The food continues to improve, a dilemma, and a prescription for conversation

 

Tonight's supper

I think I’m getting a handle on this soft food business—Jordan said tonight it’s good to see me hungry again, but I think I was always hungry. It was just that the things I thought I could eat had no appeal—I was getting tired of yogurt and applesauce. So for lunch today I had a leftover piece of Dover sole. No one in my family understands that I like cold food as well as hot. Christian would have insisted on heating it, but I ate it out of the fridge. I squeezed more lemon over it, added a layer of mayonnaise, and topped that with grated Pecorino. Served with

fresh watercress because I’m aware I’m not getting good leafy greens but am a bit cautious of salad. Then again, who can resist watercress. It was a delicious lunch, and I have another piece left for tomorrow. Yes, I did offer it to Jordan, but she declined—her loss.

Tonight, though, I fixed the dish I’d been thinking about—eggs scrambled with a diced green onion, diced tiny tomatoes (maybe not a good idea because of skins), smoked salmon, and a huge spoonful of cottage cheese. With more watercress. Tasted so good, and it was nutritious and pretty to look at, though I warn if you try it, the eggs will seep as you eat—it’s the cottage cheese separating and nothing to worry about. And I finished both meals with chocolate bonbons. I am in danger, however, of running out of bonbons. I’m not normally an ice cream devotee, and I think now I’m interested in them mostly for the chocolate covering. I am afraid to try my beloved chocolate-covered salted caramels. All in all, I feel well fed. Now for some ideas for the rest of the week. One day I have to eliminate all good things—meat, dairy, mayo, etc. and eat lots of leafy greens. I can sauté in olive oil, so I’m working on that. Sauteed cabbage sounds good, but no one would eat the rest of the head. This is all for a Pet Scan.

Me with a bob
on a good hair day

Me with short hair
(and Megan)

I am struggling with the dilemma common to older ladies and always ongoing—short hair or long. When I thought I was gaining weight, especially in my face, I let it grow into a bob, which it did fairly rapidly. My thought was that longer hair lengthened my face, and Rosa, my stylist, agreed. But now, my face probably thinner and facing medical matters, I’m thinking short hair might be the better choice. Neither my daughters nor Rosa have been helpful about this, all saying it’s up to me. I think I want someone to step in and make a decisive call. I have until Friday to decide. Rosa, who has been coming to the house to cut my hair ever since I lost the ability to walk unassisted, has set Friday morning for her next visit. Opinions welcome.

Yesterday I took my courage to my computer and sent a memo to friends saying how much I welcome their visits, but that I requested upbeat, cheerful talk—right now I don’t want to hear about illness, medical procedures, other people’s experiences, surgery, funerals, or related topics. I think it was the late Norman Lear who was once very ill and requested that people laugh a lot when with him. It worked wonders toward his healing—and if I’m right about Lear it means he lived a good long life. So I want happy talk—politics is fine because that fascinates me, jokes are good, food is good as long as it’s not steak and the like. The memo had immediate results—I now have guests scheduled for Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. (Friday is Jacob’s high school graduation, and I will be going to the pre- dinner at Joe T.’s but not the graduation—Jacob gets few tickets, and all of us have been to so many graduations; I guess that’s what happens when you’re number five grandchild).

Today’s sermon at church fit nicely with my conversational prescription. Russ Peterman began with the assertion that there is not a soul on earth who doesn’t want to be happy. I’m not sure, because I see a lot of people who make themselves miserable. But following his premise, he went on to say none of us can define happiness. We don’t know what that elusive quality is. Certainly it is not wealth nor success nor fame. Finally the conclusion came that happiness is a byproduct of a life lived for others. It reminds me of one of my writing friends who talks about living life beyond ourselves, concept I truly believe in. But for the time being, until I get through this rough patch, I am going to be living life for myself, with as much attention and care to others as I can muster.

Maybe, just maybe, happiness is having a dog lie next to your desk while you write. If I had moved to get a better picture, he’d have moved. So this is what I see in the evenings, and I know he is there.

Benji on guard

The food around here is getting better

 

Dover sole unintentional hash

Tonight, Christian is in Coppell, with his dad who is not doing well after surgery, Jacob is off being a high school graduate, and Jordan and I looked at each other and said, “Wha’s for dinner.” Then she added, “I’m probably not going to eat what you eat,” and truth is she wouldn’t have; I planned to use that smoked salmon in scrambled eggs. But then, just in time to order from Central Market, she called and asked, “Fish?” I ordered filets of Dover sole, one large baking potato, and a few other things we needed. We feasted on a shared potato and generpid helpings of sole. (Note to self: a quarter pound filet is enough for one, unless maybe it’s Christian.) I must explain the picture above—that fish is hash not because I need small bites but I have rarely been capable of cooking sole filets that hold together. Now I know why it’s so expensive in restaurants. But, to justify myself a bit, Jordan got her helping out in one fairly good piece, and here’s a picture of the two left-over small filets that I cooked after we

Almost pefect filets

ate. I think maybe size is one clue. And also maybe it’s like that first piece of pie that never comes out of the pie pan whole—but the rest do fine. At any rate, it was a good dinner and satisfied my craving for solid food. In a bit, when I’m not quite so full, I’ll go get the tiny bit of tiramisu left from last night.

Otherwise it’s been a day at the computer—organizing our schedules, which seem to change with every email from a doctor’s office. But I also caught up on my own work. For the first time I am putting an AI disclaimer on the copyright page of a book—makes me wonder about the future. And I carefully, I hope, compiled a list of French foods with the accents where they should be. Involved cutting, pasting, and guessing.

Today I heard from an old friend who has always maintained an apartment in Chicago but lived there part time and in Florida the rest of the time. Politics and climate have driven him out of Florida, so he’ll be in Chicago more. I jokingly said I’d write him into the next Irene book, and he revealed that one of the first projects he worked on years ago at the University of Chicago Press was a book titled, The Hows and Whys of French Cooking, by Alma Lach (1977). A plot idea immediately sprung into my mind—can’t you see Irene working with a real editor and harassing him near to death. In fact, I warned my friend, the editor might meet an untimely end. Am I committing myself to another Irene book. Heaven help me!

