Good food and good times in Cowtown

Megan and me at Bowie House
The fetish necklace was my nod to western wear 

My oldest daughter, an Austin lawyer, had business in Fort Worth Thursday and stayed over a couple of nights so we could have some together time. As it happens Jordan was out of town on a business trip, so she missed the good times and we missed her. Thursday nigh I had plans to go to 61 Osteria, an Italian restaurant downtown, with friends, so we decided when Megan was through with her day, she’d just meet us there. I told her it was in a bank building—but oops!  I told her the wrong bank, and she walked all over downtown in high heels.

The restaurant had a happy hour special with great price on wine and tiny snacks—I don’t eat olives so was pretty much out of that. But we ordered—a cheese and meat platter, focaccia, a polenta dish, and an artichoke hearts dish. The kind of food I would never fix—in truth, I was a bit intimidated by the complexity of the menu and nature of the offering—this was definitely not your spaghetti and meatballs in a red sauce kind of Italian restaurant. The décor in the bar is Fifties moderne, sleek and clean, with too tiny tables. The food was delicious, but what intrigued me all evening was the view. A wall of windows looked west, so I watched the sun go from gold to pink to flame and then, almost suddenly, gray. To one side was Burnett Park, a two-acre urban park in the midst of downtown that features the iconic statue of a man with a briefcase. The statue is fifty feet tall, weighs 24,000 lbs. and is made of brushed aluminum with the figure of the man cut out of the piece of aluminum. After dark, trees in the park are lit with ever-changing colors. Megan said she couldn’t believe I was going downtown, me who has always avoided the center of the city as much as I could. I loved being there.

Man with a briefcase

Megan and I both had work to do Friday, but by evening we stopped for a glass of wine with Christian and then headed off for dinner at Bowie House, a new boutique hotel and Auberge property with a well-planned, consistent western image—not flashy western but more low key. We had reservations at the restaurant, Bricks and Horses. Where to begin with the hotel? From reading, I knew that it has an unusual art collection. 400 pieces from the private collection of the wealthy horsewoman behind the hotel project. Young men in western garb and the required Stetson roaming the foyer and bar area may have been subtle security but their main function seemed to be seeing to the guests comfort. The minute we were through the door, one such man directed us to the ramp for my transport chair. The furnishings are heavy and dark, with echoes of the culture of the American west everywhere—cowboys, native Americans, cattle, and buffalo in paintings and sculpture. Dress for men was boots and jeans, and for women mostly boots and short skirts. I was the only mobility challenged person in the entire place and easily the oldest.

We had one of those long slow dinners, with nice breaks between courses. At Megan’s choice, we started with tuna tartare and then moved to Caesar salad. For an entrée, I had lobster Thermidor and she, a filet with a side of cauliflower casserole. Our dessert was a gussied-up banana split in a croissant shell. Finally, just before ten, we headed home.

Megan was having a difficult time backing my transport chair over the metal band between sliding glass doors at the exit (If she had gone forward she would have likely pitched me headfirst onto the concrete) when I heard a man say, “Here, hold my hand.” And I did. He was a middle-aged, cowboy type, and while he had a firm hold on my hand, his pal helped Megan lift the chair over the offending metal. Then as they got into their SUV they called out, “We’re going to Billy Bob’s. Want to go dancing?” That quick bit of help made a great impression on me, after an evening of everyone seeing to it that we were comfortable and being careful and respectful of my wheelchair. In a world rife with hate and anger and cruelty, Fort Worth is still a friendly city. With wonderful opportunities for good food and good times.

Tonight for supper I have leftover lobster Thermidor. Life is good.

A happy foodie weekend—and a cuckoo clock

 

My new birdsong cuckoo clock

I have a new cuckoo clock! Forestalling any comments on the appropriateness of such a clock in my cottage, I hasten to tell you this one is different. It could say “Cuckoo!” but instead Christian set it to a bird song. On the hour, a little blue bird emerges and trills it song—I am not knowledgeable enough about birds to tell you what bird it is, but it is cheerful and, to my delight, not too loud (it doesn’t wake me at night). It has a repertoire of twelve birds’ songs, but the instructions are in German, so we may not change it often. Thanks to son Jamie for this cheerful addition to the cottage. I’m really enjoying it.

As my weekends often are, this one was devoted to food—but rather to writing about it almost more than preparing it. I keep finding recipes that fit into my cookbook featuring my mom’s cooking or my updates on it. I have now, I think, gone through most of the old files I have, but I also keep remembering things she fixed. Like salmon croquettes—I had written that she rarely cooked fish, claimed she didn’t know how. And then I remembered the croquettes, only because Jordan and I had my version (salmon patties) for supper Friday night. And today I remembered but haven’t written up that in that era of jellied foods, Mom had a fish-shaped mold and made a jellied salmon appetizer. Not sure I have—or want—the recipe, but it deserves a mention.

Jordan and I have seen a lot of each other this weekend and enjoyed it, at least I did. Friday nights Christan often has a late happy hour with a good friend, so it was just the two of us. I made extra patties in case he showed up hungry, but I’m not sure he would have eaten the salmon at all. He once told me his mom made them and described them as like hockey pucks (she liked all meats very well done). I do remember once he said he’d try mine, and he liked them, but he hasn’t seemed anxious to try again.

Fresh salmon was on sale at Central Market, so I ordered—what turned out to be a huge piece for Saturday supper for the three of us (Jacob never has weekend meals at home—ah, to be seventeen again!). At the last minute, Christan was invited to the rodeo. Saturday morning he was most apologetic about the last-minute change and then began to tell me how it was really good for his business, etc. I told him he didn’t have to rationalize, and he laughed. Jordan still wanted salmon but we discovered the pound and a half was big enough we could cut off portions for ourselves and still freeze the rest for a meal another time. Christian has promised to grill it. Last night I roasted it with a garlic/anchovy/butter sauce. Good, but one of those recipes I can’t follow exactly because it calls for starting the dish in a skillet and finishing it by putting the skillet in the oven. When you only have a toaster oven, that’s not possible. Still, it was good, and I enjoyed the tiny bit I saved for lunch today.

