Mother’s Day whirlwind

 

Happy Mother’s Day to all—birth mothers, adoptive mothers, stepmothers, surrogate mothers, yes—even mothers-in-law. I fit in more than one of those categories, and in my long life I have had several mother figures whose memories today leave me filled with awe and gratitude. Mothering, I’ve decided, is what Ron DeSantis would call “woke”—simply the willingness to care for others, to nurture. So cheers—and pots of flowers or special dinners or whatever—to all those “other mothers.”

This weekend I was on the receiving end of Mother’s Day thanks to my two daughters—and it was a whirlwind of a weekend. Megan arrived Friday, having ridden the Vonlane executive bus from Austin, and, after much planning and changing of minds, we had Cobb salad for dinner. Before I knew it, it was midnight—we had talked the night away.

Last night, Megan said to me, “I feel like all I did today was eat, drink, and hang out.” She was exactly right, though we started the morning (eleven o’clock is a start for my girls on Saturday) with a visit to my brother in the rehab facility. First time the girls had seen him in a long time, and there was lots of laughter.

Then on to Quince, the new restaurant on the river. I had heard both good and bad reports on it. Jordan had recently been to the mother restaurant in San Miguel and was eager to go back. And Megan was excited because Quince will be opening just blocks from her house in Austin. They loved it. I had a good salad of charred peaches, tomato, and burrata but much of the menu was too spicy for me (just cannot do spicy!) or had shrimp (I’m allergic). Several dinner entrees seemed to fit my taste more, and I’ll look forward to a dinner trip. It’s a lovely, bright space.

Home for a nap, and then a clothes modelling session. While I slept the girls bought me what seemed like an entire new wardrobe, and I had to try it all on. Of course I had to wear one new outfit for dinner. We went to Grace, the restaurant in the Omni Hotel. It’s not at all new, but I had never been, always considered it beyond my grasp. Megan is good about teaching me to spurge, and we had a lovely meal—steak for her, Diver scallops on tiny potato cakes for Jordan and me. And an inventive side of roasted onion with bacon and blue cheese. Impeccable service, interesting décor, and a great place for people watching. Megan said more than once, “Mom, you’re not paying attention,” and I said I was too busy watching the scene.

Some happy encounters during dinner: we were discussing the dessert menu (before we ordered so we’d know if we should save room) and Megan read off cookies and milk. A little boy at the next table, maybe four years old, leaned over and said, “You can dip the cookies in the milk,” and proceeded to demonstrate. His party left and was replaced by one with a younger boy, maybe eighteen months. When the adults at his table raised a toast, he joined them with his sippy cup. I saw it, mentioned it to the girls, and the child turned around and toasted with Megan. Finally, an older gentleman (well, not as old as I am) stopped by the table to wish me Happy Mother’s Day. No, we did not know him, but he told the girls, “You are almost as lovely as your mother.” Now there’s a charmer! And those are the kind of things that make me love living in Fort Worth.

My clean and neat closet

Christian's perfect
Egg Benedict

Today started with Eggs Benedict that Christian fixed on Jordan’s request—it was his first try to poach eggs and to make Hollandaise. He nailed both—perfection! But the big gift of the day was my closet—the girls totally cleaned it out. Six and a half years ago, they had just moved everything from house to cottage—the goal was to get it in place. I’ve never sorted it since, can’t reach the high hanging bar. They were
ruthless about discards—stains, too small, too dated, and out it went. Megan color- coordinated the hanging things (amazing how many red tops I have, which she thinks she is mostly responsible for). Tonight I have a neat, orderly closet and my dresser is piled high with discards. A huge Mother’s Day gift, and I am grateful.

closet discards

Megan has gone to Austin, but we will have one last celebration: roast salmon, smashed potatoes, and shredded Brussel sprouts. Then, tomorrow, it’s back to routine, but it has been a wonderful weekend, and I am feeling most blessed and grateful.

A little cooking, a little reading … and a cloudy morning

 

Years ago, when my children were still very young, my newly widowed mom moved from North Carolina to Fort Worth. She lived just a couple of blocks from us, and she ate dinner with us almost every night. She and I team cooked. Since I learned to cook from my mom, I’m sure I learned a lot more during those sessions, though the thing I most remember is that she could not, would not throw away even the tiniest bit of leftovers. It did no good to remind her that two tablespoons of something wouldn’t go far in a family of six. Her solution was to put it in the soup pot.

