A family dinner

 

On our way to dinner

It’s wonderful to have family and friends share the high points in your life, as we did Friday night celebrating Jacob and three other Paschal High School graduates. But sometimes, a quiet family night is nice too. The four of us went to dinner at Pacific Table last night. Jacob got to choose the restaurant. It was a gorgeous evening again, and we sat on the patio. Yes, the wait for service was long, but we were talking and reminiscing. Jacob ordered, as he usually does, Caesar salad. This night it came in long, uncut leaves, and as he attacked it with a fork, I gently (well I tried) pointed out that the salad, invented in Mexico, was originally finger food. You were to pick up each leaf, with a dollop of dressing on the far end, and eat it. Jacob’s response? “I’m kind of liking the fork.” So much for food history. We lingered until dark—a thoroughly pleasant evening. We don’t often have Jacob’s company in the evening, which made this special.

My cone flowers in the front yard have really spread this year with all the rain we’ve had. I asked Christian if when the flowers go to seed, he could capture some seeds and spread among the wildflowers in the back yard to introduce a new color or at least a new shade of pink. He explained that the plants all have runners and that’s how they spread. But we reasoned they must also have seeds, so if anyone has any hints about sharing the wealth from front to back, please let me know.

Son Jamie just blew into town, literally blown in before what promises to be a storm. Thunder was rolling a few minutes ago and the sky was dark—briefly it was silent, the air very still, and then came the rain. A good medium rain, hard enough to soak in but not to wash away things. Jame will stay the week, helping with my doctor appointments, errands, etc. He brought his Pomeranian, Cosmo, and we had the great introduction of Benji and Cosmo. Benji was of course excited out of his mind, while Cosmo tried to pretend nothing was happening. Given one chance, he bolted out the patio door to the yard, but of course Benji followed him. After only one half-hearted scuffle, they settled down to the butt-sniffing stage. But Benji is very jealous of any attention Jamie pays to Cosmo.

Benji learned a new trick today but I’m quite sure he will unlearn it quickly. The walker was next to me at my desk when suddenly I was aware that Benji’s face was in mine. He had crawled up on the walker, which promptly began to move under him, leaving him scrambling to get his feet on the floor again. Then just now Jamie left, with Cosmo, to get Mama’s Pizza (high school memories die hard) and Benji got so excited he jumped on the credenza next to me where I keep racks of file folders. Two jars of dog treats went down, but I caught the file folders in time. Pray for me—it’s going to be a long week.

 

 

Fierce winds, a jealous dog, and a couple of good books

 

Meet Chloe, the therapy dog

Benji didn’t even know it was time to get up this morning, because it was so dark outside. Texas continues to have fierce storms—more are due tonight. But this morning, the darkness and the heavy rain gave me a nice reminder of my mom. I could practically hear her voice saying, “Rain before seven, clear by eleven.” And sure enough, by eleven or a little after it was a lovely sunny day with blessed temperatures in the eighties. And it’s to stay that cool all week.

Benji had a spell of jealousy this evening, though he was, as he always is, good natured about it. The medical office where I had an appointment today had a therapy dog. That’s Chloe above—a lovely (and calm) two-year-old Aussiedoodle. At one point we heard a scratching at the exam room door, and the woman with us asked, “Do you like dogs?” Jordan and I assured her we do, so she opened the door, and in came Chloe with a ball in her mouth ready for us to throw. With the door closed and no place to throw the ball Chloe allowed us to love on her a bit and then lay down for a nice nap. Quite a contrast to Benji who jumped about wildly when we came home and then, a few minutes later, when Mary arrived.

Benji obviously smelled Chloe on me  and gave me such a thorough washing with his tongue that I nearly had to shower before I could fix my supper. Now he’s trying to get me to take an old artificial bone he loves. But I notice how rough it is, and I wonder if that means he’s chewing off particles, and we should take it away from him. At eight-thirty, it’s the hour when he settles down and lies next to my desk—unless something outside intrigues him. It’s probably my favorite time of the day—the soft lamp is on, along with the colored lights Jordan long ago put on a collection of pussy willow. They may look like Christmas, but I find them warm and comforting in the evening.

