was a gravel company really close to us, but then I discovered it had closed. Then I tried to call gravel companies to ask what kind I needed and could they deliver. It was obvious they weren’t interested in a tiny job like mine, and most had no phone contact. Finally, I did what I should have done all along: I called the nice young man whose crews maintain our yard. He said to get it from the local hardware. Duh! Always glad to patronize a local small business.

So we got the gravel and dirt, and today Jordan put in the liner, pea gravel, dirt, and potting soil. I sat in my rollator and helped spread gravel and dirt evenly. This may sound insignificant, but so much is done for me that I can’t help with that it was a delight to be able to be part of this. And doing it with Jordan—and some laughter and giggles—made it special.

We planted the herbs we had. Tomorrow’s errand list includes a trip to the nursery where fall herbs are on sale—we have thyme, oregano, basil, and chives. Those are my basics, but I’d like to add cilantro, parsley, and dill (I’ve never had luck with dill because caterpillars eat it). Jordan pointed out some trailing plants would look good on the bottom shelf, so I want to look at trailing rosemary. Though I suspect that shelf should be reserved for tools, etc. Anyway, I’m delighted to have plants in the soil.

A good day in other ways. I wrote 600 words on an article—or what I hope will be an article. The first words are always the hardest, and this struck me as a longish introduction and perhaps too personal for the market I’m targeting. But I’m a believer in writing it the way you hear it in your head.

Tonight we planned salmon for dinner, but when dinnertime came Jordan and I found ourselves staring at each other. Jacob had a high school football game, and Christian had an event. I thought a pound and a half of salmon was extravagant for the two of us. But then, just before we were to eat, Christian came home. I made a vinegar/oil herb sauce for the fish—really good. But then we had very lemony salads with avocado and blue cheese, and hearts of palm angel hair pasta with lemon butter. Jordan loved it, but it was too much acid in one meal for me.

The pasta is interesting. It felt soft in the package (not cellophane so we couldn’t see it) and the directions said nothing about cooking it. Just pour on sauce and heat. So she did—and it was pretty al dente. Next time, Jordan says she’ll cook it. But it is carb free, gluten free, etc. That always makes me nervous, because I want to know what they added to compensate for what they took out. (I would never make a good vegan.) I did not taste hearts of palm in it at all, which was to me a disappointment and to Christian a benefit.

Tomorrow Megan comes from Austin for the weekend. So excited to have her here. The girls will go to the football game, but then tomorrow night Christian will grill and we’ll have a big family dinner. Sunday, brunch at Pacific Table and take-out dinner from Joe T.’s. I’m so looking forward to all of this, but mostly to having my Megan here.

A hodgepodge Saturday

 

 

My herb garden, varnished and ready to go.
We have the liner, pebbles for drainage, and dirt, plus
four small plants. I had a vision of winter lettuce, but apparently
there is no such thing. I'll plant seeds in anticipation of
early spring lettuce. 

Bricklayers, I have learned, are quiet—until they are noisy. Yesterday they quietly laid brick all day on the new guesthouse/cabana that neighbors are building, with my blessing, directly behind my cottage. There was one incident at noon when it sounded like they were banging on a kettle drum—I thought maybe they were mixing mortar, but what do I know about what bricklayers do? Otherwise, it was quiet, even though the neighbor warned me there might be construction noise. My one request was: no loud music in the afternoons when I like to sleep.

This morning, being Saturday I was sure they would not work. So wrong. They began hammering and pounding at seven-thirty. What do bricklayers do that requires hammering? Anyway, it’s been fun to watch that wall of green insulation with wires protruding everywhere turn into a smooth brick wall.

These are good neighbors. They came to me for an easement or whatever it’s called before they ever started this project, and they have been careful to keep me informed and be sure I didn’t have any problems with what was going on. Philip Newburn, the architect who designed my cottage, designed this structure too, and he put the windows facing my cottage high up so that they provide light in the new cabana but do not invade my privacy. I call that Texas neighborliness.

I once had a friend who claimed she could be perfectly content watching paint dry. That is so not me, so I had to move on beyond watching them lay brick. Still, it is Saturday, and I fiddled and piddled more than usual, once again drawn into posts about what I am now calling Abbott’s Law—may it go down in history as an example of evil in government.