Now it’s Jordan’s turn. We all eat together maybe three to five nights a week, and we cook in my tiny kitchen. Jordan never really cooked with me when she was young, and she is a good cook with a limited repertoire, so she, too, is learning. Last night we were making steak fingers, but there was more meat than frying pan space, so we cooked in batches. I suggested she fry the first batch, while I coated the second with flour, salt and pepper. It was an exercise in frustration for her.

“How hot?”

“Oh,” I said, “you know. Hot enough to get a crust but not too hot.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. Until the pieces have a nice crust.”

Me, a little bit later, “Smells like it’s done to me.” Wonder why she gave me that sarcastic look (if looks can be sarcastic).

Dinner was good. The steak pieces just right. I serve them with lemon, which Jordan remembers from her childhood. I asked if she’d prefer pan gravy, but she said she liked the lemon.

I’m still following stories about educational gag orders. These are the places now in the news for classroom restrictions: All of Florida, and particularly Sarasota County; Bucks County, Pennsylvania, once the home of intellectuals; Keller, Texas, where administration seems to be stepping back on an ill-advised, knee-jerk reaction, which proves negative publicity and public outrage are effective; Jamestown township in Michigan where a small group loudly protested LGBTQ books in the library—they are about .001% of the collection—and defeated a tax proposal to support the library so now, with 85% of its funding gone, the library may have to close. Voter turnout was small, and citizens are fighting back in support of the library.

The day started as cloudy, and I was so encouraged. It was nice not to have the sun beating down. Reminded me of a old Reader’s Digest joke about the man who was vacationing in Florida, woke up, looked out the window, and said, “Another damn sunny day!” But now the sun is shining, and the temperature climbing though it’s not supposed to go over a hundred. One of my Austin friends, writing of the rain and sudden cool weather, said it felt like a fever had broken. I thought it was a perfect description. They are getting rain in Central Texas, and we up north have hopes for the coming week.

That old joke prompts me to ask how many remember Reader’s Digest and its wealth of jokes? When I was young, we had a book that was a compilation of those jokes—oh boy, I almost had that thing memorized. Older and fancying myself a writer, that was one market I really wanted to hit, but it was a tough one. I came close because an established author introduced me to an editor. But I never quite made it. My story was about a teenage girl, the daughter of friends, who was getting in trouble at home, keeping company with the wrong crowd, and was sent to live with us, with our blessing. When her boyfriend got out of prison in another state and came for her, she ran away with him. I had to go to the police station, retrieve her, and send her back home. For a few nights there, my then-husband slept with an iron pipe by the bed. Today, I’m sure it would have been a gun, and the boyfriend would have had a gun. I can’t help thinking today’s proliferation of guns might have meant a totally different and disastrous outcome. Occasionally, an out-of-the-ordinary episode like that jumps into my mind. Maybe I should write that memoir.

And maybe I’m rambling.

My two sons

 

With Jamie here for two days, followed by Colin for two days, I’ve been thinking about how alike and yet how very different my two sons are. This occurred to me because meal prep for each was so different. For Jamie, I fixed a vegetarian dinner Wednesday—green noodles and squash casserole—and Thursday we had BBQ. They did overlap on that, because Colin suggested he’d stop and bring BBQ and I had to say I’d just had it. So last night, I fixed him salmon croquettes—Jamie won’t touch salmon, wouldn’t have liked the capers I put in them (neither did I—kitchen fail!).

Then I began to think of other differences. Jamie drives a red Lexus sports car; Colin drives aFa huge pick-up that for some reason he has jacked up since the last time I tried to get into it. Jamie lives in an upscale suburb; Colin, on the edge of a small Texas city, virtually in the country. (I have a wonderful picture of the two of them, but I can't find it, so there's Sophie again.)

