The search continues

Some time ago a good friend brought me this plant holder with a poinsettia in it.
I named her Serenity because I hope that was what she would bring me.
Nor she's abloom with spring flowers, and I think she's serene, a model for me.

I spent too much of today on my ongoing search for the perfect dog to fill the hole left in my heart and my life by Sophie. Don’t get me wrong—the perfect dog is the offbeat rescue, the slightly different one, the one that maybe no one else will want. I leafed through pages of Petfinder (they have 226 pages of adoptable dogs), and tonight Jordan and I looked at many. We laughed over a dog named Juju, since that is my grandmotherly name. “It would get confusing,” Jordan said, “which Juju would we be calling?” Another dog was named Panic, and Jordan said she could hear what happened if at three o’clock in the morning I opened my door to call, “Panic! Panic!” She thinks the emergency squad would be here immediately.

I had found one dog that really interested me. His name is Oreo, an Aussie mix, four or five years old, house- and crate-trained, and billed as a perfect gentleman. But another dog, with the unlikely name of Merle Haggard, stuck in my mind. He’s about two years old, a black dog, the same weight as Sophie (which is perfect for us), house- and crate-trained. So many of the dogs that interest me need canine companions or lots of exercise because they are high energy breeds. Merle Haggard’s description says he will adapt to my energy level, and he likes to chase squirrels, which was Sophie’s main occupation. Jordan and Christian are enthusiastic about Merle Haggard, so I put him first on my list and Oreo second. We would love either one.

This whole business is frustrating because you apply and … nothing. I did get a response from Saving Hope that I was conditionally approved, but once I specified a dog, I heard nothing. Poor Merle Haggard has been in their care for almost two years, and I think that’s partly because it’s hard to place black dogs. After Sophie I have a soft spot in my heart for black dogs (okay she was sort of mottled with silver—he is almost totally black). Anyway, you’d think the agency would act quickly on an expression of interest in a dog that had been there a long time, but not so. I’m told by those who know that the problem is volunteer help. I find that’s cold comfort.

Otherwise it was a lazy Saturday—Zenaida came to clean the cottage, and we had several teary moments remembering how much Sophie loved Zenaida and how she used to follow her around. I got some desk work done, read a lot of political updates, made the dough for a snack for Monday morning company, and had a long nap.

We would have had dinner at a decent hour tonight, except Jordan joined me in looking at dog profiles. Then Christian came along. He had spent the day enjoying the Fort Worth Food and Wine Festival (you can interpret that as you will) and he wanted to talk more about Merle Haggard. So it was after seven when I finally started cooking and near eight when we had dinner: chicken thighs in a garlic/anchovy/caper sauce. Delicious, but so greasy. One of those recipes that has you start it on the stove, then whisk the skillet into the oven. I can’t do that, so I winged it in a bit, but it turned out to be delicious.

While Jordan and Christian waited for supper, they sat on the patio.
and she took this of my honeysuckle in bloom. 
A pesty plant but so pretty when it blooms.

I finished out the evening with a long conversation with an old friend who lost her husband this week. I know that it’s the age I am—I lose friends, my friends lose loved ones, and it’s what life is. The best I can do is listen, and I’ve been trying hard to do that. But every time I am called on for comfort, it reminds me of my own mortality. But more than that, it reminds me how lucky I am to be as active and healthy and engaged as I am.

So it’s certainly been a mixed bag of a day. But as always, I am grateful. Sweet dreams, everyone.

 

Monday blues

 

Christian fixed supper tonight: snapper piccata, Louella's rice, and blue cheese salad.
With thanks to Marty and Mike Slaughter for the fresh-frozen snapper.
It was a good as it was pretty.

Mondays are always hard, even for those of us who work from home. I talked to a friend yesterday at church who told me she generally makes it to her computer by nine o’clock or thereabouts, and I thought that sounded perfectly reasonable—as long as I could still be in the clothes I slept in and I had a cup of hot tea in my hands. But today I moved slower than many Mondays, mostly because I don’t like what the week will bring.

It’s tax time, and I got my tax organizer the other day. I thought I could whip it out Saturday morning, but no such luck. It’s like following the end in a tangle of yarn--one knot leads to another. I went through my Discover bills item by item and found several that I didn’t recognize. So now I have to track those down, in a laborious process, even if they don’t matter to my taxes. And the phone/internet/access bill was absolutely out of sight and beyond explanation. Other things went amuck: I tried to order dog supplies from Chewy.com but had to enter a new credit card and they declared it was invalid. The bank sent a thick folder about a dispute—over a $29 charge that hardly seems worth worrying about, except that I don’t want it to repeat. In going through online orders, I found an email from Written Word Media thanking me for ordering books from them and paying for them—but I didn’t do that. I think it’s phishing, but I am keeping it just in case some books show up uninvited. So tonight I am exhausted, and Irene will have to handle her affairs without me.

Yesterday, however, was a good day. In the morning, I went to church—actually went to the building, and the walls did not cave in. They were having an event called “Author! Author!” and those of us who write were encouraged to display our work. I took five books that I thought were representative of the things I’ve done. When someone asked, “And these are all your books?” Christian laughed aloud. “A fraction of them,” he said. I saw people I hadn’t seen in a while, and I met new people. One incident stood out. A man walking by held out his hand, saying, “We haven’t met.” And he gave me his name. I immediately said, “We’re Facebook friends.” He grinned and said “I read everything you post.” That really made me smile, because I often defend my heavy presence on Facebook to friends who are scornful. That demonstrated my point. A number of my Facebook friends are from my church. I did not go to a service, because there was enough traffic in the hall that I thought I should stay and represent my books. But Christian went to the service right by us—the nontraditional service called “Ten: 10,” and enjoyed it. One of my favorite ministers conducts that service weekly and a wonderful young folk singer holds it all together.

I had great plans for Sunday supper—meatballs and spaghetti. But I discovered that the 2 lb. package of ground meat I thought I had was really the one lb. package I couldn’t find earlier in the week. And it occurred to me that I don’t have a large enough, oven-safe pot. So I filed the recipe away for another time and made hamburger sliders and bean salad. Jean came by for a drink, and Renee joined us for supper. Lots of laughter and good times—and it may not have been meatballs, but the dinner was good.