Tonight though was the big deal. Christan a couple of weeks ago requested carnitas, one of his favorite meals. I can’t tell you where I got the recipe, although some years ago I had an editor who taught me to cube a pork butt and cook it in simmering water until the water is all evaporated and the cubed meat crisps and browns in the fat. Then I found a recipe which adds spice to the water—orange peel, chopped onion and garlic, salt, bay leaves, oregano, cloves, and a cinnamon stick. The trouble is the water rarely evaporates in the time the recipe suggests, and I always worry that we’ll be sitting around until ten waiting for dinner. My prep time was lengthened because the boneless, cubed meat I ordered—wasn’t. I’d say at least ten percent was on the bone and hard to deal with, and instead of the one-inch cubes I requested, I got three- and four-inch pieces. I am honestly not a complainer, but I feel a call to Central Market coming on tomorrow.

Tonight I calculated two hours for it to cook—forty-five minutes longer than the recipe said. We ate at 7:30 which was only half an hour past my target time. We serve the meat with guacamole, sour cream, shredded Monterrey Jack, chopped cilantro, diced red onion and, of course, tortillas. For all my worry, it was really good tonight—full of flavor and very tender. It’s a lot of work and worry but worth it. I promised to do it again in six months.

So here we go into another week. Zenaida, who cleans the cottage, hasn’t been here since before Christmas, her schedule upset by holidays and weather, so Sophie and I are grateful she will be here in the morning, even though she’s coming at the awful hour of seven-thirty. And I have company coming for supper—I’ll need my nap.

May each of you have a blessed week. In Fort Worth, it will be sunny and in the sixties. We will be lulled into thinking winter is gone, but I am sure it is not. At least we can enjoy the good weather.

 

 

A twenty-four hour vacation

 

Megan and Jacob at Walloon's

Well, maybe it was a staycation, but what made the last twenty-four hours so special was that Megan, my Austin daughter, came to visit. Confession: coming to see me was not her primary motive in coming to Fort Worth. She came to go to the TCU/UT football game Saturday night with her special TCU girls—those she was close friends and Tri Delt sisters with—gulp!—some thirty years ago. She did it all and had a blast—staying up late drinking wine and catching up, margaritas at Joe T.’s, a walk around Mule Alley, and, of course, tailgating and the game. Even though TCU lost, all agreed it was a great game.

Megan, who never plans far ahead, planned ahead for this one. She drove up with two girls, Veronica and Rachel, who live in Austin. But Sunday she sent them on without her so she could spend the day with me. Bonus: I got long overdue hugs from Rachel and Veronica. And then I had Megan all to myself—sort of. While I took my Sunday afternoon nap, she went of and drank champagne with Amy, who she went to school with since kindergarten—by the time they both got to UT law school, they were roommates.

For twenty-four hours, I didn’t get much if any of my own desk work done. I was glad to forego it for Megan’s company. Sunday night, we had dinner with Christian and Jacob at Walloon’s, the nifty new seafood place on Magnolia. Lots of fun and good food, though poor Jacob ordered barbecued shrimp, and it turned out to be an appetizer. Skimpy fare for a seventeen-year-old boy. I had the oysters Rockefeller which were good except the spinach was really heavy with garlic. Christian had a steak salad and said the dressing was oh so tart! I had done that the other night—made a dressing so tart I couldn’t eat it, so I sympathized.

Back home, Megan and I had more visiting, talked about family and holiday plans and all manner of things. This morning we had just a brief visit before she left to take the eleven o’clock executive bus back to Austin. But she snapped this selfie before she left. When I think back on the girls’ teen years, I am so grateful that we are such good friends today. I am truly blessed by my children.

Megan's selfie

I’ve said it before and will say it again—with four children, it is pure bliss to have them all together at once, with their families. When the grandkids were young and it didn’t seem like there were so many of us, I used to think one of my happiest moments was when they were all asleep under my roof. But there’s a reverse to that—it’s such a delight to have one-on-one time with any one of them. And that’s what I had with Megan today. So my cup runneth over.

Tonight I had a five o’clock Zoom meeting with a small group of writers, mostly one-book beginners. I was to talk to them about newsletters, blogs, and Substack. Not that I’m an expert on any of those subjects, but from their responses I apparently held my own. It’s a real jolt to feel, even briefly, that you have knowledge to share that will help others. And that’s what I came away with tonight after that meeting.

That Zoom event ended about 6:20, and I hastily reheated the cube steaks in gravy from the other night, cut up a salad, and ate dinner, trying to finish before the 7:00 HOA meeting. I didn’t quite make it and ended eating my salad on camera—not the best look in the world. Christian came out, got the rest of the cube steak dinner and salad but couldn’t be convinced to stay for the meeting.  Now I feel like whoosh—all the air has gone out of me, and I will sleep happily and well tonight.

Sweet dreams, y’all!

An ordinary Sunday with a touch of France

 

Well, I had hoped to take you with me on a vicarious tour of Paris, but all I got today from Jordan were a couple of selfies and this one terrific picture of her by the Eiffel Tower. She talked of a sunset cruise on the Seine, and I expected lovely pictures—maybe tomorrow. She did have lunch today in the restaurant on the third level of the Eiffel—hake (a South American light, whitefish), chocolate mousse and “flowing champagne.” How will we ever keep her down on the farm after such a lunch.

After lunch, she was headed for the sunset cruise, but we’ve had no report. I suspect after a long flight yesterday, champagne at lunch, and a sunset cruise, she was ready for bed. Perhaps more pictures tomorrow.

Not to be outdone by Jordan’s lunch, I must report I had branzino filets for supper with lime juice and sugar snap peas. Alas, no flowing champagne—just a modest glass of white wine. Branzino is a whitefish found mostly in Mediterranean waters It tickled me that Jordan, in Paris, was eating a South American fish while I, on this side of the pond, was eating one from the Mediterranean. Our modern world!