Hot still weather has come to Texas early, not a good sign. At eight-thirty, it’s 85^o and the air is eerily still. Possible thunderstorms tonight and several days during the week. And 100^o tomorrow. Too soon, too soon. I am glad Benji and I have the cool cottage. Now he’s lying by my desk but earlier something was disturbing him, and I think it was more than the flies he was chasing. He paced our tiny space, and when he paces his nails click on the wood floors. At night, he moves silently as a cat, but the earlier clicking brought me close to screaming. Another good thing about him—he has never eaten people food not even scraps. And he doesn’t associate my cooking with food. Oh, sure, he’ll come sniff at the butcher block (which is just above his nose, fortunately) but then he turns away. Even tonight when it was raw fish. That dog gets better daily.

You know what I think I’ll do tonight? Read a book and go to sleep early. Sounds like a winner. How about you?

Graduation parties and a rainy Mothers’ Day

 

Jacob has had a great weekend—at least I assume he did, since I haven’t seen him yet. But last night was senior prom for Paschall High School, and he and several of his buddies were all spiffy in tuxes, with lovely girls in gowns on their arms. Jacob does not have a steady girlfriend, so he took a girl who is a good friend—you know how that works. I was pleased to see the picture and note how modest her gown was, and Christian said all the girls at the photo shoot had long gowns—none of those skimpy mini-things. Of course, prom itself is sort of anticlimactic—they don’t stay long, and the after-parties are the big deal. My behind-the-fence neighbor wrote that her son would be hosting an after-party in their pool and cabana and she had reminded them of noise control. I never heard a sound, and when I went to the bathroom at three o’clock, all was dark and quiet.

Golf seniors

Today the moms of the seniors on the Paschal gold team hosted a party with a gambling theme. Jordan has a lovely entertainment area in her office, with freedom to use it, so that was the site. Christian reports it was a great success.

Other than a golf party, today was not a huge success. It was dark and thunder rolled, rain fell for much of the day. Usually I rather enjoy a day like that, but today I did not feel well, so that darkened my mood. Benji too was a bit of a worry—rain doesn’t bother him, and he appears to enjoy mud. But then he comes in and decides the upholstered furniture is there for his comfort. I have upended the cushions on his two favorite chairs, so when I called him in tonight, he took his wet muddy self to his crate. Score one for me.

My Jamie arrived late last night—later than he intended because his rental was an electric car, and he didn’t realize how long it took to charge. When he arrived, coming from Frisco, he had only charged it for seventy miles, so he charged it overnight and hoped it took. It struck me that it was like the early days of gasoline engines—at first people were bumfuzzled by maintenance, but they got used to it. We will all eventually get used to electric cars—maybe just before cars themselves are phased out.

It was of course a delight to have Jamie here. He is, and I don’t think he’ll mind me saying this,

Hamburgers in the cottage

the poorest of my children at keeping in touch frequently. But when he’s here, he is, as Jordan says, totally into the moment. He gives great massages, sometimes painful as he zeroes in on every spasm in your back, but he’s tireless and dedicated. And he discovered last night what may be the cause of my lethargy and lack of appetite—swollen glands in my neck. Though he didn’t have time this weekend, he has been known to lull me to sleep with his acoustic guitar. Christian grilled hamburgers late last night, and they ate in my cottage—though I, already not feeling well, stuck to yogurt.  After the Burtons went inside, Jame and I had a long talk for which I was most grateful. His life has been turned upside down in the last year, and I was glad to hear him talk about it.

This morning, Jamie went for a run and was gone longer than he meant to be because he so enjoyed running through old, familiar neighborhoods. Then it was a rush for him to shower and get out the door for his plane back to Denver, where he is now living. But I have something to look forward to: he, his older sister, and older brother will all be here, again briefly, for a party that Jordan and I are hosting for Jacob—well, in truth, she is hosting and my name is on the invitation.

Hope the mothers among us—and that takes many shapes and forms—were well celebrated today. I know for many it is a hard day, and I reach out to them. For what a good friend would term a less saccharine, Hallmark version of the history of Mothers’ Day, read here: (69) May 11, 2024 - by Heather Cox Richardson (substack.com)                               

Obituaries, a vet visit, and a good dinner

Haute cuisine in the cottage

Not too long ago, the obituary writer was a respected member of any newspaper’s staff. It takes talent, skill, and practice to condense a life into a few, meaningful paragraphs. These days, obituaries are syndicated, expensive, and in some cases a scam that can trap you into an endless cycle of intrusive emails. I learned these lessons the hard way. To begin with, the obit for my brother, John Peckham, in the Star-Telegram cost almost $3/word. We shortened and shortened, leaving out what we thought were some of his major accomplishments as well as some of the tidbits that made him a fascinating person. It seems you don’t really contract with your local paper but with a national company called Legacy, Inc. Since we were writing it ourselves, I never explored the options for help from either the newspaper or the national company.

The first problem came when we wanted an estimate. My niece, burdened with much on her mind, asked if I would get that. The only way to do it was to fill out the form, so pretty soon it looked like before they gave me an estimate I would have to guarantee payment. I couldn’t do it in her name because I didn’t know if she subscribes to the paper and that’s apparently a requirement. I did finally get a rough cost, and she took over. The obituary appeared as scheduled and looked fine—a bit bare bones and short, but okay. Jenn had added at the bottom the location of a small celebration of life.

Days later I wanted to verify the proper name of that location to share with a friend. Couldn’t find the obituary, so I clicked on one of those “find anyone” sites that came up when I asked to find an obit, filled in John’s information, and waited. I never did get the information, but I was somehow signed up for something called Truth Finder which offered, for a fee, to dig up all kinds of information about John, including previous arrests for assault and similar unsavory tidbits. He was by no means an angel all his life, but I thought that was stretching it a bit.

