Good friends, good food, a chance meeting

 

Mary and Jordan
with Mary's decadent coconut pie. 
Photo by Prudence Zavala.

Tonight the four of us who gather on Tuesday night on my patio (or inside if it’s cold and now that we’re unmasked) went to Pacific Table to celebrate Mary’s birthday—and made gluttons of ourselves. Mary loves oysters on the half shell, so she had a dozen while the rest of us shared the appetizer I call a fish spread. Jordan says that is a most unappealing name for it, but whatever you want to call it, it’s very good. Pru ate her first oyster (okay, she tried it at twenty and didn’t like the texture). Tonight she liked it. I had one, and the cocktail sauce about blew me away. I like horseradish, but all things in moderation.

We enjoyed our dinners. I came home with a crab cake for lunch tomorrow, one that was mostly crab and little filler. Crab cakes are such an iffy thing—every restaurant has their own version and it’s always a bit of a chance. But I knew at Pacific Table they would be good.

We lingered over too much wine and finally made our exit. Having sat in a special, private booth (Pru makes good reservations), we walked the length of the restaurant and came across a table of thirty-year friends, not close friends but special people. Jordan and David both laugh (without a lot of humor) when I describe it this way but way back in high school, David was her first boyfriend, and even after they “broke up,” he was around a lot. I began to claim him as my fifth son.

So tonight it was his parents that we ran into. Got lots of warm greetings and hugs. They have always been so good to us. I remember a Mother’s Day when Jordan and I were alone, and the Barnes invited us for dinner, complete with small gifts of sweet potato plants. First I knew of those ubiquitous lovely green things. I was grateful for the warm family feelings.

When David married (he waited for a good long while) I was included in the rehearsal dinner because, as his parents said, “you helped raise him.” I don’t know about that, but we still consider him family. Now that he’s happily married to a lovely girl, we don’t see him as much, but I understand they will join us when we celebrate Jordan’s birthday in a week or so.

My point in all this is that this is the kind of town Fort Worth is—you have friends you’ve known for years, and you run into them at the oddest moment when you’re not expecting it. That brief encounter warmed my heart almost as much as the birthday dinner did.

So now I’m home, overfed with a tad extra wine and not inclined to work. I did write a small bit today but made a momentous change. New title for the current Irene adventure: instead of Irene Keeps a Secret, it is now Finding Florence, which I hope is a nice parallel to the first book in the series, Saving Grace.

I went out tonight all bundled in a lovely, voluminous gray sweater that Megan gave me, only to find it isn’t nearly as cold as it was yesterday. But apparently it is to get cold later tonight, and by Thursday we may have freezing rain and sleet. I am beginning to think of this as the never-ending winter. I huddled inside all day, unable to get really warm. Looking forward to my cozy bed tonight.

Sweet dreams everyone. And say a prayer for the people of Ukraine and the ordinary citizens of Russia—and all of us. We live in a global world. Remember the shot that was heard round the world? The first was at Concord when British troops and American revolutionaries met. Someone fired a shot, and the battle was on. Americans may have won the war eventually, but they lost that battle. Perhaps the more famous shot heard round the world was in 1914 when Austria’s Archduke Franz Ferdinand was shot at Sarajevo. That shot triggered the start of World War I. That’s how I feel about Ukraine—that first shot was heard round the world and continues to reverberate. I pray it is not the beginning of World War III. Please join me in prayer, whatever your faith.

 

The inevitability of birthdays

 

Birthday happy hour at the cottage
left to right, me, Pru, Victor, and Jordan
Photo by Mary Dulle
I thought I was off-camera, hence no big smile.

You know that old quip about growing older being better than the alternative? That’s kind of how I feel tonight. Friends and family seem determined to mark that I am about to begin yet another journey around the sun, and I am having a long, drawn-out birthday. A pre-celebration weekend at the lake was followed by a neighbors’ happy hour tonight where I was feted (love that word!) with a bountiful charcuterie, plenty of wine, crème brulee, and lots of good discussion. “The girls” as we call them turned our regular happy hour into a truly festive occasion—and Pru’s husband, Victor, joined us so we weren’t all gossipy girls.