Speaking of food snafus, it occurred to me today that Jordan has invited anywhere from nine to thirteen people for Easter brunch—at a compound where the only working oven is my toaster oven. She immediately began to think of creative ways to use the air fryer, the crockpot, the stove, and even their smaller toaster oven. This should be fun. Fortunately she is the one in the family who inherited my plan-ahead gene.

Not my favorite week. Tomorrow an ophthalmology appointment, which I always dread because they take so long, and the vision test makes me feel like an underperforming teen. Then Wednesday, the dentist, which I always dread just on general principles.

And the final snafu: I just discovered that I loaded my personalized mailing labels into the printer, thinking they were part of my stash of printer paper. So I printed tax info on the blank side of pricey labels. When I do things like that, I always fear that I’m losing it and senility is creeping in. It reassured me, however, about my brain this morning that I inadvertently caught myself quoting lines from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. Perhaps all is not lost after all.

How about you? Do everyday dumb things that we all do make you worry? Or are you that rare person who doesn’t do them?

 

Sweet dreams—or not!

 

Pork tenderloin ready to roll into a log.
Too much stuffing for the meat, but oh! it was good!

The landscape was surreal. Snow covered a narrow valley, the road curved through pastures where an occasional horse stood at the fence watching, stiff as though frozen. The craggy, almost hostile cliffs of the Rocky Mountains loomed over us. As the road climbed, we sailed through one of those curves with nothing on the other side, where you’re aware of how easy it would be just to fly off in space. There were children in the car, and we were looking for their mother. I have no idea who was driving, but we were in a Volkswagen van, not a new one. When we came to a side road, two dogs approached, one badly injured—a knife gash in its front leg.

Suddenly I knew what we would find at the end of that side road, and I didn’t want to go. It was like reading a bloody thriller novel or seeing a gory movie—I wanted to slam the book shut, run out of the theater. I wanted out of that dream.

I knew I was dreaming, and I told myself to fix my mind on some piece of reality, not the dream. It was Sunday morning, so I held fast to the idea of church. Then I tod myself to throw the covers back, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and sit up so I would know I was in my cottage and not on some back road in the Rockies.. But I could barely move. My arms were sluggish, as though plowing through thick mud. Inch by inch I moved the covers, all the while telling myself not to panic. And then, suddenly, I could move my arms normally. I sat on the edge of the bed and “collected” myself, while Sophie came to see if I was okay.

I had just had an episode of sleep paralysis. At first, I thought it was a nightmare, but when I read the description of nightmare, there was nothing about not being able to move. Somehow, I came across a reference to sleep paralysis, with the reassuring words, “Your body will wake up.” It doesn’t happen often, but your mind wakes before your body. This isn’t the first time I’ve experienced it, but it was one of the most graphic and frightening. There aren’t a lot fo studies or protocolsl for treatment. Generally, such episodes are believed to be caused by stress. Sleep paralysis is said to occur more often in the second half of your sleep. And then there’s something called hypnagogic jerk, in which the sleeper jerks awake suddenly. Most likely to happen as you fall asleep, it’s also something I’ve experienced and it’s also due to stress.

I would tell you I am not stressed. Except for the world picture, which is a biggy, there’s not a lot in my oh-so-fortunate life to stress me. I would tell you I am blessed most nights with the ability to sleep soundly. Even when natures calls, I can go right back to sleep. I have a regular sleep pattern, if idiosyncratic: up until about midnight, sleep until eight or so, and a good long afternoon nap. Yes, anxiety has been my lifelong friend. But I am rejecting the idea of stress or anxiety and taking comfort in the words I found today: Your body will wake up. I think the next episode will be less scary.

On a more cheerful note, it was a cooking weekend. Friday, I made a big batch of pimiento cheese, an acquired taste since I don’t think I ever had it as a kid. Is it a southern thing? Anyway, as one guest suggested, it was “house made.” Served it to guests and ate so much it was my dinner. Saturday, I made turkey bundles in crescent rolls—my honest impression? The turkey and sauce (cream cheese, dill, a green onion, celery salt, and sour cream) was delicious, but it lost something when baked. I’m still learning, after two years, to adjust to my oven which bakes hot, and I did them a bit too long.

But tonight, with help, I outdid myself; a stuffed pork tenderloin and fresh fruit salad. The tenderloin has cream cheese (I blew through a lot of that this weekend) with fresh spinach, pesto, and bacon. Christian pounded the tenderloin flat for me, and Jordan tied it into a roll—a family effort. It was delicious, though when Jordan tried to slice it, it “exploded,” and we didn’t get pretty slices. Still, it’s definitely a keeper recipe. As I studied it, I decided though the recipe said tenderloin, it really meant pork loin. For example, it said to bake 60 to 90 minutes. If you did that to a tenderloin, you’d have jerky. So I adapted. And was pleased with it. And a fruit salad was a pleasant change.

Going to sleep on a happy note tonight. Cheers for a good new week for everyone.

"Exploded" pork tenderloin plated with fruit salad

A big, busy day

The Jim Clark exhibit at Trinity Terrace

Last fall the audiologist I saw and I agreed—it was time for new hearing aids. And not the ones newly available over the counter. But life interfered—and her duties in the speech and hearing clinic at TCU. This spring I began to inquire again, and she assured me she had them, would schedule me as soon as she could. Then volunteer clinical work to her to—wait for it!—Kathmandu. Today, we f finally connected in her office, and tonight I have new hearing aids.

Getting new aids at TCU’s Miller Speech and Hearing Clinic is not just a matter of walking in and picking them up. First, Tracy Burger tested my hearing. I dread these tests almost but not quite as much as I do vision tests: I have to repeat two-syllable words after her (she is off in another room reading them into a speaker which alternately gets higher and then lower) and then she plays a series of beeps, different pitches and levels of sound, and I have to raise my hand whenever I hear a beep. I admit my mind wanders, and I may have missed a beep or two. But the verdict was I have lost a bit of hearing in my right ear but gained some in my left. I hope it all balances out.

Tracy told me to keep my old aids as back-up which meant she had to upgrade them and then configure the new ones to match my hearing needs. All this took time, and I was afraid my chauffeur—one Jacob Burton—would get impatient, but he didn’t. And he turned out to be a great iPhone consultant. Tracy hs a android phone, and I am just not smart about iPhones, despite the fact that I’ve had one for several years, so once the new aids were paired to the phone, he was most helpful in settings, disabling the old ones, etc.