That site never did find what I needed, and I found it elsewhere. But now I get constant reminders, two at a time—Am I still looking for John? Would I like to bring John back into my life? And similar inanities. These “reminders” appear, large, in the corner of my screen so they cannot be ignored. You must click on them and then close out to get them to go away. There is no unsubscribe button, which I suspect is illegal. They’re not on Facebook, so I can’t block them, and I’m not tech savvy enough to know how to make them go away. Among other reasons why it’s so wrong, it’s an insult to grieving families.

While I’m at it, another internet complaint: this is aimed at various Democratic fund-raising branches. Republicans are probably just as bad, but I only occasionally hear from them, and I respond with an instant, “Stop!” or unsubscribe. But Democrats complain all the time that I have not confirmed I will vote for Biden—when clearly I have. There is apparently little or no coordination between sites—even though Act Blue is supposed to be a clearinghouse. They appoint me to focus groups and choose me as one of a select group to represent my city or county or they beg for m valuable input on a poll. Turns out the poll questions could be answered by a five-year-old with good sense, and inevitably they lead to a plea for me to pledge a good-sized monthly amount. I think one reason they don’t well in polling is because so many, like me, get turned off by these inane, repetitious emails and refuse to answer. Somewhere, someone smart about marketing, must think this works, but it beats me. I long for the days of Lincoln, when campaigning was considered beneath a candidate.

On a brighter note, Benji went to the vet yesterday. He, who is wild Indian and totally untrained on the leash, behaved like an angel and captivated the vet’s staff. He had been to his Humane Society vet (because he was a rescue) just a couple of weeks before we got him, but we wanted the family vet to know him—we have been taking dogs to University Animal Hospital since the mid- to late sixties. Dr. Minnerly pronounced him fit, said he is smart, and suggested some training ideas. Of the barking which worries me, he said, “At the end of the day, he’s a dog, and dogs bark.”

And last night, despite my curtailed eating habits, I fixed a smashing dinner for Mary V.: sour cream, smoked salmon, pickled cucumbers and onion, and capers on puff pastry. The pastry puffed so high I almost didn’t know what to do with it and ended poking the air out of it with a fork before adding the toppings. We enjoyed it, and I had my leftovers for lunch today. Smoked salmon goes on the list of foods I can eat with ease.

Happy Friday, everyone. Hope you have big plans for the weekend, if that suits you, or else look forward to a quiet day with a book and a chair in the sun. It’s supposed to be sunny, comfortable temperature, and pleasant in North Texas. Hope for you too, wherever you are.

 

Happy May Day, a baby tarantula, and a fascinating garbage can—just another day at the cottage

Here you go--an AI image, courtesy Freepik.com

Happy May Day! Have you ever danced around a maypole? I picture young girls in Scandinavian costumes merrily twining colorful ribbons around a tall pole. I’m told in real life it is neither that colorful nor that easy—it takes practice and skill to turn out a beautiful pole and not just a tangle of ribbons. Thanks to author and botanist Susan Tweit for reminding me May Day is also Beltane on the Celtic calendar, a day for celebrating the high peak of spring when things are greening and growing and our world is turning toward summer, a long day as we stretch toward those lovely summer evenings. I for one love daylight savings time and will be crushed if it is ever done away with. I love long, light evenings and dislike those shortened days when winter closes you in darkness as early as four or five in the afternoon. So go celebrate Beltrane and dance around your own imaginary maypole.

An ordinary, dull day at the cottage, but Jacob provided a bit of excitement. Jordan and I were watching the news and having a bit of wine when he came running out looking frazzled and said, “There’s a huge problem.” In literal terms, it turned out not to be huge but rather small—he’d found a baby tarantula in his bed. Mother and son tore out of here like the house was on fire, with me futilely calling after them, “They don’t bite.” I was so afraid in their panic they would smush the poor baby. Jordan is quite squeamish about bugs and critters, and she’s pretty much passed that on to Jacob. To my relief the tarantula was on a shirt, and they simply folded the shirt around it and rushed it outdoors. Score one for Mother Nature1\

I was reminded of the welcoming ceremony for my youngest son Jamie—because my husband was Jewish and I Protestant, our children were welcomed into the concerned community at a Unitarian church. When it was Jamie’s turn, a friend brought him a gift—a live tarantula in what I think was a cottage cheese container. If I remember correctly, the creature went to Colorado on a plane with my sister-in-law’s brother. And that wasn’t the most unusual welcoming ceremony: at another, I think for Megan, when parents were asked to bring their children to the front, a man brought his dog. The minister didn’t know what to do, so he simply asked the man, as he had asked other parents, “How do you call your dog?” Substituting dog for child was his only concession to the strange request. My brother loved to tell that story.

Benji has a new fascination—the motion-activate automatic garbage can. He will stand and stare at it, waiting for action, for hours. Once or twice he has gotten his nose close enough to the sensor that he has triggered it open—his nose is just the right height. Then he jumps back in alarm. Sometimes when I am cooking, I am tempted to open it just to give him a thrill.

I am disturbed these days by the protests—and the official reaction to them—on campuses across the country. Tonight I worry particularly about UCLA because I have a granddaughter there. I remember the sixties and Kent State too clearly. Instead of a knee-jerk reaction with law enforcement in riot gear, I think university officials should meet with protest leaders, listen to them. I read an eloquent statement by a Jewish student from New York who said pro-Palestinian and pro-Israel groups were working together, trying to find common ground. Why can’t the so-called grown-ups do this too? I have not read of much violence on protestors part, though there has been some, but I have read of at least two faculty members  badly injured by those heavily armed troops. And I think that’s a crying shame in America. There is another side to the story: Senator John Cornyn of Texas said today that a high percentage of those arrested at  UT/Austin had no connection to the university. If Cornyn is correct—he’s not one of my favorite people, so I’m not sure I always trust him—that means outside agitators are stirring up the trouble on campuses. Even so, I think administrations should meet with student leaders and listen and negotiate. As bombs rain down on Palestinians who have taken refuge, as told to, in Rafah, How do you tall people to take refuge somewhere and then bomb that place and threaten to send troops in? I am not at all certain of the US position of absolute support for Netanyahu. Israel? Yes. Netanyahu and Zionism, not so much.

May we find peace in our time, but not at the cost of liberty or democracy!

