More chutney, some awesome Christmas lights, and a sense of caution

My Christmas orchid towering over Serenity with her poinsettia headdress.
I feel as though I live in a greenhouse.
So wonderful!

My project of the day was a second batch of chutney—this the cranberry/apricot. I think I perfected my technique, because it didn’t take me nearly as long, and I think the chutney is better. Yesterday, I let it thicken too much—good flavor but not so great on the consistency.

Tonight, I went to Pacific Table with three longtime friends. We try to have dinner together fairly frequently, but tonight was in celebration of Subie’s early December birthday. Okay, we were a bit late. We also had a small Christmas gift exchange, and I was thrilled with the book Carol gave me on dairy restaurants. She purchased it at New York’s Tenement Museum, Author Ben Katchor traces the history of these establishments, originally begun to cater to kosher laws which required the separation of meat and milk products. Eventually, some critics claim, the dairy restaurants morphed into Dairy Queen and similar chains. The book has wonderful, humorous illustrations, and I look forward to digging into it.

Subie brought me a beautiful orchid, of a color I’ve not seen—sort of off-white, but with pale striations that almost make it look like the blossoms are of thin wood. And Kathie contributed a jigsaw puzzle which should be great fun at our family get-together.

Lovely evening. I ordered my usual—Caesar salad with fried oysters. Pacific Table has hands down the best Caesar salad in town, and the fried oysters are so well seasoned you shouldn’t even think of cocktail sauce. The restaurant was, however, a bit noisy.

On the way home, I mentioned that I’d been told that the light display at Cook Children’s Hospital was spectacular, so we detoured—and were delighted that we did. It is an absolute fairyland, wonderful to see. Cars slowly drove by—and a parked limo blocked traffic, making a minor jam, but I guess if you can afford a stretch limo you don’t care.

I came home to the realization that I need to get my neighborhood newsletter out the door first thing in the morning, so I spent much of the evening proofreading and following up on odds and ends.

These are the days of anticipation. For many, they are frantic days, worrying how you’ll ever get everything done. For some of us, like me, everything seems done, so you worry about what maybe you haven’t done. And you don’t want to start anything new because…well, Christmas is just around the corner.

A sense of—how to say it? Caution? Dread? —hung over us at the dinner table tonight, because we all feel we are headed into another severe Covid season. Of course, there’s a good reason we feel that way—it’s predicted all over the media. So, we talked about maybe having to go back to patio parties and small—what was the word? Hives? Coveys? That small group you felt comfortable socializing with. We all seemed to feel we were headed to mandates (which doesn’t bother any of us), masks (doesn’t bother us either, though I don’t hear as well when people speak through a mask), and perhaps school closures. I am the only one closely affected by that, because I am the only one lucky enough to live with a grandchild. For his sake, I hope schools don’t close—he hated his year at home but bore it with good grace; on the other hand, I want to keep him safe. And my six other grandchildren, scattered as they are. Always a dilemma.

At any rate, when people toast, as we did tonight, to making 2022 a better year than 2020 or 2021, I have some hesitation. For my own part, I survived quarantine nicely, pretty much with spirits intact, and I would expect and hope to do so again. And you should see all the toilet paper Jordan has secreted away on a high shelf in my closet. What was that phrase a while back? “Buckle up, Buttercup. It may be a rough ride.”

What a downer way to end a Christmas blog! Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all, and for just this brief time, put Covid and abortion and politics and warfare out of your mind, and enjoy the season.

Of dogs and floors

Sophie would like her many friends to know that she had a perfectly awful day. From nine in the morning until four in the afternoon, she was locked in her crate. She got two potty breaks, but she was so distraught that all she did when let out was stand at the door with a quizzical look that clearly said, “Why are you doing this to me? What have I done wrong?” I slipped her tiny bits of cheese several times and tried to get her to drink water—she willingly took the cheese but did not want the water. When she was finally released, the first thing she did was go directly to her water dish, which had been returned to its usual place, and drink a pint of water. Then she made a brief trip outdoors but came in to lie on the floor. I think she is depressed.

The problem is that the floor guys were finally here. They were in and out a lot and didn’t need to watch out for a dog, not did they need her supervision while they worked. The only thing I could think of to do was get her crate out of the attic. Christian got it down Saturday so she would have a few days to get accustomed to it. We left the door open, and she voluntarily slept in it at night and some during the day. Being forced to stay in it was whole another thing.