I think I’m hearing better, though I had a hard time hearing my brother on the phone tonight, and he had a hard time hearing me. The acid test will come when I next see friend Phil who is soft spoken and loses patience with me when I can’t hear him. Lately every time I see him, he demands, “Have you got  your new hearing aids yet?” So now, the answer is yes, I do.

Jacob and I went from there to the grocery store. He asked if he couldn’t just run in and I said no, because I did not want to be left sitting in the car in that parking lot. I know of two women who were mugged there! The other reason—and I was fairly open about this—is that I don’t think he knows enough about grocery shopping to choose the right brands. Turned out it was an cooperative venture for both of us—he reached items for me that I couldn’t, and I think I taught him about about brands and packaging and prices. Bonus was that I whizzed around the store on one of their handicap carts and never hit a thing! Last time the two of us went together I took down three dumps—I blamed it on the store for crowding their aisles. This time the aisles were mostly clear. I think I figured out why Jacob wanted to leave me in the car.

It's an unusual day for me to be out of the cottage and away from my desk—and my dog—for four hours as I was this morning. But the day wasn’t over: tonight Jordan, Christian, and I had dinner at Trinity Terrace with Jean. We went to see the display of some of the work of her late husband, Jim Clark, a folk artist of enormous talent. His work, ranging from wood to silver to clay, is on display in showcases in the lobby. Looking at it again, I was impressed by the variety of media—and by his unlimited imagination. Someone asked me the other day if he was a free spirit, and I had to say, “Ah…no.” He was a Air Force pilot and an engineer, with an engineer’s mind for precision and order. Yet there was this tremendously whimsical side of him that created everything from articulated wooden pull toys to weather vanes and a wonderful bench that seems to have people already seated on it.

After viewing the exhibit, we had dinner in the Blue Spire on the thirteenth floor. As always, the four of us had lots to talk about, from taxes and real estate to churches. And dinner was delicious—who can go wrong with lamb lollipops, a Caesar salad, and an enormous baked potato. And the view is so lovely. A thoroughly pleasant evening. And I’m exhausted.

An ordinary day with a few light spots

Nothing on my calendar today, just a day at my desk—which I like. But there were a few lighthearted moments—and of course a big reveal!

This morning my computer was agonizingly slow. I needed every ounce of that patience Jordan talks to me about. And the TV wouldn’t come on at all, Finally I turned off the TV and rebooted the computer. Computer had speeded up. Then I turned the TV on—nothing. Jordan tells me to wait patiently, so I went about my business, spent a frustrating hour trying to get into the Origin’s (skin care) website (I am sorry, but I truly cannot understand people in India or the Philippines whose English is heavily accented and I resent companies that farm out their telephone help lines). In all that time I forgot about the TV. But when I got up to get supper out of the freezer, all of the sudden the cottage was filled with loud voices. For a nanosecond I wondered who had come in—and then I realized the TV had finally come on, though I’d missed the news segments I like to watch! I’m sure some mystery writers would make a scene out of that—I just turned off the TV. But it did startle me—and Sophie.

If any of you have grown children, you know how old you feel when they begin to go back to the college reunions. Now, my dog has been invited to a reunion! Sophie will be twelve on May 18, but I don’t think they’re celebrating her birthday or the day she came home with us—in July. Apparently, Safari Doodles has a new kennel in Aubrey, a small town (suburb if you will) north of Dallas. I think it would be fun to go, but there’s no way—the Burtons will just have gotten home from San Miguel, Colin will have left the day before for Tomball, and Jordan leaves that day for an extended work trip. It’s probably a good thing—I might have lost all my resolve and come home with another dog, though with regret I know that I am not capable of ever again training a pup. I think Sophie would have enjoyed all the other dogs, but then again, you never know.

Jordan and I planned a light supper of subway-style sandwiches tonight, and Christian requested a three-bean salad, which I made. A meal they all like. Only Christian and Jacob both came home and fell asleep. Finally at seven-thirty, Jordan and I ate lonely sandwiches. I ended up with two helpings of salad, because I snuck one when I began to get hungry.

Nice surprise that made my day—a reader I don’t know at all wrote that she really enjoys my newsletters and recently used my shepherd’s pie recipe to serve lunch to two friends, each of whom went home clutching a copy of the recipe. Of course, it would have been nice if they’d been clutching copies of my books, but I’ll take whatever attention I can get. The writer asked if an old book, Libbie, was mine, and I assured her it was. She was getting ready to order the new Irene, and said she really likes the Irene books. So all that boosted my spirits.

And speaking of faux French chef Irene, the latest adventure will publish this coming Saturday. Today I have an advance sales link. If you want to order Kindle or paperback, you can go here: Irene Deep in Texas Trouble: An Irene in Chicago Culinary Mystery - Kindle edition by Alter, Judy. Mystery, Thriller & Suspense Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com. My longtime friend/mentor/critique expert, Fred Erisman, says it’s the best of the Irene series so far. I hope you’ll check it out and see what you think.

Happy trails, everyone. I’m going to spend the evening with a Scottish culinary mystery. What joy!

The magic of Christmas Eve

 

Christmas Eve dinner at Joe T's

For years, when my children were growing up, we attended the midnight (really eleven o’clock) candlelight service at University Christian Church. I remember one year when we all fell asleep too early, but most years we made it, and the service was a major part of our Christmas traditions.

Time and change intervened. The children moved away, married, established their own traditions—some with church, some with not. I began to spend Christmas at their homes. Jordan figured the other day we have not been in Fort Worth for Christmas in at least ten years—I think it was longer. The last I remember, Eden was two—and she is now close to twenty. Jordan resolved we would go to the Christmas Eve service this year.

I began to waffle. For three weeks I’ve had a chest cold, a cough that lingers, and I don’t want any more. The high incidence of covid, flu, and rsv makes me want to avoid a crowd. Plus it is really cold tonight. Last year in Austin I began to watch online, and the service drew my kids like a magnet. This year, I decided I would watch online again. No problem, I told myself, to stay up until eleven—I usually do anyway. The Burtons decided they would go to the eight o’clock, not the eleven, and they assured me the candlelight singing of “Silent Night” would be part of the service. So I too chose the eight o’clock—online.

