Justice, computers, cozy mysteries, and sloppy Joe

 

Sloppy Joe

Count me among the many who rejoice today that we now have Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson (why can I not get beyond wanting to spell it Kenanjti?). When Biden first announced, way back before the South Carolina primary which gave him such a boost, that he would appoint a Black woman, I cringed—not because I didn’t think there was a qualified Black woman but because I thought he had boxed himself into a corner where he could have been accused of a kind of reverse racism—not considering qualified Anglo candidates. That is not, of course, what opponents overtly objected to, though it may well have been the underlying thought. On the surface it was that she was too progressive, too lenient on pornography, too this, too that. They tried to trick her with everything from “Do you attend church?” to “Can you define a woman?” They were rude and insolent and demeaning.

Through it all Judge/now Justice Jackson was cool, calm, and clever. She never fell into the verbal traps. Her answers were intelligent, straightforward, and respectful. I have seen a chart that indicates she brings more professional credentials to the nation’s highest court than any of those now sitting.

She shifts a balance—white men will now be in the majority, and she will be one of four women sitting on the Supreme Court. Conventional wisdom is she will not be able to do much in the face of the “originalists” who dominate, but I somehow have faith in this woman. I think she will have a major impact. And I rejoice, not because she’s Black, not even because she’s a woman, but because she’s highly qualified, which is a pleasant change from the last three appointees. No, I’m not afraid to name them: Gorsuch, Kavanaugh, and Bartlett. A packed court, but Justice Jackson may make some cracks in that originalist wall.

I realized today, with a gulp, that she is the same age as my oldest daughter, coincidentally a lawyer.

Yet another computer problem day. This afternoon for several hours, I could not establish a Wi-Fi connection. I am trying to determine whether it’s just our property, just me, or a neighborhood problem. But when I don’t have Wi-Fi there’s not much I can do—not even save Word files, nor print. Just read a book, as long as I have one downloaded. No Facebook, no email, none of that. It’s a huge frustration. I can get most of that on my phone, but I don’t like the small screen or keyboard. If I get desperate, I boot up my iPad but I don’t keep it charged.

Not quite ready to broadcast it about, but the last couple of evenings, I’ve been exploring posting to Pinterest. I think when I gave it up several years ago, I was simply a consumer and not using it to market my own books. I was using it like Jordan who searches it for recipes. Besides, when it was new and wildly popular, I created boards like a madwoman with no sense of organization, so now I am working on eliminating irrelevant boards and organizing posts. But I did get a board up for Irene in Chicago Culinary Mysteries. And I did write more yesterday and today, so I’m creeping toward the conclusion of the third mystery in that series.

On a mystery listserv, we’ve been discussing cozy mysteries. One point that came up was whether it is a convention of the genre to have justice served in the end. I always remember Texas novelist Elmer Kelton who said life is not tied up in pretty packages with a bow and plots should not be either. But many see that as a criterion of the genre. I think a lot about that as I work toward the end of Finding Florence.

Ona lighter note, Jacob and I were alone for dinner tonight. Days ago he rejected my idea of sloppy Joe, but I’d been waiting for a chance to cook my own special recipe (posted on Gourmet on a Hot Plate last October) and I was not to be deterred. Tonight, when push came to shove, he was hungry and asked for a sandwich. His verdict was, “Pretty good.” I asked if I can now put it back in the menu rotation and he said yes. It was awfully good—if I hadn’t burned my bun. I was more careful with his. For those who are interested, Sloppy Joe is thought to have begun in the 1930s as a "loose meat" sandwich in Iowa served by a cook named Joe. References to it began to appear in print in the 1940s. You can still get loose meat sandwiches at restaurants in the Maid-Rite chain.

 Burtons will be out for dinner again tomorrow, and I know Jacob won’t like my plan: an old-fashioned, seven-layer salad. Now that’s what I call good eating!

Putting out brush fires

 

My favorite graduate school professor, who became a lifelong friend, used to tell me when he was chair of the English department, that he spent his time putting out brush fires. That’s how this week has made me feel about the holiday season. When so many added chores and concerns are on our to-do lists, from Christmas shopping and wrapping to meal planning, everything else, all the little details of daily life, seem to demand more attention.