This happy hour has a history. Several years ago—I’d say six, seven or eight—Mary Dulle and I used to go on Tuesday night to join several neighbors at the Old Neighborhood Grill. Mary’s husband played—and still does—tennis on Tuesdays. When Jacob was quite young, he joined us, and I have funny stories from those times: like the time I asked if he wanted fries with his grilled cheese and he said yes. But later when I asked if he was going to eat them, he said, “No, they’re bad for you.” Pause. “May I have a cupcake?” He was quite the hit of the table.

There was a regular group—the Alan Barrs, the Paul Harrals, Lyn Willis, and sometimes others drifted by. Of course, at the Grill, you always saw other neighbors you knew, and I was pleased that Tuesday was always meatloaf night. The staff knew and welcomed us, and we all visited. One big neighborhood family.

Somehow it fell apart—I’m not sure of the chronology. With severe hip pain, pre-surgery, it was increasingly difficult for me to get out; Peter sold the Grill; Jacob grew up. Mary and I fell into the habit of having happy hour at my cottage, either inside or, depending on the weather, on the patio. Two or three years ago (who keeps track of these things?), Prudence and her family moved down the block from Mary. There was some unpleasant controversy over a fence, zoning regulations, and flaring tempers. I reached out to Prudence to squelch the unpleasantness and welcome her and her family—four children—to the neighborhood. She came to happy hour one night, and boom! She was a regular. And Jordan began to join us.

Now we are a close-knit group, sharing joys, successes, worries, and more. During pandemic, the others shopped for each other—whoever found Lysol shared it with the group. We celebrate birthdays and other special occasions, but most Tuesday nights we just gather for an hour of talk about whatever. I like it best when we can sit on the patio, and truth be told, it’s cool enough these days, but some of the others are more sensitive—or attractive—to mosquitoes than I am. So tonight, we were indoors.

I am blessed and grateful to have these women as friends who care enough to celebrate with me.

And a good day in other ways: Jacob played in a high school golf tournament today and scored a 77. Pretty darn good for a fifteen-year-old, if you ask me who knows nothing about golf. But even he, who is reluctant to ever say he had a good day on the course, acknowledged it was pretty good and looked pleased when we congratulated him.

And I worked hard this morning and early afternoon, getting my neighborhood newsletter almost done—now waiting on articles and reports from others—and got my Lone Star Literary Life column for August drafted. A lot of detail, intensified by several people who called with last-minute changes or corrections to their contributions. Answering emails kept me busy much of the day. Tomorrow will be a catch-up day as I finish details on the newsletter and edit the column. Plus a bit of cooking.

Life is good, and I am grateful to be growing yet another year older, because, yes, it is much better than the alternative. For the record, the birthday is Thursday, and I will be 83. I am so comforted by Wally Funk who rode Jeff Bezos’ rocket into space today—she’s 82. Of course, she had a lifelong ambition to travel to space, something that is the farthest thing from my mind. Different strokes for different folks.

Milestone birthdays

A warning to parents of young children: those darling tykes who sit on your lap and cuddle grow up to be adults, and they have birthdays—even decade birthdays. It will come as a shock to you.

My Austin daughter, Megan, turned fifty today. What, fifty? Subie and Phil Green came for happy hour, and when I announced Megan’s birthday, Phil said, “You have to be kidding.” Nope, it’s the sad truth. Subie and I toasted to the birthday. Subie thinks I should point out that this picture was taken by Phil, who has almost no eyesight. I think he did a great job.

Megan is handling this better than I am. She is not the first of my children to reach this milestone birthday. Colin turned fifty In April 2019, and we had a huge, three- or four-day blowout in Tomball, complete with barbecue and most of the New York relatives. My large, noisy, and very close family has created a tradition of making huge celebrations out of decade-changing birthdays, and we were distressed that this time Covid-19 kept us all from rushing to Austin to celebrate.

Megan and Brandon celebrated her birthday at dinner last night with four people they are close to and had celebratory dinner plans tonight and tomorrow. Colin called and worried about what we should do and finally sent Tiff’s Treats. Jordan and I spent too long checking out florists in Austin, finding nothing that we thought original enough. Jordan’s inspiration was to call Austin’s Central Market on North Lamar—she got a wonderful salesperson who talked to her on Facetime, walking through the store showing various choices. We settled on a tall and splendid orchid, in a nice chic container that would fit into Megan’s brand new and quite modern house. And then we sent grandson Sawyer, a newly licensed driver, to pick it up. Win, win!