Other than that it was an unremarkable day. Christian and Jacob went to Coppell to have early dinner with Christian’s dad—at Babe’s. I thought Christian would come home and fall asleep, having eaten too much fried chicken, but he was indignant, said he didn’t even finish his chicken, and wss working on a project on the front porch—getting ready, I guess, for his usual gorgeous display of summer blooms.

Neighbor Polly Hooper, who takes magnificent pictures of all Berkeley functions, came over tonight because I was having trouble downloading her photos for the neighborhood newsletter. What she showed me was so basic and simple, I was ashamed that I did not figure it out on my own. But it gave us a good chance to visit over glasses of wine and catch up.

Polly’s visit sent me in search of a file on my computer that I can’t find and can’t figure how it disappeared. She is researching painted churches of Texas, and I told her I once wrote a short story titled “Prisoners” about the WWII Italian POWs who painted the chapel of the church at Umbarger, Texas. Blithely assuming I could find it, I promised to send her a copy of the short story. But my entire file of short stories has disappeared. It’s probably not the end of the world, because they are on file in the Southwest Writers Collection at Texas State University-San Marcos, but I am unsure how easily they are retrievable. And It makes me beyond uneasy to realize that an entire file just disappeared. The collection is Sue Ellen Learns to Dance and Other Stories, available on Amazon.

Polly did a really good thing while she was here—and taught me a lesson. Sophie has a bad habit—barking at me demandingly when there is happy hour company. I think it’s a combination of things—she’s hungry, she associates late afternoon company with food, and she wants attention. Jordan loses patience and threatens to go in the house, and I end up talking sternly to Soph about bad behavior. Neither is effective.

Sophie was particularly bad tonight, annoying, and it was hard to talk. Polly called her over, took gentle hold of her collar, told her to sit, and said, “This mean old lady is not going to put up with that.” She talked gently to her but held firm on the collar, and when Sophie tried to get up, Polly said, “This mean old lady says sit down.” Once I truly saw Sophie roll her eyes at Polly, and I almost laughed aloud. But pretty soon, Soph was lying on her back, asking for tummy rubs. And she was quiet after that—wandering in and out, lying quietly. We could talk and hear ourselves.

Sophie had one other adventure this weekend—she discovered a baby possum in the flowerbed under the window by my desk. Curious, but with no bad intentions, she jumped up and down, her bark shrill and frantic with excitement. As is my lazy habit, I sat at my desk and thought, I’ve got to do something about that. My only option is not always effective—it’s to wheel to the door, tell her to stop barking, and offer her cheese. But Christian beat me to it, and the next thing I knew he was at the open French doors with a huge shovel. He explained she had found a dead baby possum, and I asked if maybe it was playing possum. Turns out I was right. He put Sophie in the house, got the shovel, and went back only to find the possum gone.

I couldn’t resist. “What were you going to do with the shovel?” His answer, “Throw it over the fence.” I replied, “Gently, I hope. Possums are our friends.” He was astounded. “They are? I thought they were rodents.” I didn’t go into a lecture about marsupials, but I did tell him one possum can eat a thousand fleas and tick a day. I think he was impressed. I always like to enlighten that city boy.

So that’s my day. I’m reading a good mystery and going to spend the rest of the evening with it. Sweet dreams. Maybe tomorrow, more of a French tour.

My “Megan weekend”

 

I

Me, having just unwrapped the painting of my children.

I have long maintained that when you have four children, having them all together is pure bliss, but also when you have time with one of them alone, it’s very special. I had that with Megan this weekend and enjoyed it thoroughly. When she visits, she’s always alert to taking care of me—probably more than I need, but it’s a nice, safe feeling. She’s cheerful, great company, and willing to indulge in odd requests.

After a semi-family dinner at Joe T. Garcia’s Friday night, Megan slept in at the hotel in the Stockyards where she and a friend stayed. And I spent Saturday morning working, which was fine, even good. But about noon, Megan moved here for Saturday night. She brought my belated Christmas present—a painting made from a photo of my four children. The artist is a friend of Megan and Brandon. I have met her several times and seen her work more often, including a Christmas card she did of Megan’s family. I had asked Megan to inquire about commissioning a painting of my four, but she never said much, and I sort of put it aside. So the gift was a wonderful surprise. It now hangs in my combination living area/office for everybody who comes to the cottage to see. I am beyond delighted with it and catch myself frequently turning to look at it.

Megan and me at Central Market
Thanks to a kind passerby
for taking the picture.

I got an early nap and then we went to Central Market for my weekly shopping. That’s a real treat for me, because my shopping is usually curbside pickup—Jordan doesn’t have time for my lingering shopping, and she hates the parking at either Central Market or Trader Joe’s. Megan had no deadline, so we shopped and browsed and took pictures and laughed a lot.

Jordan had left for a work trip to Hawaii (poor dear!) but we had happy hour with Christian and then had dinner at Don Artemio’s. We’d been there before and really toyed with the idea of one of the other interesting restaurants where we’ve not been, but we decided to go back to Don Artemio’s. Dinner was terrific—tongue tacos for me and tuna tartare for Meg, preceded by the guacamole with bits of roast beef. The staff was courteous and kind about my transport chair and our waiter friendly, chatting about wine. He introduced me to a wine from the oldest winery in North America—from Mexico, of course. A bit too acidic for me, so I settled for a chenin blanc/chardonnay blend. Back home, a late-night visit with Christian, and we all stayed up too late.

This morning, I’m ashamed to say, it came down to biscuits and gravy or church. Megan and I went to Hot Box Biscuits to pick up and came back to the cottage to attend church online. She had been pleased when our minister, Dr Russ Peterman, gave the invocation at the rodeo Friday afternoon and wanted to hear more. As for the biscuits, it was fun to drive downtown with Megan, because it’s almost like she never lived here—she is totally lost and has no sense of direction. So we drove down South Main so she could see the development, the restaurants and other small businesses. She said she really needs to come home and drive around the city, and I told her I’d love to do that. I am so settled in my cottage, that when I get out it’s sometimes a foreign world—when did they build that? And who tore down the house that was there?