Of course, they share many similarities. They are, like their sisters, fond of their siblings and close to them. Nothing makes these grown Alter kids happier than a family get-together. But there’s something special between the boys—a loving rivalry that one year prompted me at Christmas to get matching T-shirts that said, “Mom loves me best.” Another year, each one got a tool belt, and they had tool-belt duels in my kitchen. Both are marathoners or have been, literally and figuratively following in their father’s footsteps. And both now, are in their fifties-how did that happen?

Another thing they have in common but don’t is a disregard for time: Jamie is chronically late because he gets involved in something and doesn’t leave it. Colin, on the other hand, never sees a reason to get upset or hurry. He’s the one who, when I get upset about a rude driver, will say to me, “Look at you! Why are you so upset?” Tonight he left a little before five to pick up groceries at Central Market, swing by Lucile’s for lobster rolls, and come home. By seven I called to ask if he was negotiating to buy Lucile’s (he’s in the private equity business). He said no, but he’d met some interesting people at the bar, and he just stayed talking.

Tomorrow, Colin leaves and Megan arrives. It will give me the prompt to think about how my girls are alike and different. They, too, are best friends. Each watches her weight and diet, so I have to be careful with both. Fixing an Asian chicken salad for Meg tomorrow night—an experiment.

Meantime, Colin took Sophie to the vet this morning but was back so fast I couldn’t imagine what he’d done. She got a steroid shot and an order for Robitussin. Dr. Minnerly said her cough is aggravated by the heat and the dust and will diminish if and when we ever get some rain. I can tell she’s better already—unfortunately one thing that tells me is that her bark sounds better, and she is frantically barking at something the neighbor boys are doing. But early this morning she was uninterested in her food; an hour after her visit to the vet, she ate. And I haven’t heard a cough yet. (I did hear some coughing late in the afternoon, but nothing prolonged like it had been.)

A side note on the vet trip: Colin came home and said, “Dr. Minnerly said he has a patient base of 6,000. Do you know what number you are?” and I replied right away, “Two, and number one is inactive.” I had known about second place for a while but did not know the extent of his client list. It’s a milestone of some sort, though I’m not sure what. We moved to the TCU area in 1969, when Colin was not yet a year old, and I’m sure that’s when we started going to University Animal Clinic.

It's like Carshon’s Deli, where Colin has been going since he was an infant. Now, he won’t come to town without a visit to Carshon’s. Today he got himself a Rebecca sandwich. How lovely is it to have all that history, all that tradition built into our lives!

I repeat, as I often do: I am blessed.

Daughters

 

Daughters

Sisters

Remember that old rhyme, “A son is a son until he takes a wife/A daughter is a daughter all of her life.” Not to diss on my sons because I am still close to both of them, but the daughter part is spot on.

My daughters are four-and-a-half years apart in age. For much of their young life, they shared a bedroom—the age gap was just enough to make that difficult, but there was no other choice. In the mid-1980s we moved to a long, low ranch-style house and converted the two-car garage into a bedroom the boys shared (that was a disaster of sorts, but that’s another story). For the first time, the girls had their own bedrooms, adjacent but separate. By then they were something like ten and fifteen, with wildly different habits and interests.

Megan was in that teenage phase where she’d slam into her room and avoid all of us. Her room was a mess, but a wise person told me to pick my battles and, for the most part, I chose to ignore the chaos of dirty clothes and an unmade bed. Jordan, on the other hand, was still in the “Yes, Mommy” phase, which I enjoyed. When Megan would throw a teen tantrum, I’d look at Jordan and say, “You won’t ever do that, will you.” Her answer was always, “No, Mommy.” In later years she did it in spades in her own way, but that too is another story.

For some reason, my good intentions as a mother overcame my common sense, and I allowed Jordan and her friends to spray paint whatever they wanted on the walls of her bedroom—I was shocked by some of the language. Megan thought the whole thing disgusting. Jordan tells me she once walked through an apartment complex on her way home from school, only to see Megan sunning in Jordan’s pink bikini. To this day, she says, “She stole my bikini!” Megan had a series of boyfriends; Jordan was just beginning to think boys might be interesting. Megan dieted; Jordan did not. I could go on.

To say that they were not close is an understatement. But somewhere along the way, they made up—and then, gradually, they became best friends. This past weekend, as I’ve said, Jordan went to Austin to celebrate Megan’s fiftieth with M’s girlfriends. She reports a wonderful time, and she sent a picture. Not the usual numerous pictures she usually sends, but just one.  Makes me wonder.

