The devil amongst us

 

Several years ago, I wrote a young-adult mystery set at Arlington Downs Rracetrack during the Depression. Callie Shaw, a young girl, disguised herself as a boy to get a job as a stableboy, but the aunt with whom she lived cautioned, “The devil will be amongst us if racing comes to North Texas.” I loved the history behind the story and thought the aunt’s words made a perfect title. The publisher balked at “devil” and the book was published as Callie Shaw, Stableboy. Unimaginative.

While I don’t believe in the devil, I have to say some kind of demon occasionally gets into Sophie. It happened this morning. Our routine is that she wakes me when starvation is about to overcome her. If it’s 5:30 I gently tell her to go back to bed; if it’s 6:30, I let her out, feed her, and go back to bed—I’ve got it down so I can do all that in six minutes. We both go to sleep.

This morning, she didn’t want to sleep. Once fed, she barked and danced to go outside. Thinking it was a bathroom emergency I let her out and watched a blue/black streak across the yard to the hidden area between our house and the neighbors. Sophie was in full squirrel-hunting frenzy, racing around the yard, barking frantically. Not wanting to leave her unsupervised, I busied myself with morning chores—putting away last night’s dishes, checking emails, and so on. I sat at my desk with a piece of cheese handy and an eye out for when she came close. It took half an hour, but I got her in. Went back to bed.

Sophie has this usually cute thing she does when her metal water bowl is empty. She knocks it off the shelf onto the floor, it clatters, and I know to refill. It wasn’t cute this morning—the bowl still had water in it. She created a small lake in my tiny kitchen and proceeded to walk in it, so that she made muddy footprints everywhere. I mopped it up with a towel, refilled the water, and went back to bed.

Sophie was not content. I could hear her wandering around the bedroom. Then she decided it was time to go out, and she pawed at the bed. When that didn’t work, she began to throw herself at the bed, barking wildly. This went on for slightly over ten minutes. I want to tell you it takes self-discipline—or a lack of brains—to lie still during all this. I finally sat up and, in my sternest low voice, explained to her that she was being very naughty. She knew exactly what was going on—looked away but stole a glance at me every once in a while, wagged her tail hopefully. I had to repeat the performance once, and then, blessedly, peace came to the cottage. By then, it really was time for me to get up. I kept her in for a long while to be sure the exorcism had worked.

I remind myself that I often say I could not live without a dog. And now, excuse me. I need a nap.

Calm Sophie

Breaking routine and an interesting day

 

Last night the whole outdoors turned an interesting shade of pink.
Jordan tried to capture it in this photo, and you can see the pink.
But what's clearer is the wonderful fall colors of 
my oak leaf hydrangea. 

Routine and varying it has been on my mind lately, as you know if you read the blog often. I sometimes feel married to my routine, but I don’t think it’s a good thing. I’d sort of like to be more of a free spirit. It wasn’t exactly earth-shaking, but I did rearrange my day’s schedule today.

Usually, mornings are my work time. If I’m going to do any serious writing or research, it better be before my two o’clock nap in the afternoon. Today I reversed that completely. You know those little household chores you put off? I did a bunch of them before I even turned on my computer this morning. Hung up the clothes that were piled on a chair in the bedroom—I tend to ignore that pile because guests can’t see it from the living area. I opened the box of dog chews sitting on the coffee table and dispensed with some recyclable trash, retrieved a new box of tea bags and a bunch of napkins from McGee’s closet where Jordan stashes them (are you old enough to get that one?) and refilled both holders, put away clean dishes, and even washed a few that had, shhh! sat overnight. Finally, with a hot cup of tea, I sat down at my desk. Even then I did piddly things—figuring out recipes to write about for tomorrow’s Gourmet blog, reviewing notes for a Zoom call tomorrow, and so on.

But it was this evening, that the day got interesting. At five-thirty, I watched a Zoom program from the Tenement Museum, an interview with Mayukh Sen, a very young (and as the blurb tells you perhaps unnecessarily, brown and queer) culinary author and James Beard award-winner. He was interviewed about his new book, Tastemakers: Seven Immigrant Women Who Revolutionized American Food. Although Sen originally intended to write about the food these women prepared, the book ended up being about race, culture, identity, gender—and, of course, food. Included are Italian Marcella Hazan, the deity of Italian cuisine who today writes for the New York Times, Mexican-born Elena Zelayeta, a blind chef; and Norma Shirley, a champion of Jamaican dishes, with four others.

The interview was a bit disconcerting because the text scrolling across the bottom of the screen lagged behind the actual dialog by about a minute, so I was torn, going from listening to reading. But the setting was wonderful—a reconstructed Fifties apartment in the museum building, 97 Orchard Street in New York, complete with plastic covers on the furniture (Oh, do I remember those from the tiny one-bedroom apartment where my ex- grew up) with antimacassars, floral wallpaper, and a big-screen TV console.