Finished sandwich

Building a sandwich

Tonight I cooked for Christian and Jacob—Dagwood sandwiches. Who remembers Dagwood
and his famous sandwiches? He was a character in the long-running comic strip, “Blondie,” and he was noted for his multi-layered sandwiches with a variety of meats and condiments Tonight mine had turkey, ham, bacon, provolone, cheddar, onion, pickle, mayo, honey mustard dressing, and horseradish sauce. Delicious, and fun to build. If it looks a little lopsided in the picture, that’s because my cottage slants ever so slightly to the north, and the sandwich shifted in the oven as the cheeses melted. Tasted great nonetheless, rich, but great.

I’m pleased to report Sophie is back in almost full steam—we decided the proof came when she stole a biscuit and gravy off Megan’s plate on the coffee table this morning! But there are other signs—she’s very demanding about what she wants, and she’s been barking at squirrels. She is ravenous all the time, and we can tell she’s gained weight. Her personality has returned, and although she can be a pain, we are all delighted. She’s our favorite pain!

All is well in the cottage tonight, and I will have sweet dreams, putting aside for the time all the troubles that beset our world. My current peeve is that I am weary of people who say things will never change—guns everywhere, police brutality, etc. It will change if we make it—and we must.

I hope you have sweet dreams too.

The guard has changed

 

Me and Megan at Don Artemio.
I should have taken pictures of the food.

The Burtons are home, exhilarated but a wee bit fatigued, Megan is on her way to Austin, and routine has settled over our compound. I’m about to fix tuna salad for lunch—what could be more routine?

My week of kids ended with a dining adventure last night. Megan and I went to Don Artemio, the new, upscale steakhouse and tequila bar that has Fort Worth agog. I am by no means knowledgeable enough to critique food from central Mexico (the only other Don Artemio is in Saltillo, near San Miguel), but I can tell you what I liked and what I was uncertain about.

Megan was absolutely fascinated by the décor and the “feel” of the restaurant, especially the thousands of hand-made Saltillo bricks that make up walls, deliberately just a kilter off. The industrial ceiling with its ducts is dark gray, and the colors throughout are muted, perfect foil for the blue-and-white molcajete that several dishes are served in. At one end of the large space, sound is baffled by an intriguing installation of yarn and wood that looks a little like one loom after another.

We split the guacamole with chicharrones of ribeye, and it was wonderful. Megan loves hot, spicy things; me, not so much. In fact, not at all. So for me the guacamole was perfect—creamy, smooth, and flavorful without a bite but a perfect contrast in texture and taste to the tiny bits of delicious steak. I am also always cautious about ceviche because it often contains shrimp, and I’m allergic. But this was salmon and whitefish in pungent lime sauce. Tasty, but the fish was diced so fine! I’d like the pieces a bit larger.

Megan had a salad of grilled hearts of palm, tomato, avocado, and panela cheese, which proved to be a solid block of a mild cheese—all with a chili vinaigrette. Most people scorn tongue, but I grew up eating it and like it, though my acquaintance is almost entirely with corned beef tongue, as served in our local deli. The menu last night offered tongue tacos (Taco de Lengua) with salsa verde and tequila-cured tomato, onion, and cilantro. I asked the server about the dish, and she said it was one of their most popular. Belatedly, it occurred to me that was probably a clever way for her to encourage me to order it. At any rate I did, and it was superb—rich tasting. The meat had been braised overnight. The salsa was too hot for me, but I put some of the tomato on one of my three tacos and later wished I’d put it inside.

A most satisfying experience. We were too full to even consider tres leches cake or ice cream, but I had a second glass of good chardonnay and Megan had another margarita. Then we drove around the Monticello neighborhood a bit, with Megan remarking that she knew the part of Fort Worth she grew up in and the area around her high school, but there are large chunks of the city that are strange to her. We had planned to do a quick drive to Mule Alley because she wanted to see the Drover Hotel and other developments in the stockyards, but we ran out of time. Megan’s a lawyer and got stuck on a call so we barely made it to the restaurant for our reservation. I told her that tour is a good reason for her to come back soon.

The Burtons were here when we got home, demanding to know why we’d been out so late (nine o’clock). They were full of stories of Cabo with a crowd of birthday celebrants. Megan and Jordan pored over pictures (I figure I’ll see them later) and laughed as they always do when they’re together. Christian gave up and went inside, and I soon announced I was going to bed. This morning there was no sign of life from the house—oh I did see Christian let a dog out—until ten o’clock when Megan came out. The two sisters had sat on the front porch and finished the bottle of wine Megan brought.

Happy times—and now I hear Helen Corbitt calling me.

Soph says goodnight.
A girl needs a pillow for her head.

Changing of the guard—again

 

With Megan. Not my best picture,
but my new tortoise-shell glasses are cool!

Colin left around noon, and Megan arrived about four. I am the most spoiled mom in town. Burtons will be home tomorrow night, but Megan will stay until early Tuesday morning. We have lots of great plans—dinner at Pacific Table, organizing my freezer (she did it not long ago, and it made such a difference!), a drive to the Stockyards because Megan wants to see the new restaurants and hotel on Mule Alley, and I just want to get out. She has promised Sophie a walk around the block—a rare treat. But we both have work to do, so we’ll see what plays out.

I am eating well during this week of kids. Megan and I collaborated tonight on a recipe new to me: Light Chinese Chicken Salad with Hoisin Sauce. I knew Megan likes salads, Asian food, and light suppers. It was a perfect choice, though Christian may think I’m invading his territory. He’s the Asian cook in the household, though less inclined to make salads than more complicated Asian dishes. When I once suggested a chop suey recipe, he informed me that the chop suey of my childhood is today’s stir fry. He gets a bonus from tonight’s dinner, because he didn’t have hoisin sauce in his armament of Asian condiments, and now he does. I bought it for the salad.

At any rate, the salad was good—a vinaigrette with sesame oil, hoisin sauce, rice vinegar, soy; salad was cabbage—do you know how much Napa cabbage costs? I didn’t use it. Used shredded cole slaw mix, shredded cabbage, scallions, bean sprouts, chicken. We topped each serving with chow mein noodles, though Megan points out slivered almonds would add the same crunch and are healthier.