The ringer was Jamie. Last night Jordan got it into her head to track him and find out where he was. On the way to Austin! She immediately thought he had gone to wish his sister happy birthday without telling any of us, and she was indignant that he didn’t take her with him. I felt a bit of that, but I also sort of liked his spontaneity. Well, we were all wrong. He went to pick up a new car (a long story we’ll have to hear another time) and didn’t even see Megan. Now I’m worrying that maybe he forgot her birthday. As you may note, mothers never stop worrying, even when their kids hit fifty.

We hope to have a huge celebration on Thanksgiving, when we are all supposed to be in Austin. But that’s two months away—we’ll see what the virus and quarantine make possible by then.

Meantime, a cooking fail. Anyone ever make that chocolate pudding cake where  you put a batter on the bottom and pour boiling water over it? Somehow in the oven, it magically reverses, and the cake rises to the top and sits on a rich chocolate sauce. I made it this afternoon, in a rush, which is always bad. I don’t think I had the right pan, but worse than that, I think even with Jordan’s help (wearing my readers) we got the proportions wrong. The recipe, torn from some food magazine, was in white ink on a dark background, very small type. It’s been in the oven twice as long as it should be and still is not near done. Maybe I should let it bake overnight? Lesson learned: there are some things  you can cook in a toaster oven. Plus don’t trust recipes with small type. What was I thinking?

Supper tonight is spatchcocked chicken slathered in herbal butter. That too was a problem, but I knew enough to turn it over to Christian who has a big pan and a big oven. He sent a picture of the chicken ready to go in the oven, and we just took an “after” picture. So good. The herbal butter made it wonderful Sorry I can't align the pictures.

Before

.

After

Earth Day and someone special at 50 or thereabouts

Colin with his birthday present from his mom--a Leatherman

I'm afraid he gave his son that haircut, and I may have to chastise him soundly

Hard to believe that only fifty years ago paying attention to the environment was such a new and innovative idea. Sad to say we haven’t made a lot of progress in those fifty years at being stewards of the earth, especially not with recent rollbacks of regulations meant to protect our world. I do find it remarkably interesting that social distancing, which has kept people at home across the globe, has resulted in dramatic cleansing of our air and water. We have fewer cars on the road, planes in the air, factories spewing out garbage—and the world is responding. I love that nature has come back in the form of wildlife to our national parks and even to some urban areas, as well as cleaner air and purer water. Clear proof that man is the polluter.

But I always celebrate Earth Day for a different reason. If that holiday is fifty years old, my oldest son is fifty-one today—he was just a year ahead of time. Of course I didn’t meet Colin David Alter until eight days later when the adoption agency called to ask if we minded that he might have red hair. Mind? We were ecstatic. Of course, his hair was never red, but he was perfect in every other way and has brought me so much joy over the years. He is also the one I rely on to keep my world in order—from my finances to my family relationships. He is truly the oldest child who will be the patriarch of the family and acts in that capacity already, keeping us all in line and in love with each other.

Colin has the unique ability to calm me and set me straight when I’m headed in the wrong direction. He is ever peaceful and patient. I remember once getting so frustrated at a driver who cut him off, and he said, “Look at you. Why are you getting so upset.” Other times, he has said to me, “Mom, I don’t know how I drive a car when you’re not there to help me.” I love that boy so much.

April 22 is another bittersweet memory. It is the birthday of my younger sister, born in 1942 and dead at the age of six months. I was always told she died of a heart defect, but I sometimes wonder if it was not SIDS that was just not recognized. I remember little about Isabel Jean MacBain, but I vividly remember the day she was brought home from the hospital. My brother John and I quarreled over who would get to pull the blanket off her face—I got the face, and John got the feet end of the bassinet. I also remember sitting on the couch, very still, so I could hold her (I was four at the time). But I remember nothing of her death, nor does my brother. I do remember my mom took to her bed one day a year with a migraine and it had to do with Jeannie, but I don’t know if it was the anniversary of her birth or her death.