I read an interesting column today about reading habits and mental decline, the latter being a subject of much discussion today with our two aging presidential candidates. I have my own opinions on who is in mental decline and who isn’t—I bet you can guess!—but I won’t go into that. The suggestion in the column was that a switch from fiction to nonfiction might indicate a slowing of brain function. Fiction, the theory goes, requires active participation by the reader, using the imagination to engage with the plot and events of a story. Nonfiction on the other hand lays out facts that the mind can more easily grasp.

I would have thought the opposite. Recently I started the new Erik Larson book, The Demon of Unrest, about the period between the election of President Abraham Lincoln and the Confederate firing on Fort Sumter, South Carolina, which signaled the beginning of the Civil War. It was then a period when our democracy was as fraught and threatened as it is now. Larson’s research is superb, his writing clear and compelling. I found the tension of the foreword—waiting for the Confederate guns to bark out—almost unbearable. Nonfiction at its very best.

But it was not what I need right now. My mind has enough tension and suspense of its own—I don’t need to grapple with history.. Raher, I need escape, so I turned to an unread book on my Kindle; A Big, Fat Greek Murder, by Kate Collins. It’s a cozy, no deep dark problems (except murder) and it distracted me from my own situation. What I’m trying to say is that I found—and often find—fiction easier to read than nonfiction, less demanding on my brain. How about you? What kind of reading is easier, more relaxing for you?

Thanks to Kait Carson, who writes thrillers, often about deep sea diving, for bringing up this subject.

There’s good news in Mudville tonight

 

Sophie loves Jordan!
Sophies doctor, Derek Burney, is a miracle worker,
but so much credit for her care goes to Jordan and Christian.

Today, Thursday, is my regular day for my food blog, “Gourmet on a Hot Plate.” But I have been so overwhelmed by and grateful for your prayers and hugs and good thoughts for Sophie that I decided to bring you up to date. The recipe I had in mind will keep. Meantime, there’s good news tonight, but first here’s how the day went.

The vet called about 7:30 this morning. Miniscule was his favorite word. She might, he said, be a bit better but it was miniscule, and her chances for surviving this episode were miniscule. She refused to eat and had developed a bloody discharge from her nose. Her kidney numbers were only slightly better. It was time for us to come see her and talk. So I alerted Jordan and Christian. We were all convinced we were going to let her go. I packed up the insulin needles and some other things that we wouldn’t be needing but someone else could use. We were glum as we drove to the vet, though I did my usual when nervous and talked too much.

We were in the waiting room when Rachel, the tech, came leading Sophie on a leash. That was the first surprise: Sophie had not been walking when the Burtons took her to the vet. Rachel said that was new this morning—she’d been carrying her out to potty. And she said her demeanor was better this morning. We were shown into an exam room and left to visit with Soph. A year ago when she was so sick, Dr. Burney warned me that she would be mad at me, because she thought whatever was happening to her was all my fault. Sure enough, she was less than ecstatic to see me, but she sat still for Jordan to pet her—and when Jordan stopped for a minute, Sophie turned her head as if to say, “Keep doing that.” For Christian, she rolled over so he could give her tummy rubs. One factor: the two of them could get down on the floor with her; I can’t. They did pick her up a few times so I could whisper sweet nothings and promise to give her Velveeta if she’d eat enough to come hope. When the doctor came in, he said he was as surprised as we were.

I wouldn’t want you to think Soph is back “at herself.” She was on pain medication which made her even more lethargic, and she panted quite a bit, but she was enough better that I said I couldn’t think of letting her go, and Dr. Burney agreed. We are all comfortable with seeing what tomorrow brings. Christian is more worried about my bank account than I am—he says I can’t let this go on too long, and I understand that. But I just can’t say, “I’m glad you seem better, but I can’t afford to pay any more bills.” Life is too precious, and the burden of holding it in your hands is heavy.