In addition to my children, I have been helped several times by the pet sitter here to take care of the Burtons’ two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels. The girls are old and a bit of a challenge, but Andrea has gone about it, five times a day in this heat, with good grace and a smile. And she has gone above and beyond to help me with kids locked out of the house, packages on the porch, keeping June Bug out of my cottage (her house manners are unreliable) and other small things. If you ever need a pet sitter, I recommend Andrea Rutledge highly. Email or call me for contact info.

Colin stayed to go to virtual church with me this morning, which was a treat, but he chided me for not paying close attention to the readings. I did pay better attention to the sermon, which was about the role of doubt in faith and the wrongness (is that the right word) of being certain you are right about faith and that yours is superior. We “attended” early church and after that, I got a lot more reading done on Helen Corbitt

Now Megan is looking at her phone, and I am going to read. I’m still reading the mystery series by Helen Currie Foster, and to my delight, the current one, Ghost Dagger, takes Alice to Scotland, so as I read, I’m reliving my own visit to the land of my ancestors—and loving it.

We’re to be cooler this week—in the nineties. Six months ago we would not have thought that sounded like relief, but it does now. Enjoy the break everyone and pray for those threatened by fire.

Some thoughts on caretakers

Jordan and me
at her St. Patrick's Day birthday 

Jordan left today for five nights in Austin with her big sister. They plan all kinds of activities from pedicures to party shopping, culminating in my son-in-law’s fiftieth birthday party Saturday night. And let’s not forget the John Mayer concert Thursday in Austin—my girls will go to the ends of the earth to hear John Mayer, but that’s another story.

My nose was a bit out of joint that I wasn’t invited. I somehow have the bad senior parenting idea that I must be included in everything. I remember when I first realized that as adults, they were talking to each other without going through me. Wait! I thought I was communications central. Now they all four talk to each other all the time, and I rarely know what’s going on. As for this trip, both girls said this was simply not the right time for me to be in Austin, and though I want to make a big fuss and give them a guilt trip, I know they are right. I can’t—and don’t want to—do all that running around. And though I’d love to celebrate B’s birthday, the party would be loud with a lot of people I don’t know at someone else’s house, so I couldn’t sneak away whenever I wanted. No, I’m better off at home.

But for me it raised the caretaker question. Jordan is unofficially designated as my caretaker, and yet she’s not only leaving me for almost a week, she has tasked me with feeding her boys Christian and Jacob, a task I willingly take on. But my mind lingers on the thought of how much I need a caretaker.

Granted, I am in my early eighties (I can still honestly say early). Still, I live alone (though help is only yards away), I can handle the routines of daily living, I am still writing and publishing, I socialize with friends albeit mostly on my patio or in my cottage, and I routinely cook meals for four on a hot plate and a toaster oven. I have an active life of my own. Not too shabby.

On the other hand, there are things I can’t do for myself. I don’t drive so I can’t go to doctor appointments, I can’t mop up a spill on the floor (though I try from my seated walker), I sometimes can’t get clothes down from my closet (why did the closet designers put those bars so darn high up?), I need help in the shower to make sure I don’t fall. If I want a dish from the top shelf of the cupboard, I have to ask Jordan.

So it’s a mixed bag—and I admit I probably could not live alone without assistance. On the other hand, I don’t want to go to assisted living for a lot of reasons. I love people, but I don’t want all of them around me all the time. Right now I have the perfect mix of solitude and vibrant company, I want my dog to be able to wander in and out. And a silly, picky point: I get claustrophobic alone in self-service elevators, so the high-rise where most of my friends are is not a solution for me.

But there’s more. I relish the company of Jordan, Jacob, and Christian. I love our dinners together, my garden that Christian and I sometimes agree about and sometimes not, the friends they bring to the house who inevitably come out to give me a hug and maybe sip a glass of wine, the joy of watching Jacob grow and become his own person.  I love being part of their lives and having them in mine.

And in anticipation of this week, I realize that Jordan is what—or who—holds it all together. Yeah, sometimes she’s too busy with work to talk about menus, and I get frustrated. And sometimes, she’s frustrated that I need to ask for help on little things—and big, like finding the exact pan I want to cook something or feeding Sophie a pill. But without her, we are a bit adrift, without an anchor.

Tonight I had my two neighbors for our usual Tuesday night happy hour, and then I served the boys Big Mac salad. Jordan had given me explicit directions on how she did it—she does what I decry and tailors each plate to individual taste. I was raised that you eat what was set before you and there were no exceptions, except in case of allergy but I can’t remember any allergies from my childhood. Dislikes, yes; allergies, no. So tonight I let each “boy” serve himself, and Christian did most of the dishes. We’ll be all right this week, but we will be glad when she’s home again.

And I’ve already planned a couple of dinner for next week—four nights, including some out—so she doesn’t have to worry about that, because I know she’ll hit the deck worrying about her business that’s been neglected.

Have fun, Jordan and Megan. Happy Birthday, B. And Christian and Jacob, thanks for stepping up to the caretaker’s role. I know you’re there if I need you. I love you all a lot.  

How my garden grows

 

Okay, ignore the picture. Me in my work-day outfit, which means pajamas, no make-up, hair barely combed. But a happy smile on my face. I’m digging into the dirt and planting herbs in my new portable garden. It’s exactly what I wanted, because I can sit on my rollator and work in it. It’s taken us a while to get to this point—Christian wanted to varnish the outside, but with the rainy weather we’ve had that didn’t go as quickly as he wanted.

Then I had to buy some gravel to put in the bottom. As usual, I overthought the whole thing. At first, I thought there was a gravel company really close to us, but then I discovered it had closed. Then I tried to call gravel companies to ask what kind I needed and could they deliver. It was obvious they weren’t interested in a tiny job like mine, and most had no phone contact. Finally, I did what I should have done all along: I called the nice young man whose crews maintain our yard. He said to get it from the local hardware. Duh! Always glad to patronize a local small business.