Life goes on

 

Benji resting by my desk

If you asked me how I feel today, I would probably say sluggish. Maybe tired. I have bouts of energy and then periods of fatigue. I tell myself I’ve had two major blows within a little over a month—the loss of my only brother and last blood relative and the loss of the dog I’d loved for almost thirteen years. It’s neither sacrilegious nor silly to say that I am not weighing one against the other—both have been real blows. Most of my life I have been known for a sort of “carry on no matter what” attitude—that’s gotten me into trouble when I ignored some physical symptoms until they became major problems. I think maybe this time I am listening to my body. I sleep well part of the night and then toss and turn, but boy do I sleep soundly at naptime. I’ve been taking two naps—my usual afternoon one (I slept two and a half hours today) and another about 8:30 or 9:00 at night, after which I get up and work. It’s a schedule that seems to suit me for now. A couple of small medical problems are not helping my frame of mind—the malignant place on my scalp is healing and itches like fury, but of course I can’t scratch, I am hoping next week I’ll hear that I can stop putting Vaseline on it—who wants Vaseline combed into their hair? But I have weeks to go with the medicine that is intended to stimulate the immune system and kill cancer cells—and it is the real cause of the itching storm. Also next week, I have a swallow test which I dread less because I’m worried about the outcome than because I am worried about swallowing the barium. I’m sure they have techniques for helping queasy people, and I tell myself it will be over quickly. But it looms. So that’s my sad story.

On the positive side, today marks one week that Benji has been with us, and he’s done a remarkable job of adjusting. So, I would modestly say, have I. This week he is apparently feeling enough at home to be a bit naughty—yesterday morning I found one of my shoes in the doorway to the patio. I showed it to him while repeating “No!” in the sternest tone I could muster. He looked appropriately chastised, whatever that means. A few minutes later, Jordan came in carrying the other shoe which she had found in the back yard. Since my hip surgery and broken ankle, my feet are so fat and swollen that I don’t have the usual wardrobe of shoes—this was my only pair of black. Stretchy, wide, easy to get on. I am keeping the closet door closed. I also caught Benji digging at the base of one of my new plants of muhly grass, and that’s got to be a no-no. He frolics among the grass, and I tap on the window each time and call his name. He’s so good he comes running to see if I really want him.

But he does not beg for food, even when we have appetizers on the coffee table—Sophie would have decimated that in nothing flat. And he puts himself to bed in his crate about ten o’clock, and stays there quietly until I get up, usually about eight in the morning. He’s responsive to his name and seems eager to please. When he’s outside, he frequently comes to the doorway to check on me. And, though he is right now barking, he’s toned that down a lot. With his wild energy, he is like having a teenager in the house—you know if you can just wait through this period, there’s a great person in there. Adjustment is a slow process for both of us, and Benji is distracted by all the people who love and fuss over him bigtime—and then go away. I’m here for the 24-hour long haul. He  seems to understand that—he follows me to the bathroom, lies by my desk at night when I’m working. He’s going to be a good dog.

I had a spectacular kitchen fail last night that was also a great learning lesson. It taught me how to make a good red wine sauce for hamburger steak, and it also taught me a lesson I should know: don’t multi-task when cooking. I was making sirloin patties with red wine sauce, but I was also trying to finish up some computer work. And I wanted to make sure Jordan’s pattie was not pink in the middle, because she does not like pink meat. So I let the patties brown too long, but gosh they had a nice crisp crust! Then the wine reduced about three times as fast as usual—it usually takes forever, especially if you watch it, but this time, I turned my back. Added the beef broth and it did the same thing, so by the time we served, there was little sauce. And the patties were surely not pink in the middle. Christian’s mom liked meat cooked to a fare-thee-well, so he once told me her salmon patties were like hockey pucks. He could have said the same thing about my patties last night, though he kept reassuring me they had a great flavor. I tried to steam one for lunch today and threw it out. I swear I’m going to try again next week—if I get it right, I’ll share what I did.

I have had my evening nap, and I’m feeling better, over my pity party. When I was young, my mom had migraines and would take to her bed for a day. But never longer. So I learned to say, “She’ll be all right tomorrow,” if someone asked about her. So that’s my motto tonight: I’ll be all right tomorrow. Thanks for letting me whine. Good night, you all. Good night, Benji!

Benji has a fan club

My brother John and his puppy

Benji is so grateful for all the welcoming comments and praise for his good looks. He is especially grateful to one anonymous fan who sent him a gift—wonderful health bar treats in a variety of flavors and a chew toy he has not been parted with. I wish I had a name so I could thank the donor, but I hope he or she reads this and knows how tickled we were to receive this bounty and how grateful. Benji has found himself a special place in the yard, by a tree, where he hollowed out a hidey hole and stashed his favorites, such as the most ragged rope chew thing you ever saw. Now the new bacon-flavored bone is there too, after banging its way around the cottage while I napped. On the whole, Benji is really good about my naps—he puts himself to bed in his crate.

The barking is getting somewhat better. At least, I think so though I may be grasping at straws. He spent periods quietly outside today. I think that advice that he needs to get used to the neighborhood is spot on. In his previous home, as good as they were to him, he did not spend much time outdoors. Now he’s outside every minute he can be, although he frequently comes to the door to check and see that I’m still in here. If his barking gets to be too much, I simply bring him inside, and he takes this with good grace, going immediately to his crate. But he will emerge to lie on the floor by my desk, and this evening, I could hear him and his bone in the bedroom. Knock on wood, but so far he has not bothered one thing he shouldn’t, and his food manners are good. He’s not a beggar.

I had a chance to test my own food manners last night when Carol Roark picked me up for dinner at the Blue Spire, the upscale dining area at Trinity Terrace, the high-rise retirement community where so many of my friends live. It was one thing for Carol to invite me, but another much bigger one for her to have to leave TT to pick me up and deliver me after dinner. And on top of that to wheel me in the transport chair because it is a very long walk from the front door to the elevator in the newest tower which houses the Blue Spire. So I am most grateful. We had a delicious dinner—veal piccata for me (Christian fixes chicken piccata frequently but I never splurge and buy veal) and stroganoff for Carol. Beter yet, Carol and I had a good visit. We don’t have get a one-on-one visit—we are part of a group of four who dine together. But last night, it was just us, and I got a slide tour of her recent trip to New Zealand (all those exotic birds and plants whose names I can’t pronounce!) and she listened about Benji and the goings on of my family and even my cooking. A lovely evening.