But I did manage to read the last two chapters of Irene in Danger, checking for typos. And I had fun, as I did yesterday, putting together recipes for the back of the book. So far I have gougères (little cheese-y puff pastries), gibelotte (a rabbit stew—not to worry, I have other suggestions), salade niçoise, Henny’s Mom’s ranch beans, and Henny’s Mom’s potato salad. A nice mix of French and Texas, representative of the food to be served at the wedding of Henny and Patrick—that is, if they ever get to hold that wedding. Wait! Did I just give away a bit of the plot?

Emails kept me involved for a while, especially an exchange with Carol about my updated Handbook of Texas entry on the Waggoner Ranch. Carol is my friend who is an archivist, research librarian, and a walking encyclopedia of Texas history. I was delighted to be able to tell her a few things about the Waggoner family homes that she didn’t know. The Most Land, the Best Cattle: The Waggoners of Texas launches October 1. I need to be doing more advance publicity and checking on what the publisher is doing.

And tonight, Jean and I had our regular Saturday night supper. We usually choose Saturday because the Burtons have other plans, but it has become a running joke that she finds them at home, their plans having changed or cancelled. Almost happened again today when the pool party they thought they were going to was cancelled. But tonight, they are at the seasoner opener for TCU football. TCU is playing DuQuesne, and Jean and I had to look it up to see where the school is located—Pittsburgh, PA. Jean was guessing East Coast, while I thought Davenport, Iowa. Nine minutes into the first quarter TCU was ahead 7-0; too early to predict much.

On tonight’s menu was blonde puttanesca. Puttanesca is commonly known as the whore’s spaghetti. Usually a red sauce, it has the strong flavors of onion, garlic, anchovies, red pepper, and capers—the ladies of the night made it from what they had on hand. I avoid it because it is too spicy, but I thought this blonde version, with tuna, would be good. It was, but it was a bit fishy—a combination of the anchovy and capers. Lemon cut it a bit, but I probably won’t try it again. Jean happily went home with a serving for her lunch tomorrow.

And I’m ready to spend the evening reading. Sleep well and have happy dreams, my friends.

 

When are you going to quit writing?

 

One of my often overlooked books 
and the only collection of short stories I have
Available on Kindle for ninety-nine cents.

The question startled me. It came from my son’s friend, a man in his early fifties who retired two years ago. After a long minute, I replied, “I don’t think much about that.” I suppose turnabout is fair play because I had asked him what he was doing these days. My thought, which probably showed, was that fifty is far too young to bow out of the working world. His response was, “If I was working, I couldn’t do what I’m doing.” I didn’t pursue it, but I’ve thought a lot since about his question. When am I going to quite writing?

I’ve been writing since I was about eight and wrote my first short stories on a small pad of lined paper. In high school, I submitted a short story to Seventeen, but it came back so rapidly that, as the late Texas author Elmer Kelton would have said, “it must have had a rubber band on it.” When I was out of graduate school and home with babies, my song was, “I’d write if I knew what to write.” I did some free-lance pieces and even scored one in McCall’s about adoption. My first novel was published as young-adult fiction in 1978 and for too many years I was pigeon-holed as a y/a author.

In 2010 I retired as director of TCU Press. Over my working years I had produced a fairly respectable body of work in terms of quantity if not quality. I wrote fiction and nonfiction for adults and young adults, book reviews, a couple of columns with short runs, books for school libraries, short stories. I wrote whatever would pay. I didn’t really retire eleven years ago—I just sort of switched focus and became a full-time author.

It didn’t take long to establish a routine that still shapes my days—I work at my desk from about eight until around two. Then it’s nap time and my real working day is pretty much over. In the late afternoon, I play on social media and frequently cook dinner for my family. After dinner, I may read, write a blog, or just explore on the computer. It’s a daily routine that makes me happy.

I write because I cannot not write. Writing, they tell us, is a business, and we must treat it as such. But it is to me more than a job. It’s a way of life. It’s not only what I do but who I am. No, I never made the bestseller lists and truth be told all I earned was “walking around money,” but I have people who write me that they enjoyed my books, countless notes from schoolchildren, enough feedback to make me feel that I am contributing something to the world (that’s something I worry about a lot). Writing gives me purpose in life (raising four kids definitely did that too! I have always said my tombstone should read that I was a mother, an author, and a publisher—in that order.).