So we got the gravel and dirt, and today Jordan put in the liner, pea gravel, dirt, and potting soil. I sat in my rollator and helped spread gravel and dirt evenly. This may sound insignificant, but so much is done for me that I can’t help with that it was a delight to be able to be part of this. And doing it with Jordan—and some laughter and giggles—made it special.

We planted the herbs we had. Tomorrow’s errand list includes a trip to the nursery where fall herbs are on sale—we have thyme, oregano, basil, and chives. Those are my basics, but I’d like to add cilantro, parsley, and dill (I’ve never had luck with dill because caterpillars eat it). Jordan pointed out some trailing plants would look good on the bottom shelf, so I want to look at trailing rosemary. Though I suspect that shelf should be reserved for tools, etc. Anyway, I’m delighted to have plants in the soil.

A good day in other ways. I wrote 600 words on an article—or what I hope will be an article. The first words are always the hardest, and this struck me as a longish introduction and perhaps too personal for the market I’m targeting. But I’m a believer in writing it the way you hear it in your head.

Tonight we planned salmon for dinner, but when dinnertime came Jordan and I found ourselves staring at each other. Jacob had a high school football game, and Christian had an event. I thought a pound and a half of salmon was extravagant for the two of us. But then, just before we were to eat, Christian came home. I made a vinegar/oil herb sauce for the fish—really good. But then we had very lemony salads with avocado and blue cheese, and hearts of palm angel hair pasta with lemon butter. Jordan loved it, but it was too much acid in one meal for me.

The pasta is interesting. It felt soft in the package (not cellophane so we couldn’t see it) and the directions said nothing about cooking it. Just pour on sauce and heat. So she did—and it was pretty al dente. Next time, Jordan says she’ll cook it. But it is carb free, gluten free, etc. That always makes me nervous, because I want to know what they added to compensate for what they took out. (I would never make a good vegan.) I did not taste hearts of palm in it at all, which was to me a disappointment and to Christian a benefit.

Tomorrow Megan comes from Austin for the weekend. So excited to have her here. The girls will go to the football game, but then tomorrow night Christian will grill and we’ll have a big family dinner. Sunday, brunch at Pacific Table and take-out dinner from Joe T.’s. I’m so looking forward to all of this, but mostly to having my Megan here.

Topsy-turvy and out of kilter

 

That’s how things have been at my cottage the last few days, but mostly in a good way. Jordan is off in Fort Davis, with a group of girls, staying at the family home of one. While she’s away, Austin daughter Megan has come to visit, bringing along her youngest son, Ford. He and Jacob are only four months apart in age and are close buddies, so that’s a treat for both of them.

We’re a working group. Megan has her computer, though much of her work is by phone. She’s alternated between working in the main house and at my coffee table. Jacob of course has virtual school all day, while Ford, best as I know, is preparing for those standardized tests he will take next week. I have been trying to put together the June issue of the Poobah, our neighborhood newspaper, but my wifi connection has been slow to nonexistent. I’ve had a good lesson in how dependent I am on the internet—even editing articles when I want to look for illustrations, etc. Several of the information sites I rely on, including cooking sites, are so slow to load that I confess I lost patience. A frustrating day.

Last night Megan’s longtime friend, Amy, came for happy hour. The girls went to kindergarten together and then all through elementary, high school, and college. In law school, they were roommates. So they had lots of catching up to do. I visited with them for a bit and then came inside. By 8:30 I realized that I was really hungry, and we should feed two teen-age boys. I had fixed my current favorite casserole, Queso Chicken, and we ate a one-dish meal late at night and sat and talked until way too late.

Tonight, we took the boys to Pacific Table, one of Megan’s favorite restaurants. Lovely to sit on the patio with just enough breeze. Who cares about the noisy trains? Both boys ate sushi, an incredible amount for Ford and a chopsticks lesson for Jacob. We dined early, were home by seven o’clock and Megan asked, “What will we do now?” She cleaned and organized my freezer. Visiting daughters are so wonderful. And she gave my computer at least a temporary fix, so I am back in business and was able to clean up a lot of details from this morning.

The pictures I’m posting are from Jordan’s trip to West Texas. Such beautiful country. Makes me want to be there. I hope you enjoy them.

A not-so-minor explosion

June Bug enjoying happy hour on the patio

You know that big storm we had last night? The one that came up in two minutes flat, turned daylight to immediate dark, and blew so hard I feared for my lovely old oaks? Yes, that one. It was nothing compared to the explosion in the cottage this afternoon.

Let me back up. My younger son, Jamie, is coming over from Frisco this week. Knowing he’s partial to Diet Coke (which makes his mother frown because of the aspartame), Jordan bought a twelve-pack and stocked my fridge. Four cans left over, so I put them on the butcher block and this afternoon was busily transferring them to the bottom shelf.

I dropped one! I’m not sure how, perhaps my hand was wet and slippery. But it fell at my feet, puncturing a hole in the surprisingly fragile can and sending sticky sweet liquid everywhere. I resigned myself to mopping the floor and wiping down some of the other things on the bottom shelf.

Just then Jordan walked in, looked at my desk  (probably five or six feet from the kitchen) and asked, “What happened? It’s all wet?” The more she looked, the more frustrated she became. Long story short, she mopped the floor three times, washed down cabinets and walls, appliances and the fridge and sink, muttering all the while about a forthcoming invasion of ants. She found it in my bedroom (next to the kitchen) and at the other end of the cottage on the coffee table. She was hot and frustrated, and I sat helplessly by. I know better than to get in her way. Worst of it is she had spent an hour and a half yesterday thoroughly cleaning the cottage.

Sophie observed all this with a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty. She watched from the bedroom doorway and then tried to investigate what was on the floor when Jordan pulled out the butcher block. Jordan kept saying, “Out from under my feet!”

Order is restored, and I’m going to cook one of Jordan’s favorite dinners—spinach fettucine with mushrooms, artichoke hearts, green onion, pesto, and lots of lemon and butter. The boys can fend for themselves since they don’t eat mushrooms or artichoke hearts.