In truth, for as rambunctious as she can be, she was really good today and spent much of her confinement sleeping. I tried to tell her how good she was—hope she got the message.

Who knew how noisy floor men can be? They have drills or something that sound like the devil’s invention, and then there’s the non-rhythmic tapping and the zing of what sounds like an electric stapler.  But the three men were pleasant, polite, and helpful.

My partially finished new bedroomfloor

The owner had been here over an hour when Jordan came out to look, and he immediately began to explain something to her that he had not mentioned to me. Perhaps I am over-sensitive, but I took it as age discrimination. I wanted to assert myself and inform him I’m the one who will be living with that threshold and I am the one paying for it. But I contented myself by pointing out a threshold he installed three years ago which is difficult for me on the walker. I hate it when people assume I am not responsible or capable and immediately begin talking to Jordan. It happens a lot in doctor’s offices.

I did better than I expected sleeping on the couch last night—good thing, because it’s looking like I have two more nights there. Both Jacob and Megan have complained it is too short, but I, taller than they are, could straighten my legs. Yes, it’s a little narrow but not bad. When I once got up in the night, Sophie jumped up there but listened to a stern, “No you don’t.”

All in all, it was a long day, but I got quite a bit of writing and research done and even got a nap on the couch—lulled to sleep (?) by the floor noises. Tonight, I’m looking forward to a visit from neighbor Mary, and we’ll feast on bowls of that good cold soup I made over the weekend.

Sometimes—frequently for me—anticipation is worse than the event, and that’s the way with the installation of the wood floor. I’m glad to have it started and to find out it’s not the ordeal I thought it would be.

A whole lot of nothing

Seems like the summer is full of big plans—the wedding of a close friend this weekend, a weeklong visit from my oldest daughter and her youngest son so he can go to basketball camp with Jacob, my (gulp) 80^th birthday, a Great Lakes Cruise. Sometimes I think life is too much about anticipation.

Too often, I find myself wishing away the days until this or that highly anticipated event occurs, and then I scold myself. As I approach eighty I should be savoring every day, every minute, instead of wishing time away. Who knows how much time I have left? But I have this incurable habit of thinking something wonderful is just around the corner—and often it is. So that’s where I am today—anticipating.

Meantime, the ever-present reality is quiet but quite pleasant. Some cooking—a huge pasta salad I’m offering to all comers, since it grew out of bounds when I made it.. With chicken, cucumbers, halved cherry tomatoes, scallions, it tastes great. Yesterday for Heather, my chef friend, I added a dollop of mayo. She declared she particularly liked the mixture of vinaigrette with the touch of mayo. Mostly I prefer to eat it with plain vinaigrette.

Guess I’ll add that to my cookbook, though the cookbook has now been edited and is at the point where I add things with great care and trepidation. Even the editor added some things—a suggested addition to scrambled eggs and her mom’s spaghetti sauce, both of which sound good.

And that’s how I’ve spent the last two days—going through edits on the cookbook, watching a marketing video that supposedly will help me sell thousands of books (I’m keep waiting for the part where it will cost me money I don’t have). I’ve got books to read for the Mae Sarton competition, a manuscript sample to evaluate for Sisters in Crime, and a newsletter to write. Yes, retirement keeps me busy, and I love it.

Last night I had supper with three old friends (younger than me but old in the amount of time we go back), all former wives of doctors, three divorcees and one widow. The tales we told! The waiter said politely, “I’ll give you some time to catch up,” and Linda said, “How much time do you have? We have twenty years to work on.” I realized that each of us have seen each other once or twice, but Linda and one of the women have literally not seen each other for twenty years. Odd tricks that fate plays on us. The good thing, great really, is that we laughed over the past. We are not the ex-wives who harbor bitterness, and I think that’s to our credit. And we share a rich past.

And for me that’s how this part of the early summer goes. Jacob went away with friends last night for six days, and I realize the void when I look at the back windows of the house and don’t see the TV on. But I’ll be working and having supper with friends the next couple of days and then we’ll be into wedding festivities. I’m so glad life is never dull

Note that I’m avoiding political rants. So much that I want to yell and scream about. We are in a perilous situation, and I hope each of you are keeping informed as developments come fast and furious. We can’t afford to be caught complacent or sleeping.

Anticipation

I made these in the early sixties when I was dirt poor.
Jordan isn't sure she wants to give them up.