The program whetted my appetite for the book, because, always with my Helen Corbitt project in mind, I wanted to read how these immigrant women fit into capitalist society and authored cookbooks, what they brought with them from their homeland, how they adapted recipes for an American audience. Alas, the book is not available on Amazon (heresy! first time ever I’ve searched for a book and not found it on Amazon). It’s sold by Barnes and Noble for their Nook ebook device or $23.95 for hardcover. I have a hard time reading print—I think it’s the lighting in my office—so I’m reluctant to buy the hardcover. I could download the Nook program free but not sure about using it on my computer rather than a Nook reader. I’m a bit frustrated.

Hot on the heels of that Zoom program came our neighborhood association meeting with, probably for the first time in the group’s history, a contested campaign for president. This was preceded by a spate of emails, lots of rumors, a couple of phone calls, so I expected fireworks. Thanks to our president’s firm control of the meeting, it was calm and orderly. In a first, we will vote by SurveyMonkey; to vote you have to be a dues-paying member in good standing and present at the Zoom meeting.

So now, at eight o’clock, I’m Zoomed out, but happy with the diversity of the day. Eating honey cake with a bit of wine. Life doesn’t get much better. I swear I’m going to finish that Cuban American culinary mystery tonight--but that's another story for another night.

Thoughts on Juneteenth

Everybody is publishing their thoughts on Juneteenth. Here are mine. 

I may yet master this remote discussion business. I’ve now been to a wedding, a memorial service, and a book discussion through zoom technology, although on various servers. Last night was the church discussion of I’m Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness, by Austin Channing Brown. with probably a hundred people involved.

I did not master the mute/unmute button so was unable to contribute and am not sure I was confident of what I had to say. In response to “When were you first aware of racial differences,” a couple of people cited experiences at six or seven of seeing “No Colored” signs and being first puzzled, then indignant. And one couple, from rural Iowa, said  they’’d never met a black person until college.

My experience growing up on the South Side of Chicago was so different. I always knew there were two communities and as a child was afraid when outings took us through the black neighborhoods. My father never locked the car doors on the strange theory that he had survived WWI and nothing was going to hurt him. But in my neighborhood in the fifties, most of us believed violence and danger came from the black population. I grew up afraid, and it’s been a hard legacy for me to put behind over the years.

For much of her adult life, Brown has worked in non-profit religious organizations in the white world, and when she described the rebuffs she’s received, I realized I can never truly say to her, “I understand,” because I don’t. I have never experienced the condescension and discrimination she has. All socially proper, but damning nonetheless. For instance, she says any time conflict arises in an office, it is tactfully suggested that she “try a little harder,” never that they sort things out in a truly equal manner.

Take-away is a buzz word these days, and I found several take-aways in this intense book. One is the concept of whiteness. I guess I have always thought in terns of white and black, but not whiteness, an attitude that pervades everything aspect of life. In pointing out how deeply rooted whiteness is, Brown makes the point that what many white people want is assimilation, which is wrongly called diversity, and not reconciliation. For most of us, all that we say and do and believe is rooted in whiteness. We tend to accept black community members as long as they look, think, dress, act, and speak like us.

What that overlooks is blackness. African-Americans have their own deeply rooted culture and traditions, an ancestry we fail to appreciate. Brown makes that point almost ironically by inferring that the white community is insular and then saying in a later chapter how comfortable and secure she feels in the black community. She grew up “privileged,” which means she went to predominantly white schools and churches and “discovered” the black community late in her childhood. She describes the joy and freedom she felt the first time she attended a black church with the enthusiastic singing and commenting, the freedom to move about, the abundance of joy. It is indeed a totally different world from, say, mainstream Protestantism, and maybe it speaks for the differences between the two communities. It seems to me that the black community is also insular and what we must find is a way for the two, disparate communities to work together as equals.

I think the separation works two ways, though Brown doesn’t address that. But one respondent last night told of a multiracial group from the church that was going to attend a picnic in the black community—until it turned out the black members did not want them, because they would have to acknowledge the friendship and would then be called “Oreos” (black on the outside, white on the inside) by their neighbors. That story demonstrates that there is a lot of hard work ahead for both communities if we are going to achieve anything beyond token integration and a racially balanced society.

It’s a lot more than, “some of my best friends are ….” or “take a black friend to lunch.” I recommend this book.