We went to dinner at Joe T.s, the four of us, and had a good time. It was festive, with serving people in sparkling, sequin-studded shirts and customers dressed up for the occasion. Enjoyed our dinner and random conversation, and then they brought me home and went to church.

I watched the service at my “comfort” spot, my desk—to my joy the church incorporated all the familiar hymns in the service, the ones I remember from my young years and can still sing all verses from memory—well, if I could sing these days. Mostly I mouth the words. But “Silent Night” with the sea of candles in that darkened sanctuary once again brought tears to my eyes. I thought hard about the message— “Christ the Savior is born.” I know these days a lot of people disparage religion in general and Christianity in particular, and there are branches of Christianity that seem to have forgotten the message, “And of these, love is the greatest.” They give faith a bad name.

But it struck me what a great message for our troubled world lies in the words of those old hymns. For those of us who believe, who practice the faith, Christmas every year is a reliving, a reaffirmation of the gifts of God. (Sorry, I don’t usually branch off into religion in this blog, but I still have tears in my eyes from that candlelit moment.) Every faith has its message of hope and love—I can’t think of one that preaches hate. Banning books and shunning certain people because of race of sexual preference is not religion, it is not love—it’s hate. We need to all of us preach the Christmas message, no matter our personal calling. Maybe that’s the idealistic part of me talking. I’m kind of wandering here, finding it hard to put into words what I want to say. For those who don’t practice Christianity, what I hope they hear is not the divine message about Christ, but the message of love and peace that he brought to the world.

Dinner at Joe T.’s was also affirming tonight. Certainly a departure from our tradition—the one year, maybe thirty years ago, we had dinner out was also the year we missed Christmas Eve church because we fell asleep. But Joe T.’s is familiar—Christian used to work there, and he and Jordan know the owners, eat there often. It is Christian’s parents’ favorite restaurant. My seventieth birthday blowout was there. So I may not have had all my chicken together this year, but I had the local family in a familiar setting. Tomorrow we will welcome Christian’s parents, his sister, brother-in-law, and their two daughters. Setting new traditions, for I think this is the first Christmas I have shared with his family. For years, for Burton Christmas, they went to his parents’ home in Coppell, and I went to Tomball to be with Colin and his family. New ways of doing things while keeping the spirit.

Merry Christmas to all, and God Bless us, everyone!

A celebration dinner

 

Anniversary dinner.
I discovered tonight I have no pictures of the wedding on my computer.
Eighteen years ago, I had not learned to take and save digital pictures.
So here for the algorithms is dinner tonight.

I had special dinner guests tonight—and a special menu. Mr. and Mrs. Christian Burton were celebrating their eighteenth wedding anniversary. Originally, the plan was that they would grill steaks, and I would contribute twice-baked potatoes and a blue cheese sauce for the steak. The happy couple would have a romantic, candlelit dinner while Jacob and I ate steak and potatoes in the cottage. It didn’t quite work out that way.

Their house is still awash with Christmas decorations in various stages of storage and apparently the dining table is strewn with work material from both of them. So dinner was in the cottage which I loved. And it was really good. Christian is great at grilling everything from steak to hamburger, and I tried a new twice-baked idea—cream cheese instead of the usual ingredients. After dinner, we had a bit of that good eggnog with real nog—all so rich and good I was forced to take a brief nap.

Eighteen years ago when we went to University Christian for the wedding, we had four days of parties behind us and a whole world of friends and family joining us. We’d had a big dinner for everyone at the Star Café, then owned by friends Betty and Don, and we’d had a rehearsal dinner in the chapel at Joe T.’s. The kids had taken the New York relatives to Billy Bob’s and the Stockyards, and we were all ridin’ high.

The wedding itself was lovely—Jordan had been dreaming of a Christmas wedding, with the sanctuary full of poinsettias, since she was a child, and that dream sort of set the timetable for their engagement. They hired the church choir to sing on a Saturday night, and Jordan had her sister, sisters-in-law, and cousin as attendants. Jordan’s father was unable to walk her down the aisle, so her two brothers escorted her to where her dad stood waiting—and at that moment, each brother gave her a big kiss on the cheek—it was, as one usually cynical friend said, a heart-stopping moment.

Afterward, the reception was at the Fort Worth Club. You’ll forgive me if my memories are a bit blurred, but the one that stands out is of everyone dancing in a circle to “Hava Nagila,” led by Mark, the Bronx uncle. Even Maddie, then five, was in the midst of everything.

The next morning I had something like thirty out-of-towners for breakfast, my chance to get a last visit and hug before they scattered. Many of those folks today are gone, a few disappeared from our lives, too many passed on to the next life, so that morning is a specially treasured memory. I remember that afternoon, after everyone had gone and I was alone, cleaning up, I felt an unusual sadness. I told Jeannie Chaffee it was the first time I had missed being married, because I wanted someone to re-live the weekend with, share the memories. Her reply was, “You should have called me. It would be easier than having a man around the house.”

As I’m sure the Burtons would tell you, it’s been a mostly glorious eighteen years, with one lovely son. I am so grateful and proud to be part of it in a small way.

It was a nostalgia weekend for Jordan in another way. Last night, she and Christian went to a dinner for David Barnes’ birthday. He holds the distinction of being her first high-school boyfriend, and all these years later, they are still close, although happily married to others. She has called him her “brother from another mother” and David will always have a place as part of our family.

The holiday season is off to a whizz bang start for this family. I hope it brings each of you the same kind of good memories and new happy times.

Dinner at the Star

 

In one week, we went from feeling sophisticated to funky western. Tonight, the Burtons, Jean, and I had dinner at the Star Café in Fort Worth’s National Historic Stockyards District. For forty-two years, my good friends Betty and Don Boles have owned the Star. As I wrote a couple of weeks ago, Betty and Don have sold the classic steakhouse. Saturday night will be their last hoorah. So the last couple of weeks they’ve been busy with folks who have come for a last supper. Tonight was out turn.

Betty was waiting for us, with a reserved sign on the front table that I’ve always loved. It sits right in the front window so you can watch the comings and goings on West Exchange Avenue. Of course, you have to mind the sign that says, “Please don’t mess with the neon lights!”