Probably the worst part about anxiety is worrying about what’s coming next. We hear lots of advice about live in the moment, and I try, believe me I do. But I never seem to get there. I once had a fling with a man who often said to me, “Go on. Bring that bridge right on up here and jump it.” That’s me—jumping bridges before I get to them. Tonight I’m worrying about going back to physical therapy for the first time in months, though I know they’ll come out and help me walk in.

More worrisome is the downsizing of my house. I woke in a panic about six this morning thinking about all the things I have squirreled away in various drawers and cupboards in this house. I truly think I’ve downsized each time I moved (which was often there for a while), but I have drawers full of socks I never wear, an attic crammed with I don’t know what—I think my notes (two file drawers full) for my Ph.D. exams are still up there, plus boxes of old linens nobody would use today and the children’s save boxes. Somewhere Jamie has a T-shirt I got when he was about three that says, “Kiss me. I’m Greek.” That’s the trouble—so many things—furniture and on down to little things—have sentimental attachments.

Today Jordan, Christian and Jacob got my Christmas things out of the attic. I proved more hard-hearted than she did. When I said, “We can get rid of those,” she complained, “I remember them from my childhood.”

What comforted me in the early hours this morning is that this can be a gradual transition. It’s not like selling a house when you close and have to be out in 48 hours. I was so comforted, I went back to sleep for two and a half hours.

Meantime, my two nine-year-old gentleman guests slept the clock around, from 10:30 to 10:30. I finally asked Jordan via text if I should wake them (the parents were good and went to church-I didn’t want to venture out in the cold rain and the sleeping boys were a good excuse). As soon as I went to do that, they were awake, so I served waffles.

Tonight my only concern is that I left a turkey wing on my plate on my desk when I went to get Sophie the dinner she was demanding. She ate the whole major portion, though I had eaten most of the meat. So far, no distress, but I am watching carefully.

What are you looking forward to?

A good friend asked me the other night over dinner what I was looking forward to this fall. “Any trips?” This is a woman who travels all over the world, sometimes alone, sometimes with a friend. She knows I’m not much on travel, but that was to her the automatic question. Tonight, another friend said, “I get antsy if I don’t travel. I haven’t been anywhere since August.” August? Barely a month ago.

They got me to thinking about what I look forward to, because I suppose everyone has to have something in the wings that pulls them forward. My idea of travel is pretty much limited to visits to my kids, all of whom live in Texas. So I am looking forward to an October visit with my oldest daughter, Megan, and her family in Austin. My former colleague and now good friend, Melinda, and I go for Texas Book Festival. I used to spend Saturday and Sunday working at the festival, but now that I’m retired I leave that to Melinda and I hang out with my family. Megan said this year they’re expecting some humongous number of people at the festival and her advice was to avoid it—I think I’ll do just that. But Melinda and I stop for lunch at carefully picked places on the way down, then have happy hour with a good friend of hers a Z Tejas, and Monday morning breakfast with Barbara Whitehead, who has designed books for TCU Press since I can remember.

But beyond that trip, I look forward to small things. I told Sue (my Canadian daughter) tonight, that I was looking forward to her visit. I’m looking forward to a visit the last weekend of the month from old friends who moved away many years ago. They wrote they’d be in Dallas, and so I invited them for Sunday supper—when their daughter, my godchild, was young they always came for Sunday supper (that girl is now 26 or 27). I asked if there was any special dish they remembered, and got the answer “King Ranch Chicken.” So my menu is already set. It will be good to catch up.

I’m always looking forward to a call from The Millionaire (remember that old TV show?), and more realistically I’m hoping to hear from the agent to whom I sent three chapters, at her request, of my historical novel.

And then there’s a cocktail hour reception to preview the reunion of the cast of Lonseome Dove. Not sure how I got on the invitation list but I did, and Subie and I will go.

Before we know it, Thanksgiving and Christmas will be upon us. I’m thinking this year I might spend Thanksgiving at my brother’s ranch, and then Christmas will be an Alter holiday with all of us together.

Yep, I may not travel much, but there’s a lot ahead to look forward to. And I think that helps keep a person young—something that’s been on my mind lately. After my “Meltdown” post last night I have to report that I am back “at myself” though I wore my back out with trips to two groceries and the hardware store. And that lamb chop that wasn’t last night? I had such a good one tonight, cooked just right on my Jenn-Air grill that I chewed on the bone.