It is, for instance, the open enrollment period for changing your insurance if you’re on Medicare. Normally I ignore the deluge of mail from various companies that arrives during this period. But my retirement plan gives me access to a site that does cost/benefits comparisons, and they alerted me to a plan that might save me money. The website was complicated—what ones aren’t?—so I called to talk to a real live person. After an hour on hold, I had sort of figured out how to access the information I wanted, but changing insurance providers is a pretty momentous decision. I wanted some back up and called Colin, my oldest son.

He had installed something on my computer called Microsoft Teams which would allow him to see me and my computer. We tried to secure the link for over an hour last night, until he said, “Maybe we should do this in the morning.” I have too often found that walking away from a computer problem only to come back the next day is a great solution.

So this morning we tried again. Went through all the tricks to link us, and then I went through the lengthy process on the website to get to the comparisons—and my connection was broken (this happens a lot, but did it have to happen just then?)—twice. I think we worked on this for over an hour, until Colin said the plans were really pretty comparable, and changing probably wasn’t worth it. Whew!

He did prove to me last weekend that my scanner works, so I can submit bills for reimbursement without the laborious print process I’d been using. So now I have to wait for Jean to show me how to do that.

And then there’s the doctor’s office that billed me twice, and Sisters in Crime which thinks I haven’t renewed when I think I have—they were right, but it took some research to find that out. A grocery list to compile, recipes to choose for a couple of special occasions, the dog groomer appointment, book sales to check, and on and on. No, I did not write one original word today, except this blog, and I don’t think I had one original thought about a project. Irene, poor dear, has faded into the background for a bit.

I did however check on audio sales of Saving Irene, and they are dismal, certainly not worth the money I paid to have it recorded. So I have a sincere question: how many of you listen to audio books? I much prefer to read either print or online, and though I see a lot about how audio is gaining in importance, I don’t see it happening to my experimental book. I don’t think it’s a genre problem because I know of mysteries that do well, and it seems to me mystery more than anything else other than romance should do well in audio. But it would take something major to make me format Irene in Danger for audio. Meantime, remember if you belong to Kindle Unlimited, you can order either Irene book free.

All these brush fires faded last night when friends Jean and Jeannie took Betty and me to The Blue Spire, the upscale dining room in the Trinity Terrace retirement complex. Outstanding service, white linen tablecloths and napkins, crystal wine glasses, and a great menu. I had a Caesar salad, four lollipop lamb chops, roasted carrots (I can never fix those at home), and spinach. I couldn’t live or eat that way every night, but it sure was grand for a treat. Lots of talking and catching up.

To get from the visitor parking to the dining floor is a long, long walk so Jean pushed me in a transport chair (no footrests so I had to stick my feet straight out—good exercise for those muscles). As she was pushing me on the way home, she asked, “Why are we so fortunate?” and I could only echo the question. I feel so blessed and so determined to help the less fortunate, frustrated that I can do so little except some puny financial support for a few causes and politicians and preaching it from my Facebook pulpit.

How about you? Are you passionate about some causes?

Lots of cooking, a Zoom reminder, and the wine bar of my dreams

Lamb Ragu

We had a domestic invasion of sorts this past week. Some critter died either under the kitchen in the main house or in the wall. The result was an insufferable odor that lingered for days. And made Christian reluctant to cook when he came home in the evening. So I’ve fixed dinner several nights, fixing one old favorite and trying out three new recipes.

One night we had chicken pot pie, mostly because I remembered Jacob liked it so well once before that he used a strawberry to wipe up the sauce. When we told him that this time, his response was predictable: “That’s gross.” Another night, chicken piccata. Jacob loves his dad’s version, and I was hoping he would like mine as well. Actually I ignored the recipe I’ve used for years and tried one I found online. Because I can’t fit four chicken tenderloins into my skillet at once and because I was afraid the amount of meat was a bit skimpy, I cut it into chunks and browned it in two separate batches, then combined it to reheat in the sauce. Jacob liked it well enough to claim the small bit leftover.

One night we had a quick and easy lamb ragu—that’s what the recipe said, but when I cook these days, mostly seated in my walker, nothing is quick. And things get spilled a lot. But the recipe was fairly straightforward, so the easy part was true. And it came out with a velvety texture that I really liked.