Wine was served, and we fell to nostalgic stories and memories, with lots of laughter. The late-night dinners when the café had emptied, the night one of Jordan and Christian’s friends fell asleep in a booth, the times Jordan wanted to take home a pint of the house-made ranch dressing, the luncheon after Jacob’s christening. I asked about the people I remembered—Bino, the cook who is still there; Emilio, the clean-up guy who left after long years; the prep guy who’d been there since I remember; the postman who used to come for supper before he went dancing and always wanted to talk about western history. Other faces and memories swam before me, but I couldn’t be specific about them.

For me, nothing would do for dinner except chicken-fried steak. You can get steak, nicely done, in a lot of restaurants in this city, but good chicken-fried is a special thing onto itself. Betty and I split an order, with mashed potatoes and lots of gravy. Saying she knew they’d never serve it at Trinity Terrace, Jean also ordered chicken-fried, declaring she would take half home with her. She didn’t. She ate it all. Jordan and Christian ordered filets, and Jacob had chicken fingers which I remember were so large I could barely eat one. It was all delicious.

Best of all was seeing Betty. For years, she and I went to dinner every Wednesday night, sometimes to our regular places, other times adventuring out to try new places. In recent years, we added Jean to the tradition. But then pandemic hit. I knew Betty was still working weekends at the Star, which made me leery, and then I got to the point that getting me out in my walker was just too much trouble. I stayed home a lot. Tonight I realized that it took at least two people to help me at the two steps in and out of the Star—Betty couldn’t do it herself. So our habit fell by the wayside, much lamented by both of us. We have gotten together occasionally—a couple of times to go out with others, a couple of times on my patio. But we have missed each other, and it was good to reconnect tonight.

A thoroughly happy evening!

In other nonconsequential news, I got my hair cut really short. I notice in the picture how fat my face looks. But my doctor said, sanctimoniously, “We do not encourage the elderly to lose weight.” That’s because if a health catastrophe hits, you might need that reserve in the hospital. Also losing weight stresses organs in your body like the heart. So here I am, eating modestly—honest, most of the time, just not this week—and still gaining weight. I have decided to be happy and not worry about it.

One thing I did worry about: my extreme fear of weight, as it showed itself in Jean’s seventeenth-floor apartment the other night. By serendipity, 23andMe, which I subscribed to several years ago, sent me the next day a report on my fear of height. My first thought was “How did they know?” Well, of course, they knew by profiling, and they said most people have a 29% chance of fearing heights; I have a 38% chance. Furthermore, people who fear height get their sense of balance from visual points of reference—if you are at the edge of a high balcony, you have no such visual points. I instantly remembered being in a wide, empty lobby where the walls and floor were of neutral marble (faux, I presume)—no pictures, no furniture, no plants, nothing. Just that faux marble. I told Jordan it was the kind of space that made me feel spacy. When she asked what would happen, I said, “I don’t know. I’ll lose my balance and fall on the floor.” Now that makes sense to me. There were no visual points of reference. I am deeply relieved to know the reason for my fear and that it’s not just a silly idea in my mind.

So, a great evening, a good week, and I am ready to sleep. ‘Night all. Sweet dreams.

A memorable day in many ways

 

A trio of back patio pictures.

As Jordan and I drove out of the driveway early this morning, I was pleased to see the American flag flying at the curb of many homes. People on our street remember—as if we could forget this day. (The flags are a subscription service provided on patriotic holidays by our South Side Rotary—I have been a subscriber for years.) The internet is full of memories and images and lots of “Where were you when you first heard?” or “How did you spend the day?” We each have our memories.

This year, because of the withdrawal of our troops from Afghanistan, this day of memory is even more poignant than usual. It has led many to speculate on why we were at war in that country for twenty years. Should we have withdrawn once Osama Bin Laden was dead? Some called it the endless war. We apparently made life easier for the Afghan people, especially the women who were heavily oppressed, but when the time for the Afghan military and government to take over came, they buckled, as though the manpower, equipment, and time put in had been for naught. Not to mention the American lives lost nor, in greater numbers, the loss of Afghan life which was astronomical. Instead of uniting us, as the original terrorism act did, this newest direction has led to further division. Sadly, like the pandemic, the withdrawal has divided us into liberals and conservatives. It is not, to my mind, a way to honor those who died. Instead of calm discussion, we have reduced ourselves to shouting and anger and blame.

Still it was a moving day. I lost myself first in the special digital edition the Fort Worth Star-Telegram issued, featuring survivors’ stories, along with features about Muslim citizens and their treatment since, and children not yet born who lost parents in the devastation. It was I thought a particularly well-done tribute. And then on the internet, I ran across a video with graphic images flashed across the screen while “The Sound of Silence” played. I was mesmerized and you may be too. It’s on YouTube somewhere if you know how to find those things.

Jordan and I went to Calloway’s for fall plants—each of us had a list She wanted to brighten up the back yard (I think in preparation for her sister’s mid-day arrival) and I wanted additional herbs for my garden. I worried of course—would we walk farther than I was comfortable with? Would I be left in the car while she shopped, a situation that makes me uneasy. None of that happened, and we had a happy good time picking out plants. I do have to say Calloway’s is not an inexpensive place to shop—but it’s convenient, and it was easily accessible for me. When I got winded, I sat in my walker, and a couple of times she said, “Feet up!” and whisked me through the aisles. As my concern diminished, my walking strength improved. We had fun.

Once home, I became a armchair expert while Jordan planted and I suggested what plant should go in what pot. She blew the leaves off the patio and the yard really does look pretty. The new herbs are still in their containers in the wooden garden—Jordan left them for Megan and me to plant.

Megan arrived from Austin barely in time to give me a quick hug and head out to the TCU football game. The game was pretty much a nail-biter. TCU triumphed in the end—but barely, 34-32. And everybody came back to the house for dinner, where Christian had been marinating steaks and shredding Brussel sprouts. Jordan had made some super Parmesan/green onion potato cakes (wiped out our rather generous supply of Parmesan), and with Megan’s help I fried bacon and we made a wilted lettuce salad, using butter lettuce which for me is a treat and a splurge. When I said to Megan that it was expensive—something like $4 for a small head, she replied, “You pay more than that for a margarita,” and expounded that honey crisp apples are so delicious but three for $12. She tells herself she’d pay more than that for a margarita too. I did not point out that I don’t drink margaritas, but I am wondering about the scales against which she balances things.

dinner with happy people

We had a jolly, happy dinner, joined by David who was in high school with Jordan and has pretty much been family ever since. I don’t see him much these days, so it was a real treat to have him with us. We sat around talking about everything from gossip to anti-vaxxers, and eventually I announced it was time for me and Sophie to go home. When I ask, “Do you want to go home?” she is always so delighted and bolts for the door. Megan walked me out and came in and visited –I cannot tell you how much I treasure those mother/daughter moments.  