I have enough projects on my desk and in my mind to keep me busy for two or three years. Whenever I get near the point of wondering, “What shall I write next,” I revert to worrying about a memoir. I have lots of stories to tell, but sometimes I think I’m overwhelmed by the idea of organizing them. There are days when I think I’ll cherry pick from blogs I’ve done over the past fifteen years and compile them into a memoir. But then I’d have to choose a theme—personal life and children, writing, cooking?

I suppose the day will come when the words I put on paper don’t make sense—or at least don’t carry as much impact as I hope they do now. And I may well be too tired to sit at a desk for six hours. I already notice that I am much less driven than I was ten years ago, and I think not writing will come as a slow progression rather than a sudden stop on a pre-announced day. But I don’t spend much time thinking about it. I’ve got writing to do.

Another day, but, alas, not another dollar

 

Coming October 1 - watch for it.
The fascinating history of the largest ranch under one fence
and the colorful family who owned it and lived there
for four generations.
Everybody recognize Harry S. Truman?

Today did not go as I planned at all. Fired up to continue working on that mystery I’m in the middle of, I got up early and was at my desk, checking email. By nine o’clock, I was ready to write. But I realized I also had slotted a fairly complicated cooking project for this morning, so I thought I would do that, get it out of the way, and then devote myself to the novel.

What I thought might take me an hour, took and hour and a half. When you cook from the seat of a Rollator, everything goes more slowly. I haven’t figured out for sure why, but I know it’s a truism. But I finally had my dinner in the fridge, ready to pop in the oven when my happy hour guests left, and I had the dishes all done. More about what I cooked in a week or so on my Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog.

But when I got back to my computer, one email had a chore for me—fill out a lengthy form for each of four novels that I am submitting for serialization. A company called Crazy Maple has a program called KISS whereby they serialize mysteries—they had some success serializing romance novels, so they jumped over to mystery.

They reached out to me, and after doing some checking on both other authors’ experiences and the content of the contract, I decided to do a trial with the four books in my Blue Plate Café Mysteries series. But today that meant I had to fill out these forms for each of the four books—lengthy and involved, wanting such things as my Pinterest URL (not only did I not know, but I also wasn’t sure where to find it) or the cover art for a book for which I inexplicably had no files. I did the best I could, but it took me the rest of the morning and much of the afternoon.

I submitted the final file just before friends came for happy hour. They are traveling to Canada to see her parents next week, the first time they will have seen them in almost two years. But the journey is fraught with border difficulties—the border between Canada and the U.S. will open August 6 and they go August 9, but there are still difficulties such as taking a rental car across the border and a possible strike by border personnel. I never have been much of a traveler—though I’ve enjoyed a lot of trips over the years—but listening tonight made me glad I’m content to stay at home. Among other things, to cross the border, you have to present evidence of a negative Covid test within 72 hours or some such narrow window. So you have to find a testing site—they will go to the local hospital. I have my fingers crossed for a calm and happy journey for them.

So now it’s late, and Sophie and I are settled down for the night. How about you?

No use crying over spilt—water!

 

My thrown-together dinner

A picture I’m glad no one saw. About one o’clock in the morning last night, I crawled into bed, flung the covers over me rather over-dramatically—and heard a great crash. I had just knocked my water tumbler off the nightstand with the comforter. And it was full because I always refresh the ice and add new water on my way to bed. So there I was, using my kiddie broom—it works well from my walker—to sweep up an army of ice cubes and then rushing for towels to soak up the water. Meantime, my feet were wet and cold, and Sophie was looking at me as if to ask, “What in heaven’s name is wrong with you?”

I got it all cleaned up, turned around to look, and saw more ice cubes, so a second sweeping was in order. When I finally got back in bed, I was wide awake and afraid I would be that way all night but sleep and pleasant dreams came. And when I next got out of bed, the floor was dry. Sophie slept in a corner of the bedroom—I think she thought that I was so accident prone, she’d best keep an eye on me.

Fortunately, that did not set the tone for today. I wrote over a thousand words, though I am trying to write not by words but by story told. I may be backing myself into a corner though—I’ve constructed a plot that has to take place in seven days, but I’m already at day five and only have a word count of half a novel. I may be writing a novella. Still, I felt good about the part of the story I got down today.

And I was ambitious in the kitchen, making myself egg salad for lunch. I’ve always made egg salad the way I do chicken, tuna, ham, whatever—mayo, mustard, chopped green onion, a bit of salt and pepper. Sometimes I get it too runny, too much mayo. But I’ve found a recipe that helps me measure precise amounts—for three eggs, two Tbsp mayo and a half tsp. Dijon mustard. No onions but a Tbsp. dill pickle relish. Forgive the pun, but I am relishing that salad.