I remember once running into a friend outside my neighborhood vet’s office. He said, matter-of-factly, “He needs a $2000 surgery, and I can’t afford that, so we’re going to put him to sleep this morning.” I was horrified, though I’m sure my friend, once a colleague, really couldn’t afford it. I’d have arranged monthly payments or something. As I struggle with the Sophie dilemma I think of the hundreds of people dying in Ukraine and Gaza, and I have concluded death at a distance and in mass, anonymous numbers is easier for many to tolerate. Up close and specific, it appalls.

Dr. Burney called this evening to report that Sophie ate a piece of lunch meat this afternoon and then, after a bit, ate another. That’s a really good sign. He says he can’t see her coming home tomorrow but he’s hoping for Saturday! I feel like shouting this news from the rooftop!

My good friend and neighbor, Jaimie Smith, sent me this quote from Joe Biden. It is so true, it made me teary, but I also think it speaks volumes to what kind of a good man our president is: “Dogs’ lives are short, too short, but you know that going in. You know the pain is coming, you’re going to lose a dog, and there’s going to be great anguish, so you live fully in the moment with him. You can’t support the illusion that a dog can be your lifelong companion. There’s such beauty in the hard honesty of that, in accepting and giving love while always being aware it comes with an unbearable price. Maybe loving dogs is a way we do penance for all the mistakes we make in life.”

 

Waiting for a storm, a dog crisis, and a nice restaurant dinner

 

Jacob with June Bug and Cricket the day they brought them home.

There is something strange about the period before a storm. In Texas we get frequent forecasts of severe thunderstorms, possible hail or tornadoes, flooding, etc. Half the time, it doesn’t happen. But you never now, and so there’s that period of anticipation. Not nail-biting, nervous anticipation but a wary caution. I can always tell a storm is coming when Sophie turns into a Velcro dog and won’t leave my side. Tonight she is staying nearby but right on top of me. She does not, however, want to go outside. So I do think there’s a storm coming.

We’re in a dog crisis at our little compound. The Burton’s King Charles Cavalier Spaniel, Cricket, is in doggie ICU. Cricket is fifteen years old and has been frail for quite a while. She even went with us to Santa Fe because Jordan felt better—and thought Cricket would—being with us than being home alone between pet sitter visits. Jordan, Christian, and Jacob got Cricket and her younger sister, June Bug, ten or eleven years ago. June Bug, who was two years younger, had a heart attack several years ago. At the time, they were told she might live anywhere from six to eighteen months. She outlasted that by a long time, but by the time she died she was deaf, blind, and incontinent.. Now we’re in limbo about Cricket. Hope for a vet recommendation tomorrow.

I ache for Jordan who is taking this hard, because I know how I felt a year ago when I thought Sophie was dying. She however, younger than Cricket and perhaps hardier, has bounced back in a remarkable way. The vet sees her regularly to check on her diabetic status, and says she’s being effectively maintained on insulin. I don’t think she sees much, perhaps shapes but no detail. She does need her teeth cleaned, and I am always more than a bit terrified by that prospect.

On a more cheerful note, Christian and I had a good dinner with Subie and Phil last night at a new and very popular Chinese restaurant (Jordan was too upset about Cricket to join us). I am always reminded of the time, when my Jamie was an infant, that my ex- and late-mother-in-law said to us over the phone from New York, “Wo we ate at the chink’s.” I asked her son if he could please teach her a better word since she now had a grandson who is half Chinese. I don’t think the lesson ever took. The restaurant where we went last night has made a big splash for its dumplings. I don’t think I had ever had Chinese dumplings, so I was particularly interested in them. I had the combo—pork, chicken, and vegetable, and liked them a lot. In fact, they would probably have been almost enough for me for dinner, but everyone else ordered an entrée, so I asked for beef and broccoli. Everyone loved their meal—but I honestly think Christian does beef and broccoli better at home. The meat was tender but not as flavorful.

Tonight, a lovely happy hour with close friends who will move to South Carolina at the end of this month. They are excited, but there’s a tinge of sadness. She calls herself my Canadian daughter because her mom is in Ottawa, Canada, and when she moved next door to me, almost twenty years ago, she was a young divorcee wth two young kids. Now those kids are grown and gone, and she’s remarried to a really terrific guy. I’ll miss them, but tonight we had a lively discussion about the wonders of the Carolinas. They will be less than twenty miles from where my parents retired, a part of the country where I enjoyed many vacations and thought I was in God’s country.