At a John Mayer concert
They are both dippy about him and travel wherever
to hear him sing. Beats me!

They call each other, “Sister.” When anything of note happens around here, Jordan quickly says, “Let’s call Sister.” Be it good news or bad. And sometimes I find out they’ve been talking behind my back. They’re still different in many ways—Megan, a lawyer, and Jordan, a luxury travel consultant. Megan likes to cook; Jordan pretty much lets Christian or me cook whenever she can. Megan is an avid football fan, especially if TCU is playing; Jordan doesn’t much care. But both are essentially cheerful souls, gregarious, with a positive outlook on life. Both like to lunch and shop and sit by the pool soaking up the sun. Both are the mothers of sons, which gives them a lot in common. (If karma really worked, they would have daughters to repay them in kind—I long ago decided boys are easier because you generally don’t know what trouble they’re into; girls are in your face about it.)

My girls truly love each other. (Well, all my kids love each other, and family reunions are high on their lists, so pandemic is especially hard on us). I am so blessed that the girls are such good friends and that they often include me in their adventures—and long lunches. I’m proud of them and just wanted to brag a bit on them.

Ladies night, some good food, and some anxiety

Cheese grits dinner

It was definitely ladies’ night for my girls and me last night. Megan, in Austin, and Jordan, sitting at my elbow and always reaching for the mouse, walked me through  a Zoom call. It took quite a bit of doing since I was sideways on the screen—we finally went to the account granddaughter Maddie had opened for me and figured out how to rotate the camera. Hurray! I am now right side up. This was important because I am to be on a panel for the Boerne Book Festival October 3, and I figured sideways did not lead to productive discussion.

Then later in October, I am looking forward to attending, remotely, the Bouchercon mystery con. I have only been to one Bouchercon but always wanted to go again. Even last year when it was in Dallas, travel was difficult enough for me that I didn’t try it. So this year, I can attend remotely. Looking forward to putting faces to a lot of familiar names.

After the Zoom call, Jordan and I had a ladies night dinner—yes, we left Christian and Jacob to fend for themselves with leftovers while we dined on scallops au gratin (scallops were on sale at Central Market) and an artichoke that we split. I had Reese’s hollandaise in the fridge—I know, I know I should make my own, but I’ve not been really successful at that in recent times. Anyway, it was delicious, though the gratin was a bit liquid. Got to work on that.

Seems to be a food-oriented period for us. Tonight we had a meatless dish (unless you count chicken bouillon)—cheese grits (with lots of butter and extra cheese) topped by spicy black beans, thinly sliced radishes, diced green onion, and avocado slices. Each person got a lime wedge to squeeze over the dinner. I announced I thought it was one of my favorite meals, and Christian replied that it wasn’t a favorite of his. Then he realized he’d caught himself, and repeated several times that it was just fine, we’d had it before, he liked it—but it’s not his favorite meal. I resisted asking if his favorite is steak and baked potatoes, but I’m betting that’s it.

This is sort of a ho-hum week—until tomorrow when Saving Irene launches. But yesterday I spent the day on small stuff—straightening out a bill, fixing an email problem, that kind of busy-ness. Today I wrote 450 words—not a great deal, but they were words hard come by. I was working on a lesson for the online chef class, this about why until recently there were so few female and black chefs in major kitchens. Hard to put succinctly without bias, but I think I managed. Later this week I will tackle the Black half of the post which is even trickier—it really will encompass all persons of color, but Black Americans make up the majority and that’s where I’ll focus. And try to be politically correct.

If any one wants to learn more about chefs, the class is “Writing the Professional or Amateur Chef,” and you can find out more at https://www.rwakissofdeath.org/coffin-classes. I learned so much about the culinary world researching for this, and I’m hoping some foodies like me will want to take the class. The irony for me is that I did the research after I finished Saving Irene with its wannabe French chef. I’m not sure if I’d have changed anything in the novel or not.