Tonight, my heart is heavy. My 92-year-old big brother is in the hospital—again! —and not doing well. He has always, since I was small, been my protector, and as we raised our children, he filled the roll of patriarch with admirable grace—my kids and his know their table manners to this day! John and I have had our differences—politics! —but in the last year plus, we have again become close, talking on the phone every four or five days. And we have so many rich, good memories that they outweigh the differences in our views and sometimes our lifestyle. I am not rushing to his bedside, because I think that would be extremely difficult for both of us—we are the last of our family on the side of our mother, my father, and his father. His wife said she would she would ask what he wants, but I suspect he will tell me not to come. And so I wait on tenterhooks. Prayers for peace and acceptance are welcomed.

An emotional evening

 

My appetizer dip.
There are layers of hummus and yogurt under all the veggies.

If my friend Subie reads this, she will assume it was an emotional evening because we apparently got our wires crossed, and she and Phil did not appear for happy hour as anticipated. Too bad, because I made an extraordinary appetizer. And I was disappointed because I had new to share. So now I’ll share it with you.

Tomorrow morning a woman is bringing her dog, Benji, for a meet-and-greet. She and her family are moving into an apartment and cannot take the dog, though I sense that she is pretty much heartbroken about it. Benji is a border collie mix, on the small side (22 lbs.) which is good for us, He is two years old, crate-trained, house-trained, and apparently a low-key inside dog though he does need exercise. I called this morning to interview her about the dog, and she turned the tables and asked me lots of questions, beginning with had I ever had any animals? I surely could answer that in the affirmative. The one thing she asked that impressed me was about a regular veterinarian, and I was able to give her the name and phone number of the clinic where I have been taking animals since the 1970s—I have the second oldest record in their files, and the first is inactive.

I’m a bit anxious about tomorrow’s meeting. As I said to the kids tonight, it’s a bit like getting married: did I make the right choice? Of course nothing is carved in stone, and I am free to thank Mrs. Reed for bringing the dog and tell her no, thank you. And, truthfully, I wouldn’t be surprised if she gets cold feet and cancels. Meantime, the Burtons and I drew up a list of questions and brought Sophie’s crate into the cottage. If Benji and I mesh, the next few days will be interesting.

An odd side note: when Christian was a pre-teen, he was a child model and eventually starred in a TV series that featured a dog named Benji. That dog, however, did not look anything like this one.

But even that was not the crux of my emotional evening: Jordan and Christian took their kitten to the vet to have his claws trimmed. While there, they collected Sophie’s ashes. I have never before saved a dog’s ashes but always sent them to a pet cemetery. Jordan, however, is more sentimental—I guess that’s what you’d say. She has her father’s ashes in the kitchen and threatened to put Sophie next to him if I didn’t want her. On the other hand, my mother’s ashes are safely in a nearby cemetery. I just never thought of keeping ashes at home. So tonight they brought out a carefully thought-out package—papers with her paw print and nose print, a small framed paw print, a lovely wood box with the ashes, and little vials of her hair. It all absolutely undid me, and I began to cry. In fact, I’m tearing as I write this, and if the kids hadn’t been here, I would have cried uncontrollably.

Christian said he thought it right that Sophie be here tomorrow when a potential new dog arrives. Be still, my heart. More tears.

In other, more cheerful news, my grandson Kegan loved the U. of Arkansas in his visit today and, as his mom said, seems pretty much sold. It’s amazing how many kids with connections go there. Turns out Kristi Griesbach, Lisa’s lifelong friend, has a nephew there, and Jacob knows countless seniors who will enroll with him in the fall. And now it looks like I will have two grandsons there.

Because Arkansas is not a progressive state—how could it be with Sarah Huckabee at the helm?—I worry about such things as a DEI initiative (probably missing) and other issues, like abortion or support for Ukraine. I know college kids are pretty much oblivious to such matters, but then this is when their characters are shaped. My family would tell me to hush, and so I will.

We will all be on hand tomorrow (except Jacob who will be in school), and I’ll report. Meantime, sweet dreams!

Cooking on a sad weekend

 

Life has revolved around Sophie this weekend. She was her bright sunny self Friday night, soaking up love and affection from Jordan’s friends Chandry and Marj, who said they came to see me, but I think they really came to check on Soph. Saturday morning, Sophie enjoyed the activity around the cottage—Zenaida was cleaning, and Climmy Reynolds hung a new flexible screen door on my patio door. But Saturday evening, Sophie was again lethargic and disinterested in food. We gave her the “I didn’t eat my supper” dose of insulin which seemed to perk her up. We fed her, including bits of hamburger and some canned green beans, which she loves. Turned out that was not such a good idea.

During the night, she wanted out at three but went into a far corner of the yar and ignored my pleas to come in. So I woke poor Christian. When she wanted to go out again at five, I held firm and crated her. This morning when I went to let her out, she was almost catatonic and had thrown up in her crate. She has gone downhill a bit all day—wandering with no idea where she’s going or what she wants, collapsing into the grass in the yard (I can only think it’s soft and comfortable for her). We’ve had great debates about what to do—I called the emergency clinic but when they said they might hospitalize her overnight, I decided she’d be more comfortable at home. She hates the clinic. I will call the vet first thing, but I suspect we’ll help her over the Rainbow Bridge tomorrow. The best thing we have done today is to surround her with love. We talk to her frequently, love on her, but it’s hard to tell what she understands.

House made
corned beef hash

As usual, despite the trauma with Sophie, a weekend means cooking. I posted before about my cooking fail—the St. Patrick’s Day corned beef that was tough, good flavor but tough. Christian minced the meat and brough me about half a cup. I diced a medium Yukon Gold potato and boiled it until tender, sauteed onion, and made my own hash. Having grown up on canned hash, I recently found a version from Nueske’s Applewood Smoked Meat in Wisconsin and realized how superior it is to canned. But it’s pricey. So, however, is good corned beef—I had splurged on our St. Pat’s piece because it was uncured (I had to look that up but it means no artificial preservatives—just natural herbs and salts as opposed to chemical). My house made hash was, however, delicious, and I’ll do it again.