No storm yet. About bedtime, they say. Meantime, Sophie is calm enough to lie on the patio with her bare stomach on that hard, cold, wet cement. Sure doesn’t look comfortable to me. Batten down the hatches, just in case.

 

That edgy period before the holidays

 

Porter, content in my closet

Subie and Phil came for happy hour tonight, bringing Porter, his seeing-eye dog. Porter usually goes out in the backyard and ignores us, a behavior that puzzles Sophie who laps up company attention all she can. Today, however, the yard guys, with noisy lawnmowers and blowers, arrived about the same time the Greens did. The difference in dog reactions was remarkable. Sophie, as she always does, turned tail for the house and once safely inside, barked ferociously. Porter, on the other hand, was not going to let some guys with stupid equipment force him out of the yard, and Subie had to go out and almost literally shove hm into the cottage. Then he wandered down the hall to my closet and spent the entire time there. I was glad Subie got him inside, because some of the crew seem to be afraid of dogs, and I thought a dog his size would really keep them out of the yard.

Meanwhile, Sophie is barking in fits and stops but especially when they come close to the cottage with their blowers. So Phil decides he has to leave because of the barking. It took three of us to convince him it wouldn’t last long, and, no, he couldn’t get down the driveway right now, because they had blown the leaves into big piles—an obstacle course. Our oak trees are shedding heavily and yet still have an abundance of leaves. The pecan by the patio is through, but now the oak leaves migrate to the patio, so Sophie brings them in. I sweep every day. Phil stayed, Sophie quieted, and we had a jolly visit. Except for Porter, who remained in the closet.

In a strange way, a week before the holiday, I seem to get over the sociability part of the holiday. Tonight was not a holiday celebration—no gift exchange, no fancy appetizers nor special holiday drinks. I had warned them: leftover appetizers, which turned out to be ends of this cheese and that. Jordan cut them up and made a nice display. Just good friends getting together in a relaxed visit. At least for me.

This is the edgy time, when I’ve pretty much done all I can for the holidays, and I think, “Now, what?” Some wrapping and cooking details require Jordan’s attention, but for her it’s the busy time. She is, however, a dedicated list maker and has long lists of groceries from various stores. And truth to tell, she has a lot more responsibilities than I do. I remember those days. In fact, I remember when we celebrated Hannukah and Christmas—with four children. I had spread sheets of who got what on what day.

I have been beset by enough “business” problems to distract me from the holiday planning. Not the business of being a writer, but that of daily living. It’s the time of year for quarterly taxes and property taxes, and I need to have the trees trimmed by a real arborist (I’m already signed on for that). Now I need to wait for the plumber to fix the kitchen sink and pray that he doesn’t have to wait for a part—that suspicion lingers in my mind, but then I am given to worrying. I need to make a couple of doctor appointments, not for anything urgent but for check-ups. I figure a woman my age who spends as much time at the computer as I do ought to have her eyes checked regularly. And then, for a blue-eyed blonde, there are always skin checks. But those are the things you put off until “after the holidays” so that now they just hover in my mind. I must pursue that free offer I signed up for which suddenly committed me to a year-long, expensive contract, but I did find out today the reason the nephrologist didn’t get my check is that it never cleared the bank. So I had to stop payment and issue a new check. It’s all little stuff, details, but a pain. It’s perhaps like weaving with many strands and constantly feeling you’ve lost one or two.

With family gathering looming, I don’t feel I can dig into the Irene manuscript I’m working on nor the food of the fifties book that is turning out to be a tribute to my mom. So far, each day has kept me busy with those little details, but I figure the closer we get to Christmas the edgier I’ll get, and I am giving myself stern lectures about anticipation anxiety and all that kind of gobbledy-gook.