All during quarantining I’ve practiced a kind of blatant optimism that must have grated on my friends’ nerves. Now I find myself experiencing some of the anxiety that I have read so many others have dealt with all along. I think it’s anxiety about the election. I am so convinced that it must go one way and so terrified of the results if it goes the other. I asked Jordan tonight how she felt about moving to Scotland, which sort of startled her.

Sweet dreams everyone. Put your anxiety in the closet and forbit I to come out until morning.

 

A day with my daughters

Jordan at the Jewel Charity Ball

Today was another Saturday that broke the mold of my usual Saturdays. My daughters and I had brunch at the Taste Project, with them laughing because I said I usually eat tuna salad and cottage cheese on Saturday mid-day.

Maybe you’ve been to this unique restaurant that’s part of the revitalization of South Main in Fort Worth. If not, let me tell you about it. The idea is that you pay what you can afford for the meal. Menu items have a price, and they do give you a check after you finish your meal. But if you can’t afford to pay anything, no problem—and I’m pretty sure I saw some homeless folks looking for a free meal. Perhaps some people pay what they can, to show good faith, even if they can’t afford the meal. And some, like us, overpay because we think it’s such a wonderful contribution to the community.

This was the second time I’ve been there. Jordan and I went—she thinks a year ago for her March birthday. I remember we had lamb burgers which were terrific but too much. We should have split one. Jordan wanted to take half home to Jacob, but no deal. That’s one unusual aspect of this creative restaurant: no doggie bags. Can’t eat all your meal? Too bad. You can’t take it with you. Serving the underserved as they do, you can see the logic behind this rule.

I initially started to order a meatloaf sandwich, one of my all-time favorites. I thought I'd take half home, but then I realized I couldn't do that. So I turned down the meatloaf and the chicken salad sandwich which also caught my attention, in favor of a salad, which I knew I could finish.

Today, the girls split avocado toast, which came topped with scrambled eggs, and a vegetable omelet. One of those items was topped with ricotta, but I’m not sure which, and there was an accompaniment of home-style fries. I had a blood orange salad with blood orange dressing and roasted beets. All of it was delicious.

The décor is industrial modern—clean and neat, open and airy. Many of the workers are volunteers. In fact, one young man wore a TCOM T-shirt, and I couldn’t resist telling him I’d been part of the osteopathic college when it first opened, gasp! fifty years ago.

All in all, it was a lovely experience, and I’m anxious to go back. Parking is a problem, especially for me with my walker, but we were able to get a place close to the front door.

Megan took a one o’clock bus back to Austin, Jordan went hunting for a ball gown, and I had a nap. Tonight, I had that tuna and cottage cheese they teased me about. Jordan and Christian are off to the Jewel Charity Ball, dining and dancing in high cotton. She looks lovely in her sparkly black gown. I am ready to settle down and finish the novel I’m reading, but I’m waiting for Jacob to decide he wants the burrito I have for his dinner. Back to routine tonight, after a nice break.                                                                                           

An Amazing Day

Yesterday was an amazing day, mostly thanks to my daughters. We set off mid-morning from Auston for San Marcos, and the Witliff Collection/Southwest Writers Collection housed at Texas State University. The collection has an exhibit, up through mid-December, titled, “Literary Frontiers: Historical Fiction and the Creative Imagination.” And my early novel, Mattie, is featured along with works by Larry McMurtry, Steve Harrigan, Robert Flynn, Elizabeth Crook, Jan Reid, Bud Shrake and others too numerous to mention. I was absolutely thrilled to be in such company—most of whom I either know or had met a time or two. I just sat for a long time in that gorgeous room—exposed wood, Saltillo tiles on the floor==soaking up the atmosphere, the sense of writers. Of course, we took a lot of pictures, and the girls had fun seeing authors they’d met over the years.

We moved on to the exhibition of photographs by Keith Carter, intending to take a quick look. Instead we ended studying each photograph. The exhibition celebrates fifty years of work by Carter who has been described as the “poet of the ordinary.” He captures the beauty of people not at their best moment, the wonders of childhood, the glories of the animal world. He plays with perspective and focus and has an eye for the extraordinary in the ordinary. A truly compelling exhibit. Carter lives in Beaumont and teaches at Lamar University.