My tour de force was a deviant version of skillet spanakopita, and if you read last night’s blog, you know about it. If not, you can check it out at https://gourmetonahotplate.blogspot.com/. I don’t want to repeat myself. I posted the picture of it on the Facebook page for the New York Times Cooking Community and so far I got 170 likes and about 20 comments. I am in danger of getting the swelled head, except I probably have to credit Jordan’s photography as much as my cooking.

Tonight’s potato salad is already in the fridge, and Christian will grill our salmon.  One thing about quarantine—we are eating well, and so blessed.

Last night was leftovers or, as we call it, dinner on your own, because I wanted to Zoom attend a 6:30 meeting of the Tarrant County Historical Society. I connected to the meeting without a problem—I really am getting better at this—but couldn’t figure out why my picture didn’t show. A few minutes in, I was gobsmacked—isn’t that a wonderful word?—to realize I hadn’t pulled out my laptop. There’s obviously no camera on my remote monitor, so to participate I have to open the laptop so the camera can see me! It’s a bit of a problem with my new computer set-up, but I will figure it out and remember this learning lesson for when I’m on a panel next week for a big national mystery fan convention.

And the bar—I’ve not been to many bars in my life. Back when I was single and head over heels about my first love, they were still called cocktail lounges. I can still see one in my mind—dark, soft music, leather booths with high backs for privacy. But bars? The crowded, raucous kind authorities want to keep closed these virus days? Not for me, though my grown kids more than once suggested I might meet an eligible man in one. Eligible? At any rate, I’ve found online a bar that intrigues me. It’s the Bookbar in Denver—a wine/book bar. When you belly up to the bar, you find yourself at a long, chest-high bookcase crammed with books. My idea of heaven—books and wine. I tried to copy the picture, but the internet didn’t cooperate. So here I sit with a new book on my Kindle and a glass of wine at hand. Almost Heaven. (My friend Linda will get that if she reads this.)

 

My very own cookfest

Sunday morning, and I went to church on the computer. But it didn’t work out well. In his preliminary comments to the sermon, the minister, Dr. Russ Peterman, told a joke—and a speaker’s greatest fear, no one laughed. He said something about thinking everyone would think it was funny, and then recovered well to say, “I bet it gets a big laugh at the eleven o’clock service.”

A bit into his sermon—on delivering us from evil and how we fall into evil by small degrees—the transmission froze. A message came on to say something had happened, but it would be corrected soon. Meantime, there was Russ, on my monitor, arm raised to make an emphatic gesture, mouth open to make his point—forever frozen in time and space. What would be a normal moment in an ongoing video became sort of grotesque. I left him on the screen—but he never did come back.

Meantime I had a cookfest of my own. I started with a baked egg for my breakfast. Baking eggs is something I’ve only tried once or twice, but this time I buttered the ramekin, put in a tablespoon or so of heavy cream, cracked the egg—to my disappointment, it broke—and topped it with butter, salt, pepper, parmesan, and  pinch of dried thyme. My goodness! I may do that every day because it was so good.

Next I made my version of Chuy’s creamy jalapeno and cilantro dip to serve tomorrow night for neighbors who are coming for happy hour. Confession: I served some to Christian, Jacob and me tonight before supper. It is addictive, which I attribute to the salt in the ranch dressing packet that goes into it. But it is sooo good.

With unusual foresight I had put a stick of butter out to soften, so next I made Worcestershire butter, from the NYTimes recipe. Everyone has raved about it, but I don’t think I got it quite right. The recipe calls for garlic, chives, salt, pepper, Worcestershire of course, and. lemon zest. Christian and I were excited about trying it, so I even sautéed green beans in it. I couldn’t taste any difference it made in the green beans, and on our steak, we tasted lemon not Worcestershire. Conclusion: I used too much lemon and not enough Worcestershire. I may try again.

My final cooking chore was a meatloaf, so I’d have some prepared dinners for when people come for happy hour Monday and Tuesday. By the time I’ve entertained happy hour guests, I never want to cook, so meatloaf seemed like a good solution. I’ve been wanting a good meat loaf and even considered buying a ready-made one, but Jordan suggested I make one.

I’m always ready to try a new meat loaf recipe, and I’d read something about Ina Garten’s recipe, so I decided to follow it. But as is too often my habit I rushed in without reading the recipe. Chopped a large onion—gosh it made a lot—and dumped it on top of the meat, only to read that the recipe called for sautéing it first. So I fished out all the onion and sautéed it in olive oil, salt and pepper, and thyme. Long story short, there’s a meat loaf in my fridge, and in retrospect tonight I decided I may like meat loaf better than steak.