Time for chili

There’s a definite fall tinge in the air, a touch of cool in the early morning and even by early evening. I’ve taken to shutting my patio door except in the middle of the day, and I’ve finally mastered turning on the heat so I can take the morning chill off. In the wee hours this morning, we had a storm with good rain and truly impressive thunder. It was okay, because I was protected by one small, black dog who first barked at the thunder to scare it away and then slept right by me to keep me safe.

As we say in Texas, it’s chili weather. Fitting that Christian fixed chili tonight—a recipe he cobbled together from this one and that. I gave him one from the New York Times that is really complicated. Billed as a combination of chili and gumbo—the combination made me curious. Christian said he didn’t have time to do it tonight, and he couldn’t find the one from my book he wanted to do. It’s Dan Hogan’s chili, and I swear it has everything in it but the proverbial kitchen sink. What Christian made, his cobbled together version, was good and hearty with just enough spice. He complained he couldn’t find his red pepper flakes; I told him I was just as glad.

In case you all didn’t know, I did a book on chili a few years back. Texas is Chili Country is a history of the dish—no, it’s not from Mexico, an attribution Mexicans consider an insult. It began in the cow camps of West Texas. And no, it doesn’t have beans (Christian’s had beans tonight, and truthfully, I like them).  A lengthy chapter discusses the two chili cookoffs, which are about to take place next weekend in Terlingua, along with the reason that remote spot was chosen. This year is the fiftieth anniversary of the original chili cookoff, started as a publicity stunt by the legendary Frank Tolbert and his sidekick, Wick Fowler. It was more hijinks than serious, but these days chili is serious business—at least in the original cookoff. Not so much at the CASI cookoff. Chili cookoffs are not for amateurs—you have to win local contests to qualify. Anyway, you can read all about it.

And then you can prowl through pages and pages of chili recipes—seems everyone on the planet has their own recipe. These days you can cook fat free chili, vegetarian chili, chili with turkey and other meats alternate to the beef that started the whole thing. Fascinating what peple come up with. Shhh. Don’t say I said it, but chili is one of those dishes you can cook blindfolded without a recipe.

Pardon the sales pitch, but you can find the book on Amazon or from Texas Tech Press

Aside from the hearty chili and an interesting dinnertime discussion of childbirth with Jacob, it was a long Sunday. I so often have a much better social life during the week than on weekends, and sometimes long Sundays lull me into speaking out on Facebook among other things. I did today and found myself embroiled in several discussions. To my delight, my Megan chimed in a couple of times but once it was to second someone’s suggestion that I clear myself of haters. I think it’s a Facebook thing—people I know are not on my “Friends” list respond. Someone suggested they are bots—something else for me to learn about. At any rate, I continue to speak out because I think it’s important. Misused as the term is these days, I think speaking out about our government is patriotic (45 wouldn’t agree).

Living in a Book’s World

Do you ever finish a book and find you’re not only sad to leave it but you’re reluctant to leave the world created in the book? That has happened to me tonight. I just finished Ruth Reichl’s Delicious, her first and as far as I know only novel.

I meant to work all weekend. I had a lot I was going to get done, mostly editing a novella. If I had applied myself I might be almost through with it tonight. But yesterday, seduced by Saturday’s delicious laziness, I spent most of the day reading the novel. Today I went to church and did some household chores, a bit of cooking, but every other minute, I read Delicious.

Confession: at first I wasn’t drawn into this book. Through most of Book One, which details a young girl coming to New York looking for a writing job and lucking into an interview with an old and revered food magazine. The editor sends her on a deliberate wild goose chase, during which she discovers many wonderful tastes, the unique small food places of New York, some unusual and distinctive characters—and demonstrates that she has a remarkable palate, able to distinguish subtle flavors in almost any food. Okay, so much so good but where is it going in the rest of the novel?

In Book Two, she discovers a cache of correspondence during WWII from a thirteen-year-old girl in Akron, Ohio, to iconic American chef James Beard.  Clearly Beard held up his part of the correspondence, because his suggestions, recipes, and ideas are referred to. The letters are lively, and the readers comes to believe Lulu is a real person, her mother and boyfriend only a little less so, and then there’s the father, missing in action. You can’t help but be embroiled in the story.

It would be a spoiler to reveal too much about Book Three, but it brings together wonderfully intriguing threads—not only food. The Underground Railroad, WWII, romance, architecture, transformation, forgiveness and acceptance. All those things floating through the book are made clear in surprising ways.

So tonight I find myself reluctant to start another book, though the stack on my desk is high. Editing my own work? I’ll dig into that tomorrow, but tonight I’m still floating in Lulu’s world.

Delicious by Ruth Reichl—find it, read it, and then try some of her nonfiction food books. She’s addictive.