The plain truth of it is that I love Christmas, love the lights and the music and the fellowship and the food, but I get all keyed up waiting for it. This year, I resolve to stay calm and live in each moment, enjoying it for what it is. And then, there will come that blessed moment when all my family is together. And we can watch the midnight candlelight service and welcome the hope that the idea of the holy baby brings, whether  you believe in him or not. He brings hope for all of us.

Tale of the difficult houseguests

 

 

 

Thanksgiving a day early

That’s us. Sophie and me. We are the houseguests from hell.

Colin’s house is midcentury modern with several levels. A wonderful house—unless you rely on a walker to get around. Then ordinary things become difficult. Last night it seemed all I did was ask for help—and much of it had to do with Sophie. Could you feed her? And then I gave precise instructions for what she eats, in what order. Could you give her the insulin shot?  Something I don’t do at home. Could I have another glass of wine? Could you hook up my computer for me? Could I have a night light in the bedroom, but would you turn out the overhead light because there’s a heavy chair between me and the light switch. I’m cold—do you know where you put my jacket? Turns out it is apparently still in the car, and I am wearing a cozy sweater of Lisa’s. Colin and Lisa have stars in their crown, but I am feeling so dependent. I’m sure in addition to my needs, they are tired of my apologies. At home, because I have things arranged to suit me, I am much more independent.

The worst of it came in the middle of the night. Sophie went out at eleven, just before we went to bed. At one, I had to tell Colin she was really begging to go out. At two she began to bark again and paw at the bed. I tried loving and talking—I’d get a few minutes quiet and then she was back at it, bouncing her empty dish around in frustration. I gave her water from my tumbler, and she drank it gratefully, was quiet for a while, and then began to bark again. Colin appeared, said he was taking her outside and then sleeping in the front room with her.

(Lisa told me just now that she dreamed a duck was quacking and woke enough to ask Colin if he thought the duck would be okay!)

Colin took Sophie, closed the doors to the front room and told her she was not leaving. But he said by the time he got up at six, she was anxious to get back into my bedroom. And when I woke up at eight, there she was quiet as an angel. I’ve never seen her so agitated, even though she’s been here many times before. So wish us luck tonight. She has appeared content and happy all day, so maybe she knows I’m not going away and leaving her with these strange people.

Tonight there were thirteen of us for dinner—Morgan’s longtime boyfriend and some of his family, with relationships to tangled to mention. Plus three dogs who got along admirably. Lisa’s mom, who grew up in Norway, cooked what we have come to know as Norwegian hamburgers, along with her special chicken recipe, and peas and carrots. I’ve been the lucky recipient of Torhild’s meals before, looked forward to this, and enjoyed it thoroughly. Noisy, happy, long dinner table. As the evening wore down, Colin summed it up perfectly: It almost felt like tonight was Thanksgiving

So blessed to be here. Tomorrow it will just be the five of us, and I’m looking forward to that too. Lisa and Morgan are talking about first and second dinner—first is scheduled for one; second, at six, will be leftovers.
Best of both worlds.

Sweet dreams tonight of turkey and dressing and cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie!

If something can go wrong, it will!

That is usually not my attitude, but it sure has been true the last couple of days. After yesterday’s fiasco of waking sleeping children (grown, as in adult), I thought everything was okay and I could move along with my week without a hitch. Not so.

Tonight I fixed supper for friends Subie and Phil because they are in the throes of moving to Trinity Terrace and a retirement apartment—the packers are coming Thursday and the movers, Friday. (As I write this it has dawned on me that I have never had packers nor have I ever hired a designer when I moved—and as my kids will tell you, we moved a lot). Anyway, dinner was my small bit to help. I planned carefully, including my intent to make my favorite meatloaf: one that is half ground beef, half ground lamb. The ground lamb did not come with my usual Saturday order from Central Market.

I asked Jordan to see when she went to Albertson’s Monday if they had ground lamb. She assured me they wouldn’t but said she’d look. If you read yesterday’s blog you know she never made it to the store yesterday, so I ordered the remaining things I needed and could get from Central Market, including the lamb. I thought maybe they’d had a shipment. I specified that if substitutions were necessary that was okay if it was lamb and not beef. Who ever would have expected they’d sub lamb stew meat for ground lamb?