Watching my two daughters now, I sometimes long for the sister I almost had. When they were in high school, my girls were geat enemies, but they are the closest of friends ow, and I am so grateful for that relationship for them. But a bit of me wishes I too had it. Would Jeannie and I have been good friends? I am quite confident we woud.

Happy Hour from Jay's perspective

We thought Earth Day was going to show us the power of Mother Nature today, with strong storms and possible tornadoes predicted. Nothing happened. We had a bright, sunny day, with pleasant temperatures. We sat outside in the evening and had a socially distanced happy hour with neighbor Jay, whom we have come to call “the man behind the screen.” The breeze was gentle and wonderful.

Also had a near-catastrophe tonight. The screws holding the seat on my walker to the frame came apart. I thought It moved a little a couple of times today but wasn’t alarmed—until it nearly dumped me on the floor. I’m not sure if it was plain instinct or I saw her coming out of the corner of my eye, but I yelled, “Jordan!” She, bless her, came running and did her best to fix it, but she has neither the tools nor the skill. I have asked neighbor Jay if he can look at it tomorrow. Meantime I am being very careful and only sitting in it when absolutely necessary. Jordan has long been after me to walk more and scoot less, but there are simply a lot of things I cannot do without rolling around on the seat—like all

Jordan repairing my walker

the cooking I do.

Sweet dreams, everyone. W need them, we need all the joy we can find in life.

Santiago is thirteen

Not sure if Subie was offering the birthday boy watermelon or not

but quite sure he didn't like his hat

We never did sing happy birthday, but it was a doggie kind of a party, complete with chili dogs. Santiago is a golden lab, a retired seeing-eye dog, a big old lovable goof, and a notorious counter thief. He sure was eyeing those hot dogs.

Subie and Phil Green invited enough friends to celebrate that one said, “I didn’t know Santiago has this many friends.” We visited, drank wine or beer, ate hot dogs and brownies, and generally had a good time.

The high point of the party came when Subie opened the presents brought to Santiago—squeaky toys and doggie treats of all kinds. Because of his record of banana thievery, he received several bananas and what looked like a sweet potato. Who knows? Maybe he likes those too. Unfortunately, Porter, his replacement as Phil’s guide dog, beat him to the first banana bite. Both dogs got so excited and so anxious for Subie to open each package that they reminded me of pre-schoolers who’d had too much sugar. Hope they settled down and sleep well.

With Jacob at the party

My day started early, with breakfast with the Book Ladies. That ever-changing group of women has met once a month for breakfast since, we figure, the early eighties. At various times, we’ve had women who represented all phases of life with books—bookstore owners and employee, authors, librarians, teachers. Today we have many who simply like to read and come for the conversation, which is always good though not always about books. I often end up in the middle of the table, unable to really hear the conversation at either end. We have anywhere from four to fourteen women. Today there were twelve.

This morning one of them brought me the invitation to a signing party for a book of mine, now probably at least twenty-five years old. A nice memento to have of A Ballad for Sallie, the only book I’ve done about Fort Worth history. The party was at Evergreen Books, a used-book store owned by my dear friend, the late Bobbie Simms.

Highlight was the tale told by my friend Joann, a retired TCU librarian, about the day a strange man, running from the police, broke into her house. He proved to be nonviolent, almost inept as a criminal—something like 27 arrests in the last 15 years. Joann, however, is non-stoppable and she yelled at him, followed him out into the yard as he tried to steal her car (didn’t even pull that off successfully). She was quite calm about it at the time, but she says know she has moments of unease, even sadness.

I may have told you something of Joann’s story when it happened, about two-and-a-half weeks ago. But you may rest assured it will show up in a novel in the future. The wheels of my brain are already turning.

Another hot day, and one of the wall-mounted a/c units in the cottage apparently has a stopped-up drain. Jordan sat under it last night and got wet, so we put a pan down and listened to it drip even after we turned it off. Repairman coming tomorrow. The unit in the bedroom still works, so I sleep happy and otherwise the heat doesn’t bother me. But it does some who come to visit.

Stay cool, everyone. I hope this weather doesn’t mean a hot summer, but crazy as the climate world has been, who knows. Pray for those in Hawaii. And I guess for all of us.