Strangely out of sorts

Whine, whine, wine. I've had a wonderful weekend with my family--lots of laughter, silliness, loudness, and a few deep discussions--mostly about how to rearrange my house. The kids ran and played and ate and complained, and it was like any family get-together. The first group left about nine, and the others in a flurry about noon. I fixed brunch, we sat and talked some more, and then they were gone, leaving behind what looked like a messy kitchen but actually took about fifteen minutes to clean and straighten. I caught up on my computer, read the paper, read my book, and napped. Dinner was leftover chicken-fried steak, not as good as last night but still good, and two small slices of roast cabbage. All good.
But now, a long evening stretches before me, and I'm not sure what to do. I don't want to work, but the book I'd been so anxious to get back to in quiet moments isn't quite doing it. Big project for the week is organizing my 2014 tax information but who wants to do that on a Sunday night? (I may sort the stack of papers as a start). No, I'm not a football fan and am not turning on the SuperBowl. Will just be glad when it's over, though I do love this year's Budweiser ad.
Inside and outside, the world seems darker and chillier to me, and my old house seems to creak more. Sophie, who is my barometer, was completely content to sleep in the office all afternoon, so I guess the creaks and cold are my imagination.
Wonder why this mood has come upon me--no doubt, you've had it too. I guess I got wrapped up last week in preparing for the weekend and then all weekend I was either busy or snatching a moment of quiet. And now that I have all the quiet and more, I feel let down.
What's your solution to a mild case of the blues? Guess I'll have a glass of wine and try the book again. Tomorrow, back to business.

Chili for supper, photo op, and good times

Frito  pie

Good thing it turned chilly over the weekend--no pun intended, but I fixed chili for some friends tonight. Actually the whole dinner was a photo op for my forthcoming (2015) chili book. The appetizer, which almost became the first course, was Frito pie. Everyone raved and ate so much that they didn't have much room left for the entrée. Son-in-law Christian came in after supper and demanded, "Who brought chili pie? I love it!" When I said I made it, he said, "I wish I wasn't already so full." Good on him for recognizing and honoring that feeling.
Jay Mitiguy (you know, my handsome neighbor), who is becoming sort of the unofficial photographer for this book, was here and took pictures, some with my newly rediscovered camera and some with his iPhone. Jordan couldn't find the pictures on my camera, but Jay sent what he took and they are wonderful and clear. I also served a black-eyed pea relish that someone had given me--it was really good but much out-shadowed by the Frito pie.

The main course was white chili. When the editorial board of the press met, one member wanted to know why there was no white chili in the book. I pointed out to the director there were four recipes--chicken and turkey. For tonight I fixed a version with chicken and cannellini beans--not much broth, but the chicken was tender and the flavor was great. Not too many leftovers, so they went home with Christian. I saved the Frito pie leftovers in case Jacob would eat them--he's here for the night because there's no school tomorrow (Columbus Day).
Jay, who judges at Terlingua, is a chili purist. He called my personal chili recipe a flavorful stew of beef and beans but not chili. I dreaded to think what he would call this and he said no, he'd had white chili and liked it. At the table, though, he couldn't resist saying, "It's really good stew." Purists of course brook no beans in their chili. This was an easy, low cal recipe.
You just can't have chili without cornbread, but I really ran amuck here. I used a really easy recipe for sweet cornbread--1 cup cornmeal, 1 cup flour, 2/3 cup sugar, 3-1/2 tsp. baking powder, 1 cup milk, and 1 egg. Spray a nine-inch cake pan, scrape in the batter, and bake at 400 for 20 minutes or more. Easy, right? Now I consider myself a seasoned cook but for some unknown reason, the first time I made this I had the oven on broil--cornbread had a lovely brown top but the inside was mushy. Had to make a second batch, but it was really good. I'm well aware that the chili pie and cornbread have "bad" ingredients--although corn chips aren't bad except maybe for sodium but cheese, sugar, etc.--and the chili was healthy--nothing but chicken, beans, onion, chicken broth, and seasonings. What bothered me? There was nothing green with the meal. Didn't seem to bother anyone else.
Dessert? Why ice cream, of course, with a great dark chocolate, salt and caramel sauce one of the guests brought. A feast--and a delight of company. Two of my guests were temporarily without wives, their wives being elsewhere engaged. I invited Jay because I knew he was alone, but I wondered how he'd like my hard-core liberal friends, conservative that he is. He was charming throughout the evening and we steered away from politics. Conversation ranged from religions--one of my guests is a retired Episcopalian priest, his wife and Jay are both fallen away Catholics--to chili and Terlingua and on to all sorts of other topics. What a joy to cook for these people and be surrounded by good friends. Happy Sunday night, y'all. Now I have a sweet eight-year-old (mostly sweet) to spend the night with me.