Aunt Amy's 
giant hamburger

Saturday night Renee came for supper. I was rather proud of the meal—Aunt Amy’s Giant hamburger, Louella’s rice, and house-made refried beans (okay, they were canned but it was a new technique, and we thought it worked well). Jordan, Christian, Renee, and I laughed and talked until after ten-thirty, but we always had one eye on Soph. That was when she seemed to rally, but I knew deep down she was off a bit. Still, we had a lovely evening, trading stories and talking about everything and nothing.

Tonight, I had prepped a roasting hen—Christian spatchcocked it for me, and I spread herb butter under the skin and set it in the fridge to dry a bit. I roasted it on a bed of potato, carrot, and onion. The vegetables were sweet and wonderful, the chicken tender and flavorful. At one point I questioned whether or not I should cook the chicken, but Christian said, “We have to eat.” And we three ate heartily—Jacob was off practicing his golf, with a tournament tomorrow. Christian is like me—very few things can deter us from thinking we have to have breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I like an orderly day.

Tomorrow will be a difficult day, but I think Sophie has given us a sign. I’m at peace, though awfully sad. I feel she has gone to a place where I can’t reach her, though she does respond to her name. And for a bit on the patio with us tonight, she looked around with interest, reminding me of all the evenings she has been so excited for happy hour on the patio, particularly if there were guests. She has been the funniest, silliest, smartest dog I ever had (and that’s a long list of dogs). She’s been stubborn, demanding, difficult, affectionate, and absolutely adorable. And she’s had a good dog’s life, almost her every wish fulfilled. An easy traveler and ready to adjust to almost any situation. I will miss her terribly and will be flooded with memories. But what I’ve said before holds true here—I am blessed with happy memories. There will be tears at first, but they will mellow into remembering all the fun and loyalty.

Pray for us, please. The whole family is devastated, and Jordan and Christian have once again been wonderful.

Life in the fast lane

 

Christian giving skinny Sophie her insulin.
She's so good about it.

Many days I go from morning to night with only Sophie for company (I’m not complaining!), but it sure was a busy place around here today. I began the day with—gulp!—an 8:00 a.m. appointment with my favorite dermatologist, a man I’ve known for more years than either of us want to count. He presented me with a choice of treatments for a small lesion on my scalp and therefore gave me another dilemma. I told him I do not need another dilemma in my life right now.

Got home just in time to meet the dog groomer who came to give Sophie a much-needed haircut. She’d had a bath at the clinic, so I didn’t realize how badly she needed the trim until I saw my new, lean dog. With her coat trimmed back partly for summer and partly to smooth out the bare patches where the vet had shaved her, she suddenly looked half the size she had. Christian has been joking that she was getting broad in the beam, but tonight she has skinny hips and hind quarters. Today she is much more interested in food, and I am almost free feeding, giving her a bit whenever she wants. She is one of the dilemmas in my life: I want to feed her enough to restore her health, but I don’t want her to get used to eating six or seven times a day. And of course, her ongoing health is another dilemma: if she has another crisis I will be forced to make some hard decisions. Meantime, we’re taking it day by day, and today was a good day.

Yesterday was not such a good day. She refused her breakfast and was clearly confused. You know how you go into the kitchen for something and then have to stop and ask yourself, “Why did I come in here?” That’s the look she had. She’d walk a few steps and then stop and stand still, looking puzzled. And she stumbled occasionally. I called the vet, who said she needed to be in the clinic. He called back in an hour or so to say her blood sugar was extraordinarily high; they were giving her IV fluids and insulin, but he was quite adamant he did want to keep her overnight. She was, he said, clearly unhappy at being there again. We brought her home mid-afternoon, and she ate her dinner. So now I’m again figuring out medication schedules and cajoling her into letting me spray the bedsore on her leg, etc. She’s worth it, and as I said, today is a good day.

Back to the rest of the day: the young man (really, he is) who owns the lawn service we use came by so we could discuss bushes that need trimming, the dying grass in the front yard (he says it doesn’t get enough sun), and the bare spaces in my native plant bed which has, miraculously, survived the winter and a plumbing crisis (piles of rock among the plants). I have cut back on plans for taking out the vines on the back fence (really old honeysuckle which is not flourishing) and replacing it. We had great dreams of crossvine, but the fence does not get enough sun.

Then the new handyman we’ve discovered (he really is handy) called and said he could come replace the flexible screen door in the cottage. By that time, I was ready for a nap, and we agreed on tomorrow morning. But we need a new screen—after Sophie got her foot caught in a hole near the bottom of the current screen, Jordan took scissors to it and cut off about four inches. As a result, I have had a convention of mayflies in the cottage—a fatal convention apparently because I find their delicate dead bodies all over. The wonderful Zenaida will also be here tomorrow to clean the cottage—another busy day. And then we are expecting company for supper. I am reminded of the May Sarton poem:

“I always forget how important the empty days are, how important it may be sometimes not to expect to produce anything, even a few lines in a journal. A day when one has not pushed oneself to the limit seems a damaged, damaging day, a sinful day. Not so! The most valuable thing one can do for the psyche, occasionally, is to let it rest, wander, live in the changing light of a room.”
~ May Sarton, Journal of Solitude. Thanks to Marilea Rabasa for posting that this morning on our small writer’s group listserv.

 

 

Peace and quiet

 

Sophie at the veterinaray clinic. Note the IV tube.
Ready to come home tomorrow.