I did a bit of creative cooking earlier today. Made gazpacho from a recipe by Texas food and travel writer and cook extraordinaire June Naylor Harris, only I halved it and made it my own by substituting green onion for a red onion and leaving out the serrano chile. I am just not a chile person—I guess it’s because way back when, over fifty-five years ago, I was a northerner, and I’ve just never learned to like spicy. I’m letting it chill until tomorrow, but it smells wonderful.

It was a joy tonight to sit on the patio comfortably. The air is not cool but not oppressively hot, and we had the fan on. Loved being out there again and not cooped up behind closed doors. I wish spring and fall in Texas lasted all year.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

Home again, dinner, and back in the routine

My version of Cobb salad

Jordan is home again, and we’re glad to have her back. I fixed her a welcome-home supper—well, sort of. Before she left, she suggested a salad or something easy would be good so she wouldn’t have to cook. So I made Cobb salad—well, at least I prepped the ingredients: boned a rotisserie chicken, boiled some small new potatoes, and hard-boiled some eggs.

When she came home, I said dinner was all ready. We just had to peel the potatoes and eggs and fry the bacon. Plus cut up avocado and hearts of palm, and wash and put out cherry tomatoes. She looked at me and said, “That’s a lot of work.”

Tonight was our regular Tuesday night happy hour with neighbors Mary and Prudence, and Jordan regaled them with her story of her welcome-home dinner and how much remained to be done. But when it came suppertime, I peeled the potatoes, shelled the eggs, and fried the bacon. Got everything out of the fridge but asked her to plate it (we decided on individual Cobb salads rather than one big platter) because she knows what her boys will eat and what they won’t.

She confessed she was just making jokes and really likes to cook with me. We’re a good team in my tiny kitchen, though she constantly warns me not to run over her toes with my walker, and she sometimes banishes me because I get in her way. I tell her she should wear better shoes than flip-flops.

She is home for sure. Immediately rearranged the patio to suit her, rearranged things in my kitchen, took stock of what I need from the grocery, and generally told me what’s what. I am so grateful. And I imagine she did that inside her house tonight. So now, Jordan is taking care of all of us, the world is back in its orbit, and all is well. I assured her that Christian took good care of me, which amounts to seeing that I did not lack for company in the evenings and checking on me in the mornings. All the evenings she was gone but one, he and Jacob came out for supper, and the remaining night he came out to visit.

I am having the great dentist debate. I usually get my teeth cleaned every three months, because I have “that kind” of teeth. I should have gone in April but cancelled due to the virus. Now I have an appointment in two days, and I am waffling. I called the dentist’s office, and they detailed their precautions, which sounded good. But then Jordan said how uncertain some of her friends are. Then my neighbor said her physician-husband went to the dentist and found the precautions highly reassuring. So do I go or not? I will have to make up my mind overnight, because if I don’t go, I owe them the courtesy of 24 hours’ notice.

As everyone knows, cases in Texas are surging, and Fort Worth/Tarrant County, which had a relatively low daily new case count for a long time, is also seeing a surge. It’s mostly young people, which makes me wonder if they are the ones ignoring masks and eating in restaurants and not following strict guidelines. I meanwhile am going overboard perhaps, but I take this seriously. What a dilemma!

Rain all around us last night and today, but not a drop for us. I was so hoping it would dump on my new grass. This morning a neighbor assured me it was going to rain tonight, and I took it as gospel. Unfortunately, nothing happened, although Jordan said the ground was moist this afternoon. At any rate, the grass still looks good, and I am still praying for rain.

Sweet dreams, everyone.

A quiet and safe Fourth of July

Fireworks in Fort Worth

The pool in Blanco

It’s a quiet Fourth at the Alter/Burton compound. Jordan ahs gone off with her high school girlfriends for a weekend at a rental house in Blanco. The house they’ve rented has a wonderful view of the Hill Country and a smashing swimming pool, which would be important to them as they like to lie out. (My granddaughter recently said something to me about laying around, and I quickly corrected her that it’s lying around—but I can’t correct these girls.)

I truly admire Jordan and her friends for remaining so close in the years since high school. I won’t give away their ages, but trust me—they’ve seen more than one high school reunion. Yet these are the women she would turn to first in moments of joy or crisis. And I am most fond of each of them.

Meanwhile, back in Fort Worth, Christian, Jacob, and I are having a quiet but satisfactory time. Jordan charged Christian with taking care of me, and he’s most attentive. Lucky for him though I am over whatever bug I had and do not require as much attention or sympathy. Today I read most of the day, because I have a book I agreed to review, and I figured the best way to go after it was to get it done. So I devoted the day to it.

It’s a book about two women traveling through France, seeking the stories of women in various small cities and towns about food and family and how they survived World War II. I enjoyed it, especially the family stories and the recipes. One of a man who was separated from his mother as a child by the bombing of Paris and how that affected him as an adult. Another about a woman whose family had a farm. Of what they ate, she said, “We didn’t have to diet,” as she described sometimes having one potato for a family of five. Even in these difficult times in America, I don’t think we can truly grasp the hardship of Europeans during that war.

As for food, my comment is that the French sure ate a lot of rabbit—in rillettes (I think that’s a paté) and stews and other dishes. I have had rabbit once—chicken-fried—and liked it, but like many Americans I am leery of looking at a bunny and then finding it on the dinner table. The French apparently have no such compunctions, and I’m not sure why I do. We eat chicken, don’t we?

Back to the mundane. Christian and I decided on take-out fried chicken tonight. We chose a nearby restaurant, but friends told Christian the chicken was really spicy. He knows I don’t like that, so we settled for the Cook Shack—I had a good chicken sandwich and cole slaw but not the fried pickles I wanted. And I still have a craving for good, old-fashioned, bone-in fried chicken. When quarantine is over—will it ever end?—I’m going to Drew’s Place, where they serve soul food, including fried chicken with mashed potatoes and green beans. Meantime, this was good.