Life is good. Blessings on all of you. What are you looking forward to?

That breath of Fall

My family in Tomball sent me this lovely wreath for my front door as a belated birthday present (well, I know daughter-in-law Lisa was the picker and sender). I love the gorgeous colors and will follow my neighbor’s advice to coat it with hair spray to preserve it. It’s perfect for fall, and it was fitting that I hung it on this day when we had a lovely, if brief, touch of fall. High of 75, with not as much rain as we’d like, but some. It sort of depended on where you were standing—if you were in just the right spot, you got rain, at least a few drops.

Facebook is now flooded with nostalgic messages and pictures about Fall, People are longing for turning leaves, crisp mornings, October’s bright blue skies (remember that poem from grade school?) But wait! Are these the same people who couldn’t wait for summer—vacation and beaches and sunny, lazy days?

I too am guilty of wishing my life away. I, who admittedly worry about time’s winged chariot because I’ve had such a rich and full life and am still enjoying it so much that I look ahead with a bit of fear. I don’t want to be an invalid, I don’t want to lose my ability to write and work, and I don’t want to leave my children and grandchildren. I am not endowed with the surety of faith nor the tranquility of Jimmy Carter who today announced the metastasis of his cancer, which is apparently a melanoma. I wish him all kinds of good, I pray for him, and I admire his wonderful spirit. But I also envy his calm acceptance of whatever life brings him next. (I was somewhat comforted that he said Rosalynn was not quite as accepting as he is.)

I’m always in a hurry, wanting to get this done or that. And I’m always looking forward to some event—wishing it was Saturday so I could have dinner with my family or Labor Day so I could host a neighborhood potluck or some other event. Shoot! Soon I’ll be wishing for Christmas. And then I chide myself for not living in the moment, not stopping to smell the roses. I’m great at anticipation, not so good at savoring the present. But I’m working on it.

 

 

Hello, old friend

Anxiety has been my lifelong friend. Sometimes things that would ordinarily be a nuisance to some people get blown out of proportion in my mind, because of anxiety...and anticipation. I lost my newly renewed driver's license--or never got it in the mail--so had to trek across town to get a replacement. For some reason, the drivers' license place has always made me nervous. I think I was always afraid I'd be so nervous I'd fail the vision test. Besides, the place is almost but not quite outside my driving limits.
This morning I felt quite confident driving out there, but once there got the shaky legs, had to ask a nice young girl passing by to "get me started"--after the first step I'm okay. Had to fill out a form and my handwriting was so shaky as to be beyond deciphering--besides, I filled it out on a clipboard on knees that were shaking. I rarely used the title "Dr." but figured I needed a little help today (at first couldn't find my old license) so I did. The clerk said, "You have doctor's handwriting." He was chatty and pleasant, and I tried to be equally pleasant back because I think he must have an awful job. It all went well--except when Jacob saw the picture he asked why I didn't smile. When the clerk showed me my picture I said, "I look my age," and he said, "Yeah. Twenty-one." Once I had the temporary license in hand, I sailed out of there with a confident step and went about my business--which included a massive grocery shopping.
The thing about anxiety is that it always passes. You know you'll get through it, usually without unduly embarrassing yourself, because you always have before. But it's hard to tell yourself that ahead of time--anxiety feeds on anticipation. Maybe someday I'll write a book about what a wonderful life I've led in spite of anxiety. Meantime, I'm just glad to have the new driver's license. Besides, how can you be anxious when you drive classy car like mine?
 

