Self-indulgent Saturday

 

Tonight, I had three of my favorite foods for supper. They may have been odd pairings, they made a great supper for me: salmon (it was fresh Scottish salmon, so how could I resist), the mild guacamole from Central Market, and fresh raspberries. When summer fruits are in season, raspberries are my favorite. I remember getting buckets of them for fifty cents at a rural market in Indiana as a kid. As for the salmon, I kind of went on instinct—just salt and pepper, poured a little white wine on the pan to keep it from drying, and watched it almost constantly for the seven minutes it roasted. Salmon came out cooked just right, which for me is barely cooked. Guacamole was delicious—I can’t take the spicy version. And the raspberries were sweet—sometimes, early on, they’re a bit tangy, but these weren’t. Topped it off with two salted caramels. Yes, a self-indulgent dinner. But I deserve.

Today was a piddling day. Everybody needs one of those. I was lazy about everything I did, dawdled over emails and news reports. I am so fascinated by the chaos in our country that it sometimes takes me a long time to catch up on all my sources, even on weekends. Still, I managed to write a thousand words and I have the next scene in my mind. Ate leftover for lunch and took a long nap.

The Burtons were gone most of the day, and when they were here, I was napping. We crossed paths briefly in the late afternoon before they went to an American Cancer Society event at the zoo. Somehow the attendance requirement was to wear white. Jordan came out in a white dress with puff sleeves and my only thought was, “I would so spill my dinner all over the front.” Christian said he fully expected red wine stains. Should have told him to drink white.

My interesting side note for the day. In my adult life, I've had periodic bouts of anxiety, a few times almost crippling. For that reason, I identify with the Simon and Garfunkel song, "Hello, Darkness, my old friend." I always thought Darkness was a reference to anxiety or depression which throws you into a dark state. Not so. In college, Art Garfunkel had a good friend who lost his sight and withdrew from the world. Garfunkel took it as his responsibility to help his friend and set him on the path to a productive life. He was by his side, literally, all through college, and he named himself Darkness. He would say, "It's Darkness, your old friend." Because of his devoted help, the man went on to get a law degree and graduate degree from prestigious universities. He married, had a family and a career as an entrepreneur, and became a wealthy man. Remember that, the next time you hear that song.

I’m off to read a novel I started last night. Not my typical choice—it’s about female spies in World Wars I and II. Hope it doesn’t give me nightmares. Sweet dreams, y’all

Falling into bad habits

 

My family has left me on my own for supper on this drizzly Sunday afternoon. I’m not particularly blue about it, because I have a dinner plan—I will open a can of that good salmon I get straight from Oregon, put a lot of lemon and a bit of sour cream on it, and run it under the broiler. But I realize how quickly I would fall into bad habits if I totally lived alone.

Jordan has a cardinal rule: you don’t eat dinner in the clothes you slept in. But I am still in those clothes—a bright tie-dye T-shirt that the Tomball grandchildren made for me years ago and a pair of pants that could pas for slacks if your standards aren’t too high. But on the positive side, I have cleaned up, my hair is washed, and my bed is made. I’ll probably eat supper a lot earlier than we would eat if we were having family dinner.

I’ve just talked to Megan in Austin and of course we hit on the fact that all 17 Alters were supposed to be at her house for Thanksgiving. It’s not going to work out that way. They are recovered from covid and have disinfected their house thoroughly, including using those special lights hospital use. The problem, for me, is the trip down there. As soon as you tell me we can’t stop, I will have to make a bathroom stop—as Megan pointed out, a woman with a walker doesn’t have the bathroom options a man does. My sons do not feel that they have quarantined well enough to be with the family, so we will be four separate family units. It is more than a little sad to me.

It really is a gray day and chilly with drizzly rain predicted. I’m grateful that Jordan has decorated the cottage for Christmas, and I have two bright spots of light—a glass block with Christmas lights inside it that I’ve had for years and Jamie’s table-top artificial fireplace that glows with realistic flames. Or, depending on how you look at it, depicts the fiery eruption of a volcano. Scientists have now proven that putting up lights will make you happier, and these days I think we should give scientists all the credit we can. So I’m glad for that bit of scientific knowledge..

Beside that scientific boost, I’ve had a longtime habit justified in print. For years, when entertaining—a formal dinner or the huge tree trimming parties I used to give—I put the serving dishes out days in advance and put a little note in each to remind me what I intended to put in that dish. After she married and began to entertain on her own, Jordan did the same. Christian was astounded and finally told her, “You and your mom have a screw loose.” (Megan would be the first to let you know that gene for organization skipped her.) Today in his column, Sam Sifton mentioned putting the dishes out early and putting a sticky note in each. Need I say more?

A couple of nods to nostalgia: when I was a kid, my mom used to mix cornmeal with milk or water (I don’t remember which), pour it into a loaf pan and let it harden. Then she’d slice it, fry the slices, and serve them to us for breakfast with lots of maple syrup. We called it fried mush. These days, we have a fancier name for it—polenta—but you can put lipstick on a pig and it’s still a pig. I made tamale pie with polenta for the family last week, and it reminded me how much I liked fried mush. So when we ordered from Central Market, I got more polenta, and this morning I fried a couple of slices in butter and slathered them with real maple syrup. So good. I was a kid again.

My other nostalgia trip even pre-dates me. But Sam Sifton mentioned in his column that this is the 125^th birthday of Hoagy Carmichael and offered a link to Carmichael doing his 1930 classic, “Georgia On My Mind.” And there was Lauren Bacall in the still photo accompanying the music, looking intently at Carmichael who looked up sideways at her. Classic 1930s jazz. I loved it.

And speaking of anniversaries, I thought this anniversary of the assassination of JFK went by with little public notice. Too bad, when we are embroiled in one of the worst political threats our democracy has ever seen. It would be soothing to go, even briefly, back to the days of Camelot.

I kind of got carried away, and I apologize for this long blog. Stay safe and well—and cozy tonight.