St. Patrick’s Day and the urge to cook

The approach of St. Patrick’s Day fills me with an urge to cook Irish dishes—perhaps that Guiness stew I saw on the TODAY show this morning or maybe colcannon, which has always interested me. I saw a recipe today for colcannon made with kale, with the comment that you can substitute cabbage. Heresy! Colcannon is a dish of mashed tatties and cabbage; kale is the interloper, and I for one hope it’s days are numbered. Unless it’s very young and tiny leaves, I am not a kale fan—and I’m not sure even then.

Colcannon makes me think of kalpudding—best described as meatloaf with carmelized cabbage. It’s a Scandinavian dish, not Irish, but the recipe stares at me every time I look at my file of recipes I want to try. I doubt anyone here would try it. Sometimes I yearn for the days when my kids were all at home every night and were pretty much a captive audience for my cooking experiments. I need a new audience.

Mystery author Keenen Powell wrote a blog about the Irish breakfast she fixes for her family every year—it began with blood sausage. I’d forego that. I dutifully tried blood pudding when I was in Scotland, and while it was not objectionable, it wasn’t that good either. I asked our B&B host what the point was, and he opined it probably had to do with using every part of the animal. No, thanks.

But the rest of the breakfast sounded wonderful, if heavy enough to be a hearty supper: rasher (thick slice of bacon or ham, fried), fried new potatoes (skin on because that’s where the flavor is), scrambled eggs, sautéed tomatoes, and what we in Texas call northern or sweet beans. I could maybe get some in our family compound to eat the rasher, eggs, and potatoes, but they’d protest at the tomatoes and claim beans were not breakfast food. I may put a little lox in scrambled eggs and call it Irish breakfast.

I’ve invited some old and valued friends to join me tomorrow night. I wanted to fix them an Irish supper, but this is the wife’s first venture out as she recuperates from extensive surgery, so the man said he thought just wine with snacks. I’ll do a platter with smoked salmon, cream cheese, vegetables, and some baguette slices. Foiled again in my longing to cook Irish, but the salmon is a tip of the hat to Irish food.

St. Patrick’s Day is the birthday of my baby-child, the youngest of my four—note I didn’t say which birthday. It’s not a decade-changer but she has moved into that range where women get a little touchy about their age. I’ll cook a birthday dinner for her Sunday. She asked what I wanted to cook, but was scornful when I suggested corned beef and cabbage. “You know I don’t like either of those things!” I told her the real question was what she wanted and gave her several choices, and she chose Norwegian hamburgers, a recipe from my oldest child’s Norwegian mother-in-law. These are delicious, and we all love them and thank Torhild for introducing us to them, but it’s an odd choice for a half-Hispanic child born on St. Patrick’s Day.

Green beer, anyone?

Sometimes life throw you a curve

July 26, 2015

My guardian angel

Sometimes life throws you a curve, and it did me this morning. I woke up with my left foot twice the size of my right. I’d been having trouble with the foot for five nights—weird, acute but brief pain during the night. Yesterday via phone my brother confirmed my diagnosis of neuropathy. This morning, when I reported the swelling, he said “There goes the neuropathy diagnosis. Go to ER to be sure you don’t have a clot.” I called Jordan, and she was here in record time. We spent the next three hours in the ER, where by x-ray and ultrasound they ruled out a clot—the good news. Best diagnosis: an arthritic flare-up with possible gout. I’m off my feet for at least three or four days, except for what little moving about I must do.

Not my best picture--no makeup
sloppy clothes hastily grabbed
and an attitude

Here’s a paean to Jordan. She has been my absolute guardian angel all day (not that she doesn’t take good care of me every day). In the ER, she handed me everything from banana to green tea to my phone and the newspaper. She asked the questions I forgot to ask, and she kept her uncle and big brother up to date. The other two siblings were traveling, and she decided not to worry them.

Once we got home she went to the drugstore for a prescription and a compression sock, fixed lunch—Christian and Jacob had joined the party by then—and she and Christian made the salad I was supposed to make for supper tonight.