I didn’t discover that until this morning when I dumped the meat into the breadcrumbs and eggs. So I fished it out, piece by piece, and put it in my processor. No go. Finally I gave up, asked Christian to defrost a frozen pound of hamburger in his microwave (I have no counter space for one), and froze the lamb. We will be having lamb stew soon. The meatloaf, all beef by now, was flavorful, but I thought a tad dry, which it wouldn’t have been with some fatty lamb in it. I will keep ordering until I have a stash of ground lamb in the freezer—we had delicious lamb burgers last week, and I make a lamb ragu we all like.

Subie and Phill were complimentary about the dinner, but I thought the rice casserole was also a bit dry—it just shouldn’t be cooked ahead. And the dump cake definitely needs work. I am through cooking for several days—maybe. Sometimes I think it’s the days I tried hardest to make it all perfect that something goes wrong. I should have served Fourth of July hot dogs!

Social media has been full of warnings about firecrackers and pleas for consideration for dogs, cats, birds, and other creatures. So far, at nine o’clock, I have only heard a few distant pops, nothing that alarms Sophie. Phil’s seeing-eye dog, Porter, is really scared, so we planned an early dinner, and I thought we’d just keep Porter inside. He wanted nothing of that and lay on the deck by the back door to the main house all evening. I think what I’m hearing now is from Colonial Country Club. Sophie is apparently sleeping in her favorite spot—wedged between the couch and the coffee table. At any rate, she’s not right by me, so I assume she’s not frightened.

Patriotic concerns aside, the Fourth is never one of my favorite holidays. For years, my kids have gone off to picnics and lake parties and what have you, and I have often found it the loneliest of holidays. So I was doubly glad for the Greens’ presence tonight.

This morning Christian could have repaid me for waking them yesterday. I fed Sophie her first breakfast, per her demand, at seven-fifteen and went back to bed thinking I’d sleep another hour and feed her second breakfast at eight-thirty (the doctor has okayed this routine) so she’d be ready for Christian to give her insulin at nine. I woke at nine-fifteen when I heard him leave the cottage, having given her the shot. But she hadn’t had her second breakfast, and we’re told the shot should follow food by no less than half an hour and no more than an hour. Poor Sophie—it’s a wonder she survives and flourishes with all our mistakes in her routine. I am now putting ear drops in twice a day, but she shuns me—because, you know, how painful that is—NOT.

And poor Christian who puts up with both of us while Jordan’s away. Last night my big problem, for which I called him to come back, was that my electric bed had no power (I raise the foot because of my swollen feet). He found where the plug had been knocked loose, and all was well. But the frequency with which I ask him for help makes me realize how much Jordan does daily. See that yellow shirt? I can’t get it down from the hanging rack. Would you bring me another bottle of wine? Did you water the lawn and potted plants? His halo is shining.

All of this is tongue in cheek—it was a pleasant Fourth with the company of people I enjoy. And how grateful I am for Jordan and Christian. Phil and Subie insist if they had the Burtons watching over them, they would not move into Trinity Terrace, and tonight Subie said maybe they should just move in with me. A joke, but it makes me realize how blessed I am.

Hope everyone had a happy Fourth, celebrating in whatever way works for you!

Crazy start to the day

 

These guys are on the alert for fireworks. 
They want to remind you to follow city laws and be considerate.
Actually they're wondering why their human went across the street
and when he is coming home where he belongs.

Once upon a time a gentleman I liked a lot ordered lunch of chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes with gravy. When he brought it to the table, I said in horror, “You don’t have anything green on your plate.” He rolled his eyes and said, “Once a mother, always a mother.” This morning I proved him right, although I think it might be changed to “Once a mother, always a worrywart.”

After Sophie’s last visit to the doctor, when we got the definitive word about the time relationship between her meals and her insulin shots, Jordan and Christian committed to giving her a shot at nine a.m. I committed to feeding her at eighty-thirty. This morning, I texted, told them it was eight-forty. Zenaida came to clean the cottage, took the laundry inside to start, and came back aside, “They’re asleep. The door is locked.” I gave her a key and said, “Nonsense. They know they have to give Sophie her shot. Jordan is leaving town and has promised to go to the grocery store first. And Christian has to go to work.” So I called. No answer.