Christian is spending evenings watering my new grass. The rain we hoped for has not materialized and is now not predicted for a couple of days. Like taking care of me, watering the grass was one of the things Jordan charged him with while she is gone. Woe to him if she comes home and finds brown spots!

So ends an unusual Fourth. I found it hard to feel celebratory today. I’m too upset about where my country is, with a pandemic killing thousands of my fellow Americans and racial unrest being fueled by the man who is supposedly leading us. America today is not the country of my dreams—I pray that we will be able to reverse this and begin the long, slow climb back to greatness, a new kind of greatness that leaves behind some of the problems that got us where we are today. But we need a totally new administration to do that.

A dull day and some nice moments

Today was another basically cloudy day, and I felt it in my mood—no enthusiasm for anything on my desk, just a desire to get through the day and a longing to go back to my bed. But the day did get better as it went along. And there were nice moments, starting last night.

I made smothered chicken and fresh green beans, which, yes, I had to trim and snap. Jordan was my sous chef and a huge help. But having a sous chef in my tiny kitchen area means we trip over each other. Nonetheless we created a credible meal—chicken thighs in gravy. Jordan and Christian liked it, but I thought the gravy had a raw flour taste—I didn’t cook it long enough. Of course, cooking was accompanied by a bit of wine and some time on the patio.

Tonight we sat on the patio again. Our neighbor, Jay, is quarantined in his guest house, having just come home from Florida. So he sits in his window, and we sit on the patio, and we talk. More neighborly than we’ve been in months. We got to reminiscing about Jacob’s childhood—he was in the driveway shooting baskets. Sparked by a Facebook memory picture of him at five in his baseball uniform, we recalled the time he hid in the house. I called and called and couldn’t find him. So I called Jay next door. He came and called and called and finally said, “Call 911. He’s not here.”

I was standing at the kitchen phone—still had a wall phone, no cell phone—and noticed Jacob under the dining room table. He didn’t come out because he was afraid that he was in trouble. There was a mixed chorus of “We love you” and “Do you know how worried we were?” It embarrasses him when we tell stories like that.

The dogs got in for their share of attention, and June Bug was particularly cute under the basil. I’ve been a nag about wanting to get the basil off my desk, out of the tiny greenhouse container and into a real pot. Finally tonight Christian put the basil plants in a chair to remember to take to the front porch to plant. Juney hid under the chair. Must have known she made a good photo op.

I did some good reading today, getting background on my next, food-related project, reading about the food landscape in the 1950s and the rise of packaged food and the idea of “glamorizing” prepared food. Interesting stuff. Tonight I’m reading more of The Splendid and the Vile, by Erik Larson—an in-depth look at Churchill and the early, bombing-dominated years of WWII in England. Fascinating stuff.

So my mood is better, and I hope to carry it on to tomorrow. I think this isolation is hard on all of us, and an occasional blue spell is neither unusual nor a reason for guilt. I am blessed to have Jordan, who guards me so carefully, and Christian and Jacob, my cottage, my dog, my writing. So many people are facing such hardship during this crisis, that I feel almost self-indulgent. I worry, for instance, about my niece who is an R.N. in a COVIC-19 hospital unit in New York City.

May God smile on you and yours and keep you safe and healthy.

The ongoing saga of my car

Thidaughter, s was when I first started to drive again

after two years away from the wheel

As many of you may know, I drive a 2004 VW Beetle convertible that I adore. It’s my “I’m-not-your-typical-grandmother” car, and I adore zipping around in it—or I did. For almost two years, when I had so much trouble with my hip and the surgery, the car sat—first outside my cottage and then outside my son’s house in Tomball, where I thought they would drive it. They didn’t, and when I finally was able to drive again, I had to do a lot of expensive repairs.

I had such a sense of release and freedom. I drove with a joy and confidence I never had before. Lately though that confidence has been replaced by uncertainty and a slight tendency toward panic. Long story short, I’m not enjoying driving much, and it’s a real dilemma for me. For one thing, it’s a pain when I am alone to get the walker and then me into the car and reverse the procedure whenever I get where I am going. And Jordan doesn’t want me to get in or out alone. She’s afraid I’ll fall or get mugged. So lately it’s been easier just not to drive.

But cars don’t do well just sitting. I’ve had to have the battery jumped twice, mostly because I didn’t park it in such a way that Christian could get a car next to it to use jumper cables. Garages have those handy little things they carry around and don’t need cables. Jacob has been good about going out to start it, but it still doesn’t last long. So today, Christian jumped it—we had parked deliberately the last time we started it—and Jordan and I drove to get gas and to get eggs and milk at Braum’s.

My beloved daughter turned into a back-seat driver. “The gas station is on the left”—I know that. I’ve lived in this neighborhood over fifty years. “Slow down. There are people walking in the street”—I see them and am being careful. As I drove in the driveway, “Wait for the gate to open”—I’ve been driving in this driveway with that gate for about twenty years. “Why won’t your windows go all the way up?” Because the door is still open. Sheesh! I can see the handwriting on the wall, the point at which my kids will think I should no longer drive, though after my two-year hiatus, each one had to drive with me to check me out, and each one had different objections. Truth is, I’m a  pretty good side-street driver, not so much on busy streets, and not at all on freeways..

Christian was quite stern with me: I will have to drive it frequently; we can’t keep jumping it. And I can do that, albeit it’s a bit of a pain. Next dilemma: my driver‘s license comes up in July, and at my age I will have to appear in person and take the test, the thought of which gives me the nervous willies. Sometimes they require that you wear your hearing aids and not drive after dark—I’m okay with that. I would like to keep my license, if for no other reason than in another year Jacob will have his learner’s permit, and I can let him drive as long as I am in the car as a licensed driver. I’d probably give him the car, but he doesn’t much like it, and Christian supported him by saying, “It’s not a very masculine car.” What kind of nonsense is that? When I drove it a lot, women came up to me to say, “My husband would kill for that car.”

So here I sit, pondering all these variables. At least, it’s not a decision I have to make tomorrow, and it’s a good distraction from worrying about the corona virus.