So today I’ve had two outstanding mother/daughter times—at the nursery and in the back yard with Jordan and tonight in the cottage with Megan. I am so blessed. Looking forward to tomorrow—Megan will be here all day. We have a date to plant herbs in the morning.

 

Family fun and a bit of nostalgia

 

Jamie, me, Jacob, and Jordan

Jordan’s selfies often have us all at such angles that we look tipsy. We weren’t, but we were having a great time at Pacific Table last night. Jamie said he’d be in town early, but when I tracked him, all day, he was at Clearfork. Since he’s in charge of sales for an international toy company, all I could think was that he was selling lots of toys to Neiman’s. Not so. He has a company office space at WeWork, which enables him to work at any of several locations. He knew, rightly, that if he came here, he would be distracted, so he appeared on my doorstep about five, and I promptly put him to work installing iPassword on my computer. Successful installation, but we were unable to figure out how to use it. Waiting for advice from the two other sons who advised me to get it.

Jamie, Jordan, Jacob, and I went to dinner at Pacific Table—Christian was at a work event. Jamie had carefully made reservations for the patio, since I’m leery about sitting in a packed restaurant right now. But when we got there, the patio was closed—staffing problems, which are apparently common in the restaurant business these days. But it was okay especially on a Monday night. Few people there, and we had a corner table, way off by ourselves. All the staff were masked, although our wait person’s mask hung just below her nose. None of the patrons were masked. Sigh.

Fun to think Jacob, our picky eater, is sophisticated enough to order California roll—and then eat what Jamie didn’t want of his. I debated trout Almondine and fried oysters with Caesar, but Jordan decided for me by pointing out I can cook trout at home but probably won’t cook oysters. And the Caesar salad was delicious—it may be my favorite in town.

Dinner was the high point of a good day. I finished the first edit/rewrite of my work in progress. Managed to add six thousand words, fix lots of typos, and make Henny, the heroine, a bit feistier, which is her trademark characteristic. I’m hoping to do one more read-through and then send it to Fred, who reads and critiques everything I write. He saw me through the TCU English doctoral program fifty-plus years ago and remains my good friend and teacher. How lucky am I!

Scooby and a tiny Sophie
He tolerated everything except when she tried to steal his treats

This morning this picture popped up on my memories on One Drive. It must be a new Microsoft thing, but they send me memories every day. This one struck close to my heart. Scooby was wild and crazy, the result of having been an ignored back-yard dog and sometimes abused, the first third of his life. We had a rough time getting used to each other but eventually both were devoted, and he was perhaps the sweetest dog I’ve ever had (shhh! Don’t tell Sophie!). He slept by my desk so much that the floor in his spot is worn down to bare wood, and he slept by my bed every night. When Sophie came along, he taught her manners—with medium success. I will always miss Scoob.

I swear some day I’m going to write something about dogs I have known and loved, be it a longish essay or a short book. I probably have the closest emotional relationship with Soph, because she is the dog of my retirement—spoiled enough that she thinks I should be here all the time with her. And protective enough that she barks frantically at many things, including the yard guys last night which nearly drove Jamie crazy. But each dog, going back to early childhood, was special, a character in its own way. Telling their stories is on my bucket list.

Tonight, I’m going to try to breeze through the last of that novel I’ve been reading about replacement of Japanese citizens in Chicago.

Rain turns into sunshine

 

Once again, we woke, early, to heavy rain and loud thunder. Sophie cowered by my bed, and evening gray seemed reluctant to turn to daylight. But If I thought we were in for another rainy day, I was mistaken. By ten o’clock, the sun was shining, and the world was beginning to dry out. Now they tell us we’re pretty much through with rain. Not sure I trust that, but we’ll see.

The physical therapist came this morning. I thought it was his last day, but he said no, he would be here again Thursday. Nothing personal, because he is a nice guy, but I was a little let down. I have to get up and going earlier than I like on the days he comes. Still, I can tell that I am much stronger since we’ve been doing the exercises. I am fairly religious about doing them on the days he doesn’t come.

My upright walker is finally assembled, and I will admit it looks like a giant insect of something in my bedroom. I fully expect nightmares. Jordan does not like it, does not trust it, did not want me to try it tonight. It’s been a long day, and I am tired, so I readily agreed to wait until Dan the PT man comes on Thursday.

My busy schedule of appointments—Dan today, a haircut tomorrow, Dan again Thursday, the home health nurse on Friday—means that I open the driveway gate most days, at least for a while. It becomes a problem only because the tiny dog next door has discovered she can crawl under the fence. But then she finds herself in our driveway, bewildered, without any idea of what to do next. It’s only a danger when the gate is open and we don’t notice, because she could go wandering off into the world. Thank heaven, Sophie seems to have outgrown that urge. Soph knows she has a pretty good deal where she is.

The highlight of my day was a trip to Central Market, courtesy neighbor Mary Dulle. First time I’ve been in a grocery store since March 2020 when quarantine began. Just being there, looking at all the produce and grocery items and meat in the butcher counter, was a treat. I had a long list, Mary not so much, but she was so good about getting things I could not reach from the handicap cart which I drove. I must admit I love driving that cart, me who does not particularly like to drive a car. I’m good at maneuvering the cart, even backing it up. I spent way too much this morning, simply because I saw things I couldn’t resist—the biggest, most beautiful beefsteak tomato ever, chocolate truffles, a wedge of Port Salut cheese. What I didn’t buy: Wagyu steak that looked three inches high.

I was delighted that the store requires masks—if you don’t have one, there is a lady just inside the door with a supply. A few customers were unmasked, but not many. We went at ten-thirty, which appears to be an ideal time—very few other customers, no need to maneuver crowded aisles, etc. A great outing, and each time I leave the cottage, whether to dine or grocery shop, makes me more comfortable about getting out in the world. I wouldn’t say I have a case of pandemic anxiety, but I would definitely admit I’ve been way too comfortable staying at home.