Tonight the neighbors—Mary and Prudence—came for happy hour, so we heard about Mary’s trip to Hawaii. It was not a happy occasion—the death of her older brother—but she still loved being in Hawaii, where she says the air is so sweet. And from the pictures she posted, she had some good food. And Prudence had stories of shopping for a first communion dress for her second-oldest daughter. Fun to catch up with them.

No dinner plan tonight, so I made myself what one Scottish acquaintance calls a thrown-together supper. I opened one of the last cans of my good salmon from Oregon, sautéed a green onion in olive oil, added the salmon, some capers, some halved cherry tomatoes, salt, pepper, and oregano; removed it from the heat and stirred in some sour cream and lemon juice. Meanwhile I cooked some fettucine, drained it, spooned the salmon mixture over it, topped with generous Parmesan—and there was my thrown-together dinner. You can do almost whatever you want with this, depending on your taste and what’s in your fridge and pantry. Like black olives? Throw some in. Love the heat of peppers? By all means, add them. Let your imagination go wild. I think the key is, though, to start with really good salmon as a base—and no, I don’t think tuna will do the same.

I’m a fairly devoted reader of The New York Times cooking column (and also a follower of the Facebook page they have detached from that is now called Not The New York Times Cooking Community). But sometimes cooking editor Sam Sifton gets a bit too far out for me, especially with Middle Eastern and African recipes—sorry, I know I should have more of an international palate, but the truth is I’m a big advocate of American cooking. So here’s what I found the other day that I am NOT going to cook: cauliflower ceviche with avocado, seaweed, and soy. There are several elements wrong there—just don’t ask me.

Happy dreams, everyone. Dream of loving your neighbor.

Politics, food, and writing—what else is there?

Truly, I have little else to write about today, except politics, food, and writing. Oh, and then there was that wonderful rainstorm this afternoon about 5:00 p.m. By 4:30 the sky to the north and east looked blue-gray but not dark enough to promise rain. Gradually, however, everything darkened, and I began to hear distant thunder.

When the storm came, it was a nice, gentle summer one—we had no lightning here, though nearby areas did, and the thunder was soft and distant enough that Sophie was not overly alarmed. But the good, healing rain came down heavily enough to water things but not so heavily as to damage blooming plants. There was wind, blowing sheets of water across the back yard, and I did fear for the bougainvillea, which is just beginning to bloom again and which was battered a bit. But it seems to have survived. I know in North Fort Worth there was more damage, and I am sorry—but for us, I am grateful for just the right amount of storm. I’ve said it before, but my mom taught us to love a thunderstorm, and that stays with me today.

I’m avidly following the news of the Democratic walkout in Austin today, and I am most angry at Ryan Rusak’s opinion piece in the Star-Telegram where he says Democrats just need to win more elections. How can they, the way Abbott is stacking legislation against them? Although Rusak claims the exodus to D.C is a gift to Abbott, I don’t see it that way. I think this extreme move will spotlight the ways in which Abbott is trying to create a fiefdom here in Texas—and will turn thinking voters against any 2024 presidential hopes he is harboring. Yes, I think there are enough thinking voters in our country.

As for the constitutionality of what the Democrats are seeking—whether or not the DOJ can help them—I am not a constitutional scholar and can’t comment. But I bet that holds true for a lot of those who are commenting.

Abbott has, of course, not commented on the overwhelming numbers of Texans who waited hours in line to testify against his voter suppression bill. But they did, and I hope they were effective, some not testifying until the wee hours. I haven’t heard who testified in favor of it, but I can guess—Abbott, Patrick, and Paxton, the triumvirate of evil in Texas. I’m holding my breath for what happens next.

And on to food. We had ribs last night—with a sauce made of apricot preserves and soy. Awfully good, though there was talk that we should replace baby back ribs with beef next time. I’m not sure the same sauce would work as well on beef—big difference in flavors of the meat.

We must be on an Asian kick, because tonight I fixed an Asian salad—and had a real learning lesson about rice noodles. Watch for it in my Thursday blog from Gourmet on a Hot Plate. Now that I know how to do it properly, I’m anxious to do it again. Maybe I’m hooked on soy.