Then on to lunch. I’d never been to San Marcos, didn’t expect such a charming, almost funky downtown area, a contrast to the sprawling modern buildings of the university. We had lunch in the Root Cellar, literally a cellar, casual atmosphere, good food, and a great dessert. I’m still trying to gain weight, so you say “turtle cheesecake” to me, and I say, “bring it.”

dessert

Detoured on the way back to Austin to a store both girls knew about but I’d never heard of—Warby Parker for eyeglasses. With two daughters as fashion judges, I got the new sunglasses I’ve needed forever and a pair of readers. Silly me! I had thought we’d just go to CVS and pick them out. This was considerably better, though a bit harder on the pocketbook—enough so that my bank called to check out the unusual transaction in a strange city.

Back to Megan’s where I napped and woke up to find an unexpected party in progress. Friends had dropped by, and Megan and Brandon urged them to stay for supper. Asian marinated flank steak and Asian coleslaw. Noisy, lots of fun. But by ten, I was drooping—after all, I’d walked farther and done four times the physical activity I’m used too. My conclusion? I could never live in Austin—pushing my walker uphill is way too hard.

But several times during the day I just took a minute to say silent thanks for the day, my family, and the life I’m so lucky to lead. Now, today, it’s back to work. Home tomorrow. I’ve been getting good reports on Sophie from Christian who is holding down the Fort Worth fort.

Daughters

June 23, 2018

One of my sons is, as I write, researching some stuff for me to help me with investments and a medical alert band of some kind. Since he’s devoting part of his Saturday to that, I’m hesitant to diss on sons, and yet this week I’ve thought several times of that old refrain, “A son is a son/ Until he takes a wife/A daughter is a daughter/All of her life.” I’ve so enjoyed having both my daughters around this week.

Of course, Jordan and I see more of each other than probably either one of us need, though it’s a good relationship. Oh, we have our moments, but mostly we laugh and share, and I am blessed that if I need a caretaker, she’s it. But Megan’s visits from Austin are a treat. She was here from Saturday to Wednesday, flew to Houston Wednesday night and back Friday night to retrieve her youngest child. This morning they left for Austin to celebrate older son, Sawyer, and his fourteenth birthday. Fourteen? Really? I remember when she oh so tentatively told me she was pregnant. My first clue? We were at my favorite upscale Italian restaurant in Austin, and she declined a glass of wine. What, I wondered, is wrong with that child?

A confession that my daughters may not welcome. It takes me a day or two to adjust to having them here together. I so delight in their company, and they shower me with love and caring. But there’s also a bit of criticism—why is your hair towel in the kitchen (because I wash my hair in the sink), that’s not the way I cut an avocado (well, it’s the way I do it). Little things. They don’t amount to jack. But I’m sort of aware they’re watching me, looking out to make sure I’m stylishly dressed, stuff like that. And so I’m straining to be on my best behavior, showing them how great I am for my age. It’s like there’s an unspoken elephant in the room (that darn elephant sure gets around).

Driving was part of it this time. Megan was comfortable with my driving but worried about my getting in and out of the cottage and the car by myself. A legitimate worry. So one day she watched, and I did fine. Friday, Jordan agreed that I could pick up a friend for lunch—big adventure. I drove us to a restaurant, parallel parked on a busy street, did just fine. Baby steps but I felt good about it.

We didn’t get the lunches out that I enjoy this time, nor the closet cleaning that Megan is so good at (Jordan is too but she doesn’t have the time). Megan, with a new law firm, had to work at her computer all day every day. But we had lovely dinners and evenings.

In July my whole family will be here (big birthday), and my kids and I will be together in Chicago over Labor Day. So I can’t complain I don’t see them much. But I am particularly grateful for Megan’s fairly frequent visits.

And, of course, for Jordan’s constant and steadying presence. How lucky, blessed, whatever I am.

Tonight I settled down with a good book and a wonderful dinner—zucchini cut in wedges and sautéed in butter, a sautéed lamb chop doused with anchovy butter. Delicious, but a bit sloppy to eat.