Jordan is out of town, so I had the Burton boys for supper. Christian grilled steaks, and Jacob announced he doesn’t like steak and doesn’t like fresh green beans. Not sure what to do about that boy! But after dinner, Christian and I got into a heated discussion that started with immigration and moved on to…. Everything! Basically we agree, but he says I can’t blame trump or any one man for anything, and I say no, the problems—from immigration to climate—began before his time, but he has made them a lot worse. Good thing we love each other. Jacob said it was entertaining to watch us argue.

Then I did the dishes. That’s what life ultimately is—the daily chores that fill our lives nd make them comfortable..

The Joy of Things Going Right

Chicken soup for the soul--and the body

We all have them, days when nothing goes right. In spite of a positive doctor’s appointment, yesterday was one of those days for me. My hearing aid, newly repaired, wouldn’t hold a charge; my computer didn’t recognize me, and every time I clicked on a link it flipped me to a “Guest” screen from which I could not escape; I was having trouble wrapping my mind around putting a photo log together, and some photos I wanted were held in copyright by what appeared to be a mammoth commercial enterprise rather than the nice academic archives I’m used to dealing with. And Jordan was still sick, suffering from “the flu that I not the flu.”

Today the world looks much brighter. After a long overnight charge, the hearing aid appears to be working fine, and I am hearing a balanced world again, instead of all in my right ear. Makes a difference in phone conversations especially.

This morning I called the IT help desk at TCU and they did their magic thing where they can take over my computer. Knock on wood, I haven’t seen that guest screen since. I’ve begun to figure out the photo log, saved some photos, ordered others—it’s like taking two steps forward and one backward, slow and discouraging but I am gradually moving forward. I called the commercial repository of newspaper photo and talked to a most helpful young woman, so I sent in my request. No answer yet but I am hopeful.

Kind, sweet neighbor Mary was here for happy hour last night and went home and made Jordan chicken soup in her InstaPot, delivered it today, and I think Jordan is already feeling better. Perhaps cheered by the kindness of others.

At any rate, the world looks better to me, and I think there’s a moral there, though I haven’t for sure figured it out. Maybe it has do with patience—if you avoid a tizzy and wait patiently, most things will right themselves. But then again, I am not a believer in passivity—I think you have to nudge things into going right, which I did today with phone calls and some calm, rational (I hope) thinking about the mechanics of a photo log.

Did I really have to this old before I learned about photo logs? An archivist friend says she can’t believe I didn’t work with photo logs during my long years at TCU Press, but I was editing text and wasn’t in production. Authors brought us their photos, and the production person (mostly my good friend Melinda) dealt with them. I do remember though one author who brought us boxes of unlabeled photos with no indication of where in the book they should go. Those were different days, pre-computer I’m pretty sure.  The late Jerry Flemmons, a travel writer and essayist of great skill, brought us a box of clippings from which we cobbled a book of essays—the work included keying in the text, because nobody had digital files back then. Computer technology has brought us a long way and made life easier—if you can figure out how to harness it. I’m a medium—fairly literate about computers but woefully under-utilizing them.

I have let my mind wander to the business of the encounter between Covington Catholic School boys and the indigenous people. I have seen clips, read interpretations, and kicked myself for being gullible and not following my instinctive belief that the kids were at fault as well as some of their antagonists—but not Mr. Phillips who was trying in his own way to defuse the situation. Today I watched a clip of Nicholas Sandmann on the TODAY show, and I want to reassure Savannah Guthrie—not that she, a consummate professional, needs my reassurance. But she’s been criticized for being too soft on Sandmann; had she been harsher, she’d have been criticized for bullying a youngster.

My impression was that someone had taken that young man out behind the wood shed and given him a good thrashing—figuratively, of course. Gone was the supercilious smirk, and missing was his red hat and the jocular support of his fellow students. Not that I think his parents had anything to do with this transformation—they simply hired a public relations firm. And I think that’s the answer—the experts coached him carefully, so that he appeared as every mother wants her so to appear—respectful, thoughtful, honest. Racism, he said with a straight face, is not tolerated at his school. Not what I read elsewhere.

I am not for a minute convinced. But I agree with many who have said that if they had been in his situation and responded as he did, they’d have gotten a walloping or been grounded until they were twenty-five. There’s a moral there too—spare the rod and, well you know the rest.