From a writerly point of view, it was a good day, a satisfying one. The phrase work-in-progress is common among writers, though in my case it was really a misnomer: it should have been something like work-in-limbo. Saying I’d put it aside to simmer in the back of my mind was an elegant excuse—I’d really ignored it, because it puzzled me, and I filled my days with other, less ambitious chores. But today I went back to the rough draft of Irene in Danger, with new ideas for working out a plot point that had been a stumbling block and creating a new conflict between characters. I began, of necessity, at the beginning and am about halfway through re-reading the 27,000 words I had already written, editing and re-writing as I go. It feels good. Please cross your fingers for me.

And that, folks, was my day. How about yours?

 

A Sunday lapse, good food, and new resolve

 

Salmon Nicoise

All my new resolve to get out in the world more—call it quarantine recovery—went out the window this morning. It was to be our first week back in person in church, but I woke early in the morning worrying about it. Would I have the stamina to walk as far as I would have to? That and a thousand other worries, all imaginary, went through my mind. I stayed home.

But I did go to church online, and found it rewarding. The sermon was, “Where does it hurt?” and was about realizing that many around us are in pain and reaching out to them. One point that Russ Peterman made is that you don’t promise people that everything will be all right, nor do you tell them that platitude, “Everything happens for a reason.” Sometimes you just sit and share grief with someone who is suffering.

It made me think of dinner, many years ago, with two dear friends. The book, Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus by John Gray, was the trending pop psychology book at the time, and we were talking about it. Andy said that what the book basically said was that women want to talk about whatever is bothering them; men only want to talk about it if they can fix it. I have thought about the truth of that statement many times over the years.

I think we need different listeners for different aspects of our lives—for instance, I long for another mystery writer with whom I can sit and have an hours-long discussion about where my book is going, where theirs is going, what we think about the market. My kids are good about listening, but wonderful as they are, they don’t really understand. And days like today, I need someone to talk to about the demons that sometimes crop up in my face. There again, those around me mostly don’t understand.

I suggested today to an acquaintance on Facebook who is suffering severe chronic pain and posts about it all the time that she might consult a mental health professional. She was instantly defensive and scornful, demanding why she should talk to strangers who don’t understand. I refrained from pointing out that she talks to strangers all the time, every day, on Facebook, and that a professional would understand much better than those random strangers. Made me think again of the wisdom of today’s sermon. And made me sad for this woman’s suffering.

On a happier note, we have been eating so well. Friday night I made salmon niçoise. You can cater a niçoise plate to your tastes—we left potatoes off mine and artichoke hearts off Christian’s, subbed tiny new asparagus for green beans, deviled the eggs (per Jordan’s request), and so on. What got me was that Christian wanted his salmon on a separate plate so it not touch his lettuce (I had splurged on butter lettuce). He missed the point of the salad. But anyway, I served it with a red wine vinaigrette that was terrific—we have filed it away as a keeper. I had leftovers last night and doused the salmon—Jacob’s piece because he was out with friends when we ate it—with the dressing. Who needs lemon? This was delicious.

Tonight we are having a recipe I found years ago on Mystery Lovers Kitchen. Called Dead Man’s Bones, it’s baby back ribs grilled with a mix of apricot preserves and soy. I have made an interesting cucumber salad to go with it. Cooking is such fun!

And I am looking forward to the week. At long last I have some ideas for the mystery that’s been simmering (I hope) in the back of my brain, and I itch to get back to it. Good times ahead!

Have a great week everyone!

PS: The internet is on a real kick tonight. A passage my son-in-law sent about Libbie Custer and I tried to save as Libbie, ended up labeled Lonnie--Lonnie is my plumber and a nice guy, but .... And then I tried to save salmon nicoise and it came out salmon no pose. Go figure!

Pardon me if I brag a bit

 

Owen Wister Award for Lifetime Achievement
Western Writers of America

I’ll just put this right out there: there is now a Wikipedia page about me and my career as a writer. Makes me feel like one of the grown-ups!

I’ve used Wikipedia a lot, never scorned it was much as some academics do, recognized it for what it is: a good way to begin research on a project and get an overview. What it is not is a reliable source to quote in a scholarly paper or book. But then again, it’s a great marketing tool.

For years I wondered how you got to the point that Wikipedia decided you deserve a page. Along the way I discovered that’s not how it works. Someone submits a page for you, following Wikipedia’s guidelines. They frown on a subject submitting a page or editing their own page. So here’s what happened.