I think it was Maya Angelou who said we all need to take an occasional day out. The world, she reminded us, won’t fall apart without you. That’s what I did today—a day out. The Burtons were out all day, celebrating Jordan’s birthday at the Roadhouse, which is supposed to have great burgers. They were up, bright and bushy-tailed early this morning, Jordan is a bright green top with shamrocks dangling from her ears. My bow to St. Patrick tonight is a pale green T-shirt (with a VW bus on the front) and bright green footlets. By rights I should wear orange because my ancestry is Protestant Irish. I’m fairly sure my forebearers, three generations back or more, left Scotland for Northern Ireland. They were Protestant Irish, but I like the myth and legend of the larger Irish culture, the green of St. Patrick if you will. Perhaps W. B. Yeats best summer up Irish culture: Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.

Since I would be cooking only for myself, there’s no Irish menu in the cottage tonight. But tomorrow my family will get corned beef, champ (a mashed potato dish with lots of butter and green onions), and Brussel sprouts. Coming up with a green vegetable that’s Irish and my family will eat is hard because everything is cabbage, and they won’t touch it. When Christian asked why the Irish eat so much cabbage, I suggested it is plentiful, cheap, and nutritious. I refrained from adding something to the effect that you can make some wonderful dishes with it. Colcannon is also out—no cooked spinach. I also didn’t tell him that Brussel sprouts, which he likes, could be considered tiny cabbages. Tonight I have made myself a huge batch of pea salad and will eat with it, I think, the sardines in preserved lemon that I would have served to Jean the other night.

I was sad that my happy hour guests cancelled tonight—particularly sad because friend Jaimie burned her hand badly. But that cancellation added to my day of peace and quiet. I had planned to make a couple of appetizers to entertain Greg and Jaimie, but I’ll save them for a reschedule when Jaimie is in a better place.

So this was my day out: I slept really late, with no Sophie to wake me and demand food. I barely had time to read emails before church, which I attended via Zoom in my pajamas. A bit of cottage cheese for brunch, and I applied myself to the last words of Irene in a Ghost Kitchen. I finished it—at least the first draft—and I breathed a huge sigh. Seems like I’ve been writing this mystery forever. It came out at close to 58K words, so if I can pick up another two thousand on editing, it will be a respectable length for a cozy. Tonight I’ll start some notes for a show about Helen Corbitt that Mary and I are to collaborate on. Mary regularly teaches cooking classes for the Silver Frogs, the senior noncredit program at TCU. So she roped me in to provide commentary and background on Corbitt’s life while she demonstrates the recipes. Should be fun, though I am a bit confused on which one of us will say what. I’m sure it will work out, and it’s one of those things I vow not to overthink. Oh yes, I did have a nap in the late afternoon but only dozed—think I satisfied my need for sleep this morning.

The Sophie report is good again. She’s eating, albeit with appetite-stimulating medicine. Today the clinic will take her off her IVs and see how she does on her own, with the goal of bringing her home tomorrow. I have a list of questions for our vet when we see him.

After a week fraught with tension and worry and distractions, I’ve enjoyed my peace and quiet. Talking with a friend recently, I said one reason I didn’t want to move into a retirement community was that I like my privacy. From friends who live in Trinity Terrace I get the sense that even though you can get privacy in your own apartment, it’s easy to be drawn into the constant round of activities. No such temptation in my cottage, and I was completely happy today. But I wouldn’t want to spend every day this way.

 

Back to real life

 

 

Jordan and Sophie
Twelve years ago, plus

Sophie seems to be on the mend, so it’s back to real life at our compound. Tomorrow is Jordan’s birthday—my St. Patrick’s baby. I won’t say what birthday it is, but here’s a hint: next year is a biggie. She has an all-day come-and-go party planned for tomorrow at a local hamburger joint/sports bar (I’m sort of guessing what it is, because it’s not on my circuit). None of my friends have been included—as she said tonight, “No adults.” I reminded her that she and her friends are adults now, many of them in their fifties. But I get that mindset and it’s okay, Anyway I will not be at this all-day celebration (and miss my nap? No way). As she pointed out, it will be everything I don’t like—loud, noisy, crowded. So tonight, we had her birthday dinner, the same dinner she’s requested since she was old enough to request: tacos.

There’s a bit of a story behind that menu choice. For the first forty-seven years of her life, Jordan thought she was half Hispanic. That’s what we’d been told by the Edna Gladney Home, and we dutifully set about keeping her informed of her heritage, just as we did for Jamie with his half-Chinese background. For years, Jordan resisted any kind of genetic testing, but a few years ago she broke down and did 23andMe. The results showed that she is almost a hundred per cent northern European. She admitted it came as quite a shock after thinking of herself as Hispanic all these years. So while she might have asked for bangers and mash or shepherd’s pie for her birthday, she stuck with tacos.

Christian was out of town all day and late to our taco party. He had stopped, per my request, at the store to get things needed for the tacos but by the time he arrived we had eaten, so now I have two heads of leaf lettuce, a bag of Fritos, and I don’t know what else that I won’t use. The sharp cheddar I will always use. I thought the meat was dry, but Christian pointed out that sour cream, cheese, and guac hide a multitude of faults.

No cake. Jordan didn’t want one, so I had chocolate bonbons after they went inside.

In the spirit of getting back to reality, I wrote a thousand words on my Irene novel last night—so close to the end and yet so far; it is tantalizing to have it in sight. Except that just when I thought I could wrap things up, the mystery solved, the bad person caught, a new plot twist plopped into my mind and won’t go away. I only have one sentence in my mind, and I have no idea where it will lead me. Also, last night, I blogged and finished the novel I was being slow about reading. So I feel all caught up and a bit righteous.

Last night’s dinner guest, my good friend Jean, cancelled because she had a cold. I didn’t open the can of sardines in preserved lemon that I intended to serve, but I did make myself a good-sized panzanella (Italian bread salad)—so good. Tomorrow night, when the kids are celebrating all day (a concept I struggle to understand) neighbors are to come for happy hour, but now that is uncertain because the wife injured her hand badly enough for an hours-long, middle-of-the-night ER visit. I’m just letting that be on hold.