A bit of food trivia I just learned: do you love the wasabi at a sushi place? It’s probably (we hope) made from a root vegetable. But what you buy in a tube in the grocery has none of the root. It’s basically horseradish, mustard, and green food coloring. And oh my! Is it potent! I about killed myself with a cheese spread last night. I put wasabi in the middle of a log of goat cheese, rolled the reconstructed log in toasted sesame seeds, and splashed it with soy. But the wasabi burned my throat, my nose, and my eyes. Whew! And I usually love it with sushi.

That’s the kind of trivia or hint you’ll find in my forthcoming cookbook, Gourmet on a Hot Plate, due out in early November so you can use it for Christmas gifts.

Night, all!

The Joys of Family

The joy of having one extra daughter and one extra grandchild continues. The boys are having a great time at TCU baseball camp and posed for the great picture above with the coach. Other than baseball, as far as I can tell, they are occupying themselves with the giggles. And having a wonderful time.

And miracle of miracles, I got some work done today—put together everything I have on the neighborhood newsletter and am just waiting for some regular columns. And did some work on a project I’m most excited about but not yet ready to announce.

Had a nice lunch with three friends, two of us celebrating birthdays, and tonight we went to Joe T.’s at Megan’s request. A friend/neighbor of hers was also in town so her son could attend baseball camp, and they joined us. The three little boys were such wonderful company—two with faces in iPhones, the third in an iPhone. Luckily, I turned my chair and squeezed into the table with the grown-ups. The restaurant was unusually slow, so it was blessedly quieter than usual, so I could hear the conversation. Fun. I never order fajita because I don’t like peppers, and the pepper taste taints the meat. Megan split an order with no peppers with me and I enjoyed.

Tomorrow, a day of staying home and working. I swear. I sure am having a great birthday week. Not a day—a whole week.

Just Call Me Grumpy

I’m not sure if I’m grumpier lately or just more aware and catching myself at it, but after grumping my way through a nearby neighborhood, over the McMansions, I found myself grumpy with my two daughters last night. Biggest grump was over a towel I keep in the kitchen to dry my hair because I shampoo in the sink. They insisted it was dirty; I said it was my towel, and leave it where it was. Ended up putting it in the laundry but replacing with a clean towel, which I suppose was a compromise of sorts. Then there were the two bags of leftover meat filling for the meat pies—Megan handed one to Jordan and put one in my freezer. I said no, I wanted both—I bought the meat, made the filling, would feed everyone with them, but I wanted them in my freezer. Petty? You bet, but I felt I was under siege in my own kitchen, between the two of them, with their quickly exchanged eye rolls.

So I apologized for being grumpy, said I wanted it to be so much fun when Megan got here, and it wasn’t going that way. After swearing they weren’t criticizing my kitchen methods and saying I was way too sensitive, Megan said, “We all do that. We get it in our minds just how something’s going to go, and when it doesn’t go exactly as we think it should, we get grumpy. I do it with my boys, you do it your kids.” In truth, I’d already thought of that much earlier but was astounded to find myself still falling into the trap.

My grumpy fit cleared the air, and we had a great evening, augmented by what all (except Jacob) said was a great dinner. Jacob, who ate two meat pies, pronounced them so-so. Turkey! Today I found an online article that I hoped would explain my point of view to the girls and sent a link, asking them to read it. So far, no reaction. But if you’re interested, either as a senior or the child of one, you might want to check this out: https://www.lifecareservices-seniorliving.com/what-your-elderly-parents-want-from-you/?utm_source=taboola&utm_medium=referral

Up early this morning because I felt overwhelmed about all the work that had piled upon my desk—one day of cooking and ignoring the desk side of my life, and I was buried. Getting up early is great, because I got so much done and felt better about the world and my responsibilities. But I sure needed that afternoon nap.

Nice day—fixed a good lunch for the girls, had two doctor appointments, both with praise for my progress, and a delightful dinner with a friend of Megan’s who is here for her son to attend the same baseball camp with my boys. Jordan made it taco night—so good.

Time now to pick up the threads of the novel I’m working on, the neighborhood newsletter, and life in general. I think cooking—and Megan’s visit—distracted me. But what happy distractions.

Living High on the Hog

My daughters are enjoying a girls-only trip to Chicago, primarily to hear a John Mayer concert, but they took in a little of the high life. Dinner last night at RPM Steaks—we ate at RPM Italian in September and loved it.