Facebook from time-to-time posts memories from several years ago—if you follow, FB you know this. Recently they posted a memory about a 2016 trip to Lubbock where I was inducted into the Western Writers of America Hall of Fame. I’m not very good at blowing my own horn—in fact, I’m shy about it—but I decided to share this memory. It’s been a while since I’ve been really active in the western writing community, so a whole new crop of writers has come along to whom I’m unknown, even though I am publishing new books and older titles are being reprinted.. And then there’s the mystery community, where I am definitely on one of the lower rungs of success. It would be nice to let them know of the credibility I have in the western writing world. My motives weren’t exactly pure, but I shared it.

A friend I haven’t seen in thirty years or more contacted me. Suzi Swaim babysat my children when she was in high school, so it was a shock to have her tell me she’s nearing retirement age. No!  She’s still in high school, even though she has a grown son. We have stayed in contact through Facebook, and Suzi said she thought I should have a Wikipedia page and she would do it for me. I was delighted and grateful to say the least and got to work gathering information for her, using friends’ pages as models. And before I knew it, the page was up. Son-in-law Brandon, a software engineer, did some final tweaking like adding dates and the picture he took.

So far, I’ve gotten a good reaction, and I admit it is satisfying to see what I’ve done all these years collected in one place. I’ve never been a good record keeper, so this forced me to organize.

What’s my favorite of my books? Probably the one that diverges from my usual areas—The Gilded Cage, set in Chicago in the latter half of the nineteenth century. And the accomplishment I’m most proud of? Probably the Owen Wister Lifetime Achievement Award from Western Writers of America. It came with a marvelous statue of a buffalo.

It’s been a great ride, and it’s not over yet. I’ve got irons in the fire, ideas in my mind. Meanwhile, here’s a link to the page: Judy Alter - Wikipedia

I went to church in my nightshirt

 

We’ve been going to church in pajamas and whatever since quarantine began, so it’s not that unusual, but I decided early this morning my clothes would set the tone for the day. I’d had lots of excitement with Colin and his family here Friday night and part of yesterday, and today the Burtons were driving to East Texas to take Jacob ot camp. A chill day for me—I wouldn’t wash my hair, get dressed, etc.(My Puritan conscience kicked in—I did make the bed.)

But what I did do, even before church, was to empty the garbage, sort out laundry, put away the dishes from last night, and generally do a straightening job in the cottage. You wouldn’t know it, because laundry, in various piles, is strewn across my big coffee table, waiting for Jordan to return tonight.

But the other thing I did that pleases me is less tangible—I revised and rewrote a short essay that has been on my desk for a week. As my friend Fred says, the short pieces are the hardest. This one, which I will submit for a volume on Texas mysteries, has a limit of 1,500 words. I’d written it and sent it to Fred for review; to my surprise he rejected my thesis and suggested an alternative—well, he suggested I modify the piece. It all has to do with agrarian or rural literature vs city or urban. I have never in a long writing career disagreed with Fred—and he reads everything I write (except blogs!). But the more I chewed on it, the more I wanted to stick to my original point.

Today I reached sort of a compromise, and I wrote to the end—1,300+ words. Tomorrow I’ll read it again, edit as needed, and with some temerity send it to Fred again. I hope he’s not tired of reading it. He was the prof in graduate school who shepherded me through the Ph.D. program, championed me when I faltered, and has read my work since. He is also a treasured friend.

But I am ready for this to be off my desk, so I can move on to what I am now thinking of as the “novel in waiting.” So that’s my plan.

Meanwhile, Sophie and I have had a quiet, lazy day—long naps, a gentle rain this afternoon, and cool temperatures. If we can trust the weather forecast, I just found online, we are in for a week of cooler temperatures and rain! Hooray! I had leftover steak and squash casserole for lunch; my dinner menu is leftover steak and mashed potatoes.

The steak and mashed potatoes were a special celebratory, send-off meal for Jacob before his departure for camp. But he woke sick yesterday morning—temperature, sore throat, etc. Jordan took him to Urgent Care where they found nothing beyond the symptoms of a summer cold. But he slept most of the day away, including missing dinner, and I suspect that cured him. I also suspect it was allergies. But late last night, I saw him in the family room folding clothes, no doubt doing some last-minute packing. I am delighted to eat his leftovers.

Busy week ahead, but I’m looking forward to it. And a dental appointment I’m not looking forward to. Hope y’all have a good week planned.