And the day’s Sophie report: she was responsive this morning and obviously happy to have Jordan pet her, but I thought just a bit more lethargic. The tech explained there had been a problem with a catheter and fixing it had probably worn her out, plus she had just been for a walk an hour earlier. So maybe she was tired, which her panting would indicate. When we were ready to leave, she obviously wanted to go with us and stood before the door to the lobby. When the tech urged her out the door leading to the kennel, she braced her feet and resisted for a moment, but then went docilely along. She is a good girl, but I think she is ready to go home. My heart and my pocketbook are ready to have her home. Apparently, they don’t welcome visitors nor ever discharge patients on Sunday, so we are on hold. Our vet, who I like a whole lot, will be back on Monday, and I am hoping we can move this along.

Meantime, I leave you with a quote. There is a Tyler Farr folksong chorus that goes:

I wish love wasn't so hard.
I wish people could stay together.
I wish girls couldn't break hearts.
And dogs could live forever.

But I have seen another version, and I can’t quote the early lines, but the end is: “I wish dogs lived forever and chocolate cake wasn’t fattening.” I love that, and if I ever come across it again, I’ll share.

Meantime, sweet dreams, happy days, and thanks for being my friends.

 

 

 

A day in limbo

 

Sophie waiting for company on the patio.
We had our first patio gathering tonight.

This morning before I was even out of bed, the vet called with not-so-good news. Sophie’s kidneys were failing. He didn’t sound hopeful, but he said we would give her the morning and see how she did. He’d call back mid-day. So I piddled—read emails, read Facebook, answered a bit of correspondence, but all thoughts of creative work fled. I was watching the clock and wondering what his idea of mid-day was. I think I was a case study in suspended animation.

My kids rallied around, as they always do when I need them. Colin, skiing with his family in Wolf Creek, Colorado, has called three times and been very supportive. I guess the best thing he said to me was, “You’re always tough about the big things.” And this, I agreed, was a big thing. Megan, packing up her family in Tahoe to head home, called, and Jamie called from Denver and tried to cheer me with made-up Biblical quotes. I love them for trying, but talking to them made me teary. I was better off when I didn’t talk about Sophie.

Dr. Burney called around two o’clock. No change. She was still lethargic, not interested in food, not interested in peeing, kind of mentally sluggish as well as physically. But he didn’t sound ready to give up. When I said, “She was my miracle baby,” he said, “Oh, I know. Mine two.” So we decided to give her the afternoon. He called about five-thirty, and we agreed to give her until morning. Are we postponing the inevitable? Maybe. One thought I had was that whether or not Soph took advantage of the day, it had been a help to me, allowed me a chance to collect myself and face what lies ahead. I sent her a telepathic message this morning, told her it was up to her—she either had to turn it around or shut it down, but she had to save me from making the decision. Dr. Burney said he was sure she got the message, but he would repeat it to her. I love that man.

So we are still in limbo. I think tomorrow morning, no matter which way it goes, Jordan and I will go to the veterinary clinic and see her. When she was so sick a year ago, Dr. Burney warned me that she would be mad at me, because she thought whatever happened to her was my doing. And boy, was he right. She wouldn’t come near me. So that worries me a bit about going to see her. Jordan thinks seeing us will give her a boost. I am not sure.

And to pile complication on complication: Jacob has tested positive for Covid. He’s just home from a three-day fishing/swimming/hanging out trip to Oklahoma with three buddies. Called his mom at lunch and said he couldn’t taste his Chick Filet. (In my opinion that’s a good thing—I boycott Chick Filet, but he loves it and I can’t appeal to his teenage hunger on moral grounds). So when he got home, he tested positive. So now he’s bummed, because he can’t hang out with his buddies during his senior year spring break, and he can’t work to earn money.

But there is family good news. My brother, who is pretty much bedridden, has been in the hospital for two or three weeks, but it looks like he can go home tomorrow. I’m so grateful for small slivers of hope.

Tonight Subie and Phil came for a drink. She said she watched all day for a message telling them not to come, but I would have wanted them here no matter which way things went with Sophie. They are longtime friends, the kind who are a comfort, and they were tonight. It was the first time Subie drove over our new, nicely flat driveway, and she was full of raves about it.

I am deeply grateful to all of you who have sent hugs and prayers and good wishes. You help me as I wait in limbo, and I’m sure. If she knew, Sophie would be grateful too. She always did love to be the center of attention.

Worrying about Sophie

 

Sophie is having what I guess you’d call a diabetic crisis—so I am having an emotional crisis. Over the weekend, we caught her eating some odd things—like my rattail comb, a baseball card picture of one grandson, and so on. Jordan said, “She’s hungry”; Christian said, “She’s bored.” Turns out Jordan was right.

Last night I had to get up twice to refill her water, which is unusual. When she went out at five in the morning, she was gone twenty minutes or more, and I couldn’t find her. Was about to call Christian when she stuck her head in the door. She has breakfast in two servings—a complicated story because of her insulin shot. But this morning, she did not lick the bowl clean as usual with her first breakfast and did not eat her second at all. Christian was taking Cricket to the vet, so he described the symptoms, and the vet said her blood sugar is high. She needs to eat and have insulin.

This evening we tried everything to get her to eat—pouring broth over her dog food, grating cheese and dropping it on the floor with an “Oh, oh” (which is what we do when we’re working with cheese—it usually delights her), and, finally, putting dog food and broth in a blender and using a syringe to force feed. Worked pretty well—until she went outside and threw it all up. Per vet instruction, we gave her a half dose of insulin. Both Sophie and I would be lost without Jordan and Christian to manage all this.

So tonight, lethargic is a mild description of her condition. Poor thing apparently feels awful, so first thing in the morning I’ll call the vet. I anticipate we’ll take her in, they’ll feed her through an IV (there goes the fur on one leg), and give her insulin. I pray they can do it without keeping her overnight.

Christian put our feelings into words tonight when he said, “I didn’t realize how fragile her health is.” Now that I look back, I should have seen more warning signs—whereas she usually ate anything you gave her, she scorned her dry kibble for several days. One day I put broth on it and she ate it heartily, but now she won’t even do that. And canned food? She was ravenous. It’s such a sudden change.

Being a pet parent has a lot in common with parenting a child—that feeling of helplessness when you want so desperately to make them feel better, can’t make them understand how to help, and don’t know what else to do.

Nothing else on my mind tonight. Tomorrow, I hope, a more cheery report.