Because here’s the kicker—we had fifteen people to celebrate my birthday and that of Susan Halbower, my neighbor and close friend. A salad buffet—everyone brought a salad, and Jordan made a wonderful antipasto. Good meal for a summer evening. Jordan cleaned the kitchen and started my new dishwasher on its maiden run. My house is in almost perfect shape, my plants watered (thank to Jacob), my dog fed and happy.

It was a lovely evening, and I sat on the couch, with my ugly foot on a cushion on the coffee table, the entire time while people brought me food and drink. I know in 24 hours I’ll be itching to be on the go, but tonight I felt like a queen and was quite content. And now am very tired.

 

 

Birthday milestones--fortunately not mine

This is my Jordan, age about three, curls tamed

but the shyest child you've ever meet

If you know her today, you'd never believe she was shy

 

I remember when my brother turned forty. My mother was chagrined to have a child that old. John and his considerably younger then-wife, came from Colorado to visit us in Texas for the occasion. In what I thought was a great burst of fun, I wrote 40 on every mirror in the house until he finally exclaimed, "*&^%! It's everywhere!" In retrospect, I don't think he found it nearly as funny as I did.
I don't remember my fortieth--it was just pre-divorce and probably not a jolly affair. But we have always made a big deal of changing decades in our family. My seventieth, for instance, was a marvelous affair, memories to last a lifetime.
The youngest of my four turns forty--actually Tuesday but the family celebration--with a hundred of her nearest and dearest--is today. Jordan has milked thirty-nine for everything it's worth and will welcome forty with a  huge bang. Unbelievable. Yesterday, she was a tousled curly-headed toddler; today she is a beautiful poised young woman, wife and mother, and oh-so-outgoing. A friend of mine once said, "Jordan gives you the feeling she's been waiting all day just to see you." 
We had a slam-bang birthday party at Joe T.'s tonight. She has gathered about her a loving crowd of beautiful young people, and a bonus for me--most of them treat me like a second mom. There were her friends, her husband's friends, my neighbors who are  family, friends of mine, parents of her friends, the people she works with--an eclectic mix of people. And it was lots of fun.
The Alter bad luck spring break followed true to form though--my oldest, Colin, and his family drove straight home from Colorado, not even stopping to pick up the clothes they'd left here. Colin and his daughter had a week of the flu, and they didn't need a party--they just needed to get home. And then the Austin contingent went to board a plan to DFW only to find it had been oversold. They found seats for Megan and the boys--but Brandon came on a later flight. And by the time I got to the party my voice was gone. My brother and his family were all sick and absent. I may never welcome spring break again.
Tuesday, St. Patrick's Day, is Jordan's real birthday, and I'm looking forward to a special lunch with her. Meantime I'm adjusting to the fact that all four of my kids are now in their forties--that's middle age, isn't it? I still think I'm middle-aged. Something is amuck here.

A woof, woof birthday

One thing I have to say about the Alters is we know how to celebrate. Tonight it was a birthday party for the dogs--Jacob's two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels and Sophie (whose third b'day was in May). This picture is Jacob, his dad, and their two dogs. Jordan did the majority of the work of putting this party together, and about fifteen people gathered--old folks on the deck, young 'uns on the lawn. I did two appetizers, but Jordan did the bulk of the work, all of the organizing. We had bean dip, corn dip, Reuben dip, veggies and hummus, classic onion soup dip, and brownies. What was billed as a five o'clock happy hour lasted until ten--not unusual around my house.
The dogs were funny. Sophie is always enthusiastic, ready to play with any creature that happens into her territory--plus all those adults who adore her. She was in heaven. June Bug and Cricket were not so sure--they are quiet, a little uncertain about this slightly bigger dog who rushes at them, and a bit timid in the crowd. June Bug found a nest on a towel next to the ice bucket, and Cricket eventually parked herself next to her leash in the living room, as though a signal she was ready to go. Sophie meanwhile went from person to person, and was extremely jealous when Jordan or Christian picked up one of their girls. The world, according to Sophie, should revolve around her.
I thought tonight, as I often do, how fortunate I am to be surrounded by people of all ages who seem to love me and like my company. But I also decided I maybe can't do big parties ever again without Jordan--and this wasn't that big. Whatever, it was fun, and both Sophie and I are tuckered. She hasn't even eaten her dinner and shows no interest.