Supper and suspended animation

The movers came today and packed up Elizabeth's apartment. She is out there with one bed, two straight chairs, a refrigerator and a microwave. I urged her to come in to read, work on her computer, anything but to be in such a bare, depressing space. She hasn't yet, though she spent some of the afternoon inside, and together we helped Jacob think of rhyming words for his spelling list. He is so enamored of her that he looked to her for every word, and when I ventured something he'd ask her to confirm it. I finally demanded, "Why are you looking at her? I'm the one with a Ph.D." and we all collapsed in giggles. Come now, what can you think of that rhymes with whiskers?
I'm not sure the impact of her leaving has hit him and he will be bereft. The first thing every day when he comes home from school, he rushes out to see Elizabeth. Sophie knows. She sits by Elizabeth's side and stares at her. Funny how dogs can sense these things. Sophie had a high old morning watching the movers at work and one of her favorite people, Greg the lawn guy/neighborfriend, came to say goodbye to Elizabeth.
Tonight we had dinner together and both realized it was our "last meal"--tomorrow night I have class and she has a happy hour with our neighbors, to which of course I'm invited. I said it would probably be going when I get home at 8:30 and she agreed. But tonight we had our favorite meal--salmon cakes. Elizabeth makes them with egg, almond flour (gluten free), salt and pepper--and that's it. I usually add onion, Worcestershire, and dry mustard--but these are so good I think the seasonings are superfluous. My mom taught me to make croquettes with cracker crumbs and then press crumbs into them for a coating. She also taught me to shape them like logs. I think I'll continue to use cracker crumbs but not coat the cakes--the crumbs don't stay on and they tend to burn. And I'll make patties, not logs. Much easier. A cooking lesson from Elizabeth.
We rounded out our meal with asparagus, a bit of leftover cantaloupe, and raspberries, which I ordinarily hide in the back of the fridge and don't share with anyone. Elizabeth knew it was a special occasion. The plates were so pretty we couldn't resist a picture.
I told Elizabeth she'd have to leave something behind to insure that she'd return. So far, she's left a hula hoop (forgot to ask the movers to take it) and a rickety laundry rack which she didn't think would survive the trip. I told her that wasn't exactly what I had in mind, but she's also leaving a cute little metal pink chair. If I put a plant on it. I'll keep it in front of the apartment, with a plant on it.
We live in suspended animation. I finally told her last night that I would be glad when she's gone (she'll spend Friday night with her family and fly out Saturday) simply because the anticipation will be over and her leaving will be a fait accompli. She is anxious for Saturday and her new life because, as she says, "Let's get this show on the road." It's all a funny learning experience.
Tomorrow she and neighbor Jay (the good-looking one) will move my furniture from storage back into the apartment, so it will be less bare. Dilemma: do I want to keep those double bunk beds? They proved to be most unwieldy and they take up a lot of space. As Elizabeth kept repeating, I could do all kinds of things out there if I didn't have the bunk beds. Guess I'll poll my children and see what they think.
Life moves on, and changes are good though they may seem hard at the time. As my mom always said, all things work to some good end. But, then, Mom had a lot of sayings, like "The mills of the gods grind extremely slowly but they grind extremely fine." Go figure!

Anticipating a birth

If you read this blog much at all, you know I have four children. And many of you know that I've never given birth. All of my babies (now ranging in age from 44 to 38) are adopted. Every once in a while I had a pang of regret that I didn't have that period of anticipation, of waiting for a birth. Most of them arrived unexpectedly on the scene, only to be greeted with great joy.
But now I feel another kind of birth coming on--I'm getting ready to birth another Kelly O'Connell Mystery. I know it's ahead of me. I've signed a contract. I have a sort-of synopsis, and fleeting thoughts about it go through my mind, little ideas that I mostly try to jot down. One important thing is that I know the first two lines: Keisha says to Kelly, "Someone's trying to kill Miss Lorna," and Kelly says, "Did you just say the coffee is ready?" Not sure what comes next--it will happen when it happens. Sometimes I'm anxious to get on with it, and other times I put it aside in my thinking. Is that like pregnancy? You will have to tell me. My deadline (or due date) is still quite a way off, so I know I'm early. I have time to procrastinate.
And I have a novel by someone else to edit, at least one guest blog to write. Plus it's amazing how much time yoga, lunch with friends, etc., can take out of my day. School is out in two days, and Jacob will not be spending his afternoons with me, which will I think make a whole different work schedule. On the other hand now that I'm not so rushed on school days, I've made several luncheon appointments so I may be shooting myself in the foot.
I know to the mothers amongst you comparing the birth of a baby to that of a novel is ludicrous, and I'm sure the discomfort of pregnancy and difficulty of birth can't compare, but I will say birthing a novel is not easy. The process leading up to it can be filled with doubt, anguish, despair--it's seldom pure joy, though there my be moments of that. And you'd think once you've given birth to it--sent it off to the publisher--it's all easy. But not so--there are revisions and marketing and waiting for reviews.
I  think ultimately I'll produce a novel I'm proud of, but nothing like the pride I feel in those four grown children! They are wonderful human beings; my novels are always going to be genre fiction.