I reminded them that today is my mother’s birthday. Jordan remembered one year when we headed to the cemetery but to my dismay she insisted on stopping at 7-Eleven. I demanded to know why, and she said, “Grandmother loved it when I brought her blow pops.” So, she apparently bought a blow pop and sent this picture.

Meantime, back in Fort Worth, I was living the high life too. Breakfast with Book Ladies this morning at Old Neighborhood Grill. Book Ladies is a group of women, mostly retired, whose work and lives have centered around books. One other woman and I are the only members of the original group that met over 25 years ago, when we were all far from retired. This morning there were at least 12 women at the table—too many for me to easily follow any conversation over the noise of the ladies and the background noise of the restaurant. But I had one egg over easy, toast, and hash browns, the latter a luxury I’ve only recently begun to allow myself. And it’s lovely to see this happy, vibrant group together, going strong after all these years. I think I can rightfully call myself a founder.

For lunch, friend Carol and I went to the Modern Art Museum, where a former student of mine is sous chef—I guess that’s her title. On Tuesdays, the kitchen is hers and she is responsible for the special. I asked in advance what it was and could we have a window table on the water. We had the table, and I had the special—lamb chops, orzo with artichoke heart pieces, spinach, feta and a wee bit of crème fraiche to hold it all together. Absolutely delightful! I plan to try to duplicate it. The plate was brightened with a small salad—tomatoes, cuke, and endive. Hats off to Heather Hogan Holt—I’m still sorry she didn’t follow her original leaning toward a bookish career, but she sure makes a great chef (and good friend).

Saw the doctor about my lactose intolerance (after all that feta and crème fraiche) and was told I was doing so well he didn’t need to see me again unless I need him. I’m to go back to my primary care physician. Love those words from a doc, “You’re doing so well, I don’t need to see you!”

In between all that I wrote 938 words on my work-in-progress—sixty-two words to go to reach my daily word count.

Tonight? I’m tired and headed for another evening of reading.

Another Frabjulous Day

I'm going home

I can’t tell you when I’ve been happier or had more fun than at lunch today. I am going home from the rehab facility tomorrow, and this morning both my daughters came to meet with staff about my discharge and pack up the things I had here. All seems in order about the discharge, and though the staff wishes I’d stay longer, they seem okay with my leaving, and we’ve gone over such practical matters as exercises, daily activities like getting in and out of bed or to the toilet, and medications.

Then the girls dressed me—literally, they hold clothes up to each other and say, “This is cute” and similar things and talk about me as if I were a three-year-old: “Doesn’t she look cute?” I ended up in a fairly heavy sweatshirt type top in avocado green, heather white pants, and an off-white shawl. The girls kept warning that it was truly cold outside, and I ended up uncomfortably warm.

We headed for a new restaurant in a new mall area sort of near the rehab center. I’ve been wanting to go to Piatello, but if the Jordan had listened to my directions, we never would have gotten there. The whole development of southwest Fort Worth has me befuddled, and apparently the rehab place is farther south than I thought. I’d have had us in Cleburne before we found Piatello. Good lunch—split the meatball appetizer and each had a different salad. I had a small small serving of wine—first in two months, and it made me unbearably sleepy.

With my beautiful girls

The girls went off to go to the rodeo, and I went to sleep. Tonight I still can’t shake my lethargy. Six hours later it’s not the wine; tt may be lack of sleep because various medications have had me up and down too often during the night: it may be relaxation that I’m finally going home after two weeks. Whatever, I’m uncharacteristically sleepy and looking forward to reading it bed.

Tonight is our annual Alter family rodeo night—but this year it is a bust. Traditionally, we go to the rodeo on Friday night, tour the grounds and Midway Saturday, and go to dinner Sat. night. I long ago gave up rodeo—I just don’t enjoy it anymore. The Frisco don’t like rodeo and don’t go, so their absence is not unusual. But half of Colin’s family—Lisa and Morgan—are not here, and the Austin branch is leaving at 7:00 a.m. because both boys have “can’t miss” activities. I’m grateful for my time with the girls today. Colin will spend time tomorrow, and I’ll see Jamie next week, but it’s not the big family gathering I anticipated. Still I’m glad the rodeo brought everyone to town.