Computer blues…and cooking adventures

A shout out to Colin and Lisa Alter who were married 17 years ago today on the beach at Grand Cayman Island. Wish I had a digital copy of the wonderful picture of the entire wedding party, guests and all, standing barefoot in the water on the beach. Lisa always said she wanted to be married barefoot on the beach, and she was. In deference to her, we all shed our shoes. Colin looked adorable (oh, how he’ll hate that word) in a tux and bare feet!

My day was marked by computer frustration—formatting problems. As they always say, you have to turn the computer off and let it collect itself. I did that several times, and each time I turned it on either another problem had solved itself or I was able to solve it. Finally got that manuscript back to the editor for a second go-round.

The rest of the day was spent cooking. I’ve been cooking now for between forty and fifty years, yet every day I learn something new. Much of it has to do with adjusting to my current kitchen with a hot plate, a small toaster oven, and a small microwave. No stove. Tonight, I made a squash casserole. My kids always say I get into trouble when I don’t follow the recipe, and that was true today. I’ve made squash casseroles off the top of my head for years, but tonight I printed off a recipe and followed it—sort of. It called for Ritz crackers in the topping, and I didn’t have them. I used panko crumbs out of the freezer. First of all, not monitoring the toaster oven closely enough I burned the topping. Second, the combination of grated cheese and panko crumbs, when cooked, turned into something resembling concrete. The squash got swallowed up in it. Lesson learned. One squash actually made two casseroles, so I will take the topping off the remaining one and simply use grated cheese.

I also sort of followed a recipe for my loin lamb chop—I adore lamb, and those thick chops are a real treat. I could never afford to feed them to a whole family, but for just me they are a splurge. I sautéed it in olive oil and got it a tad more cooked than I like—I like it very pink in the middle. But it had a good brown crust. Took it out of the skillet, and added a scallion to the skillet. The recipe called for ramps—a pungent wild onion found in the East that tastes like a combination of onion and garlic. If I’d had a leek or a shallot, I’d have used that but I didn’t. Then I squeezed in a good-sized dollop of anchovy paste. I couldn’t tell a lot of difference in the lamb, but the scallion soaked up the anchovy and was delicious.

Bored on a long weekend? I recommend cooking. Now I’m off to read a mystery.

Computer woes

Monday my internet connections--Facebook, Explorer, Chrome--began to act weird. Sometimes they'd connect; other times they wouldn't. Finally, they just wouldn't. Called the TCU Help Desk, where they told me what I dreaded to hear: call your service provider. It was too early in the day for wine, so I refilled my coffee and called AT&T. Eventually, after three calls to the robot and three reboots of my modem, he referred me to a tech--a nice young man, with a heavy accent difficult for my aging years. He was soon clearly beyond his range of expertise--he kept saying, "Hmmm," which made me nervous. Several times he asked me to type something into the URL line, and I almost shouted, "You don't understand! I can't get a screen. I can't type anything in." Finally he concluded I needed a new modem, which would arrive the next day. I looked to it as the be-all, end-all savior of my problems. This was not the first time an AT&T tech has led me astray.
Not so. The modem arrived, and I asked neighbor Jay (you know, the good-looking one) to come install it because I knew it was beyond me. It was almost beyond him. What should have been a quick set-up took almost an hour at the end of which he concluded it wasn't the modem at all: Explorer needed to be re-installed. He did that and it was magic--the computer, which had been dreadfully slow for a new machine--speeded up, and I could get all my internet sights and connections.
You don't realize how much you rely on the internet until you start piling up emails that you can only deal with by going to the net. So here I am, a happy camper, with a functioning fast computer.
It hasn't been an easy road. About three weekends ago my younger son, Jamie, walked me through buying a new computer and got it started. Then he spent about three hours at my house getting it attached to everything. All in all, it took the better part of one of his weekend, which he treausres. But I was grateful and all set to go.
Not quite. The week I spent at my older son's house was one of fine tuning. Every night when he came home from work I presented him with computer problems and he, my most patient child, worked through them--how to attach pictures to blogs and Facebook and similar issues.
I hope now, with the help of three good men, I'm in for clear sailing on my computer. As for learning Word 8, don't ask!
But I'm blogging again, and that's good news--at least to me.