Tonight we had a wonderful happy hour spread—the Port Salut I bought along with a cheese that is cheddar with strips of blue embedded (can’t remember the name) and an herbed goat cheese spread that I made this morning. Mary came to enjoy that with us. And then what amounted to a picnic supper—chicken burgers with a lemon basil sauce on potato buns with a slice of that huge tomato from today’s shopping, and a black bean/corn/feta salad. I am full and happy.

Though I have another confession: I didn’t sleep well last night for worrying about balancing the time schedule today. Dan was coming at 8:45, Mary at 10:30. I wanted to get the goat cheese spread into the fridge so the flavors would blend, and the bean salad was to chill at least six hours. In the wee hours of the morning I told myself over and over that the world would not end if none of that was done. But I couldn’t turn my mind away from it. And, of course, I got it all done in good time, read all my emails, did a little bit of business work, and had a good nap. I really need to master this compulsive, middle-of-the-night worrying. It’s only occasional but so annoying when it visits.

Sunshine all day tomorrow. Hooray!

 

Absolutely no pajamas at dinner

 

The other night I was called out for coming to supper in my pajamas—let me stress that for me, pajamas are only the bottom and I wear a T-shirt on top. In my further defense, I have to say I helped cook supper, and it was in my cottage. But those aren’t really good excuses. During pandemic I spent the day in whatever I slept in but found it important to clean up and dress for supper—for my own sake as well as the rest of my local family. Lately I’ve occasionally slipped, and Jordan was letting me know about it. She didn’t say “absolutely no pajamas,” but I heard it in her tone. And it got me to thinking about absolutism.

In today’s world, absolutism—the rigid acceptance of rules or philosophy or theology—really bothers me. I find myself looking for people who have a little give and take in them, who can look at each situation individually rather than blindly applying a set rule to it. A prime example is all the posts you see that say if people would just obey the police and not resist, there would be no police brutality. They even apply it to the George Floyd murder. Really? He was way beyond resisting while Chauvin still had his knee on his neck. And we hear of victims, especially black men and boys, shot in the back. Sure, they’re fleeing out of fright. Does that mean you have to kill them? What about the 73-year-old lady with dementia—was it in Colorado?—who was brutally mishandled, her arm broken and shoulder dislocated. And the officer who did it later bragged about it, about hearing the shoulder pop. Sure, she resisted—she didn’t understand. Could the officers not have defused the situation without brutality? Police, like anyone else, need empathy, not absolutism. Fortunately, many of them have it.

I spar on Facebook—no other word for it—with an old family friend, the son of friends. I remember him as a youngster. Today we have totally different approaches to life, and, to me, his is absolutism. He sees everything in black and white. Recently in a response to a post that denied the idea that colleges teach liberalism and pointed out instead that colleges and universities teach critical thinking—if that makes folks lean left, so be it. He replied that he had gone to college, was educated, and he doesn’t lean left (how well I know that). But then he said, “There is absolutely no doubt that colleges teach liberalism.” I cautioned him against the word absolutely, but I know it fell on deaf ears.

Today it was that people who would rather collect unemployment than work are the major problem in this country. Uh, no. People collecting unemployment have to show proof of an active job search and unemployment is not forever. Most people collecting it would much rather be gainfully employed. It’s a hard market, though it’s getting better.

I am delighted that the almost-fifteen grandson I live with wants to discuss these issues, wants to see both sides. Sometimes I think he leans a bit right, but that’s okay as long as he doesn’t topple over into extremism. I pray that I too may always look at both sides of an event, incident, whatever. I remember a saying my mom was particularly fond of: Before you judge another person, walk a mile in their moccasins.

From the deeply philosophical to the mundane: it’s another gloomy, damp day, but my mood has been better (as if you needed to know that). Or was, until I tried to write 300 words of a new book. They are dreck and will probably be deleted. But I remind myself that those first words are the hardest. I will sleep on it and try again tomorrow. Meantime, out of the blue I had an idea for another mystery in the Kelly O’Connell series. I’m playing with it in my mind.

Jordan is gone tonight, helping a friend move (and that’s another story about a landlord with no empathy), and I am fixing supper for the boys. Stuffed chicken thighs that are so easy that I’m embarrassed to talk about it. Maybe in next week’s “Gourmet on a Hot Plate” blog. And I am almost finished with one of the best mysteries I’ve read in a while. A pleasant evening.

Tomorrow? Sunshine is predicted!

Mother’s Day and a minor catastrophe

Such a joy to have both my daughters in my cottage this morning. The girls made an early run to the Dollar General—no Lysol, but they scored Clorox wipes. Then we “went” to the early service of church. The sermon was “What About My Family,” and a theme was families aren’t perfect; they are the source of our greatest joy and too often our greatest pain. I reflected on how fortunate my family is—lots of the joy and very little of the pain.

Afterward settled down, each occupied with our own things—me checking Facebook, Megan choosing things like towel racks and the like for her new house (they hope to move in at the end of the month). Every once in a while, the conversation drifted to food and recipes, and Jordan and I even laid out a dinner plan for the week. Tomorrow I’ll try first thing in the morning to get an early slot for pickup at Central Market.

We had our Mother’s Day celebration last night. Kudos to Christian Burton for a marvelous meal. He grilled steak and lobster, diced and seasoned potatoes to roast. Jordan made a big salad, and Megan made an herb sauce that we like but that is labor intensive. She has more patience than I for all that mincing. Jordan set a fine table with chargers and her best china, goblets, candles. We dined in style and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. Good dinner table conversation afterward until I announced I had to nap—again.

Before dinner, our good friends the Greens came for a distanced happy hour on the patio. With the world opening up and the new case count still going up, it’s almost harder to tell what to do about distance visits. We have decided that people that have not been to restaurants, salons, and other gatherings are welcome for outside, distanced visiting. We’re not let letting people into the house or the cottage yet. I am comfortable with taking it slow, though I sure would like a haircut. I am befuddled by those who are rushing out to restaurants and going about life as normal or what they wish was normal.

Now Megan and Ford have left for Austin, the Burtons are headed to Coppell to see Christian’s parents, and I shall take a nap and then fix myself one of my favorite summer meals—a cold salmon platter.

Oh yes, our minor catastrophe: I get around my cottage, cooking and going about my daily business, seated on my rollator which clearly says, “Do not sit while in motion.” But if I adhered to that I could hardly care for myself—cooking, carrying things, particularly food and drink, from one room to another. But because I stress the rollator in ways not meant to be, I’ve had bad luck with seats that break. After I bought too many replacement seats, Lewis Bundock, who has done everything large and small for my house for twenty-five years, built me a thick, sturdier seat. Yesterday for the second time, it nearly threw me—one time the screws worked loose, and yesterday one of the plastic grips holding it split. Both times I was quick enough that I didn’t fall off the chair, but it was a true hazard—and scared my daughters more than me. They did a temporary fix, and we have ordered a new chair. I am also trying to make it a point to walk whenever possible and scoot as little as possible.

Stay safe and well, everyone.

A day of domestic disasters

Diner tonight: lamb meatballs from the freezer, with an

impromptu tzatziki sauce, and fresh 

beets and greens with butter and lemon

Only thing that went right all day

Ever have a day when everything seems to go wrong? Nothing big, just little stuff. Today was such a day for me.

It started with wrapping Christmas gifts. I targeted four large, heavy gifts that would be my goal for the day. Too big for bags, each required wrapping the old-fashioned way.  I thought it would be a relief to get them done, but whatever could go wrong did. I dropped the scissors or Scotch tape repeatedly--bending down to get them from a seated walker is sometimes an iffy experience. I had to cut the paper on the coffee table, the only surface I have that is large enough, except maybe my kitchen cutting board, and I was afraid that would get the paper greasy. But the paper, too long wrapped around a cardboard tube, had a life of its own and rolled up and fought back as I tried to cut it. The result was uneven jagged edges—not pretty on a wrapped package. For at least one package, I cut the paper and then realized I had not measured correctly--a wasted piece of paper unless I find small packages that need to be wrapped.

Bending over the coffee table from my Rollator made my back ache, so when I got the paper cut, wrapped around the package and secured, I moved it to my desk where I can work more comfortably. Except the one breakable package slipped out of its wrappings and crashed onto the floor—I didn’t hear the tinkling of something broken, so I just went ahead and rewrapped it. We’ll see on Christmas morning if it’s intact.

Inevitably the scissors and tape would be on the coffee table when I needed them on the desk, and vice versa. It took me an extraordinarily long time to wrap four gifts. Then I decided I would wrap a fifth one—lightweight but an odd shape, as tall as it is wide. My best effort, after three or four tries, was a mess. I gave up and put it aside for Jordan.

Tonight I wanted to bake brownies for Jacob, so I asked for an eight- or nine-inch square pan from the kitchen. Jacob arrived with an oblong glass pan, and when I laughed and said, “That’s not a square pan,” he replied, “You don’t have to be mean about it.” Made me feel guilty but didn’t stop me from asking if he’s taken geometry yet. The answer was a mumbled “No.” He didn’t get my joke. I guess thirteen-year-olds are not tuned to grandparents’ humor. Eventually he came back with a nine-inch pan, and I mixed the batter.

Here’s where I’ll whine about aging. I have no strength in my left hand, the hand with a slight tremor. So when I held the mixing bowl in that hand and tried to scrape batter into the baking pan with my right hand, I dropped the mixing bowl into the baking pan, getting a good schmear of batter on the outside of the bowl. With patience and small steps I finally got most of the batter into the baking pan, but it was a chore. The reward was that the brownies are delicious—I’ve had two and had to restrain myself from having a third. I told Jordan she better come get some for Jacob before I eat them all, but she’s gone gallivanting with neighbors and Jacob is at a buddy’s house. Brownies are all mine.

In between my domestic disasters, I finished a mystery I was deep into, had a nap, and fixed myself a good dinner. The day was by no means a loss, but I’ll be grateful if my world goes better tomorrow. Christmas can really be exhausting, but hey! You all know that.

RAICES, a bit of trivia—and a wonderful neighbors’ potluck supper

Our Geerman dinner

This weekend, independent bookstores across the country raised something like $30,000 by donating a small percentage of their sales to RAICES—Refugee and Immigrant Center for Education and Legal Services, an organization that strives to help immigrants from South and Central America now stuck in our appalling detention camps for asylum seekers. In my horror at conditions in those camps, here’s a fact I didn’t think of: the U. S. policy not only disrupted stable governments in Central American countries as far back as the 1960s, helping to install dictators, but we have more recently been actively deporting hardened criminals back to their country of origin. Which means that we have sent a lot of criminals to countries like Venezuela, where the governments are not stable enough to deal with them. The trauma these criminals inflict on native populations is beyond horrible. There’s another answer to the question of why they persist in coming here. No, they can’t stay and make their own countries better—they are powerless victims. Perhaps we should recite Emma Lazarus’ poem again together in unison—"Give me your huddled masses, yearning to be free.” If you want to donate to RAICES, you can find them online.

Trivia for the day is a new word I just learned: sewist, a combination of the words “sew” and “artist” but definitely not a seamstress, who sews for practical uses and for profit. I think this means fabric artists, which includes artists who create clothes, wall hangings, banners, etc. Sure sounds hard to pronounce to me, and internet definitions are at pains to distinguish the word from sewer which has nothing to do with beauty or sewing.

For some time now Tuesday night happy hour with neighbor Mary Dulle has become a cottage tradition. She brings her own cocktail, knowing I only have wine, and we both provide snacks. A couple of years ago Tuesday night was neighbors’ dinner at a neighborhood grill, but that gradually fell apart, and Mary started coming here. Jordan usually joins us, and conversation ranges over politics and health care but often settles on food. Mary and I both like to cook, though she is much more accomplished and dedicated than I am. Turns out we are both of German ancestry and love German food. So we decided to have a German potluck supper.

Last night was the night. Mary and her husband, Joe, joined us for supper. She brought the makings for Wienerschnitzel, which she cooked on the spot, and I provided hot potato salad, herring salad, and red cabbage. Needless to say Jordan, Christian, and Jacob would not touch the herring salad (which will probably turn up on my Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog) or the red cabbage, but the hot potato salad is one of Christian’s favorite dishes. We had a lovely time at dinner, talking about old friends in common (some ears should have been burning), politics, food, and whatever. Lots of laugher and lots of good food. Chocolate cake with ice cream for dessert. One of the most stimulating dinner conversations I’ve had in a long time, and I thoroughly enjoyed the evening.

Really blessed to have such good neighbors.