I asked Zenaida to go back inside, but she was hesitant. I told her we had to wake them up. Thus began several trips, with Zenaida resisting each time, saying they would get mad at her. I said no, they might get mad at me, but not her. Each time, she went a little farther—first to the kitchen where she called their names. No response. By this time I was seriously worried; she was still reluctant. At my urging she went back, said she peeked through the open bedroom door and saw an arm over a forehead, so they were sleeping. My first thought was “Well, if they were dead, the arm would have fallen off the head.” That’s how paranoid a mother can get. I knew there was nothing on in July that would cause carbon monoxide poisoning, but what else could have happened? Christian is almost always up well before nine, though Jordan can be a slug-abed.

About the fifth or sixth time Zenaida went back, they woke up and weren’t angry at all. They thought it was funny. Seems a neighbor had come to visit late last night—and stayed until three o’clock.

So now all is well. Jordan writes that she and a couple of friends have safely arrived at one friend’s family house in Key Largo, all set for four or five days of sunning and fishing. She swears she is not going in the ocean, and between sharks and rip tides I’m just as relieved (there’s that worrywart mother again).

Christian and I had a good supper of chicken hash (it doesn’t look like much, but it is delicious), corn salad (a new experiment for me and a keeper recipe), and sugar snap peas. I snapped and strung and they still had strings. I may give up on them, sweet and good as they are.

It was a cooking day for me, but an awkward one, between working around Zenaida who tried to clean while I made a mess. I kept telling her I would do my dishes, and she kept telling me she would wash them. We didn’t quite come to blows. She helped me clean my refrigerator—Zenaida loves to throw away useless things, and we got rid of old bottles of salad dressing, and dried bouillon flavoring, and a couple of unidentifiable small jars. I was beginning to remind myself of my mom. She had lived through the Depression and saved everything in little jars (maybe baby food jars she somehow got or saved since we were babies) in the back of her fridge. When she went to assisted living and we cleaned out her kitchen, we found several jars with mold.

Living through the Depression made an indelible impression on people. Mom saved bits of string and scraps of aluminum foil, and the one I remember most—paper towels. If she used one to wipe a counter spill, it went into a special space beneath the sink to be re-used for the next floor spill. I inherited some of that and tend to be frugal, though in her old age she accused me of being too willing to pitch things.

Christian, like me, is frugal, and Jordan and I were talking about something food related one day, and she said, “Christian Burton lived through the Depression.” I was indignant. “No he didn’t. I wasn’t even born then.” She was philosophical. “In another life,” she said.

Tomorrow I’ll cook supper for my good friends Subie and Phil and then it’s coasting on leftovers the rest of the week. Jordan and Jacob will both be home next Saturday, and Christian and I will be glad to have life get back to normal. Meantime, we’re flourishing.

Happy Fourth everyone. We’re a proud country, and we will survive the current unrest and divisiveness. Martin Luther King Jr. said, “The moral arc of the universe bends slowly, but it always bends toward justice.”” I have faith in democracy.

 

Sophie got the zoomies

 

My kitchen floor after Sophie's zoomies

Sophie and I pretty much have a morning routine. If she wakes too much before seven, I placate with a snippet of cheese and tell her to go back to sleep. Inevitably, she wakes me again right at seven. I feed her and let her out, and by the time I’ve gone to the bathroom myself, she is back in, waiting for another piece of cheese. Then we both goi back to sleep. This morning, that all went haywire. She did not come back in. I looked out, and she was racing along one side of the yard at top speed—and top speed for Sophie is darn fast. It’s the Australian shepherd in her.

My calls of “Cheese” went unheeded. She’d run from one end to the other and then freeze, as though she thought she was a hunting dog on point. Only her tail would move, and it would wag vigorously. I went outside with the piece of cheese. Nothing. So, I went outside with the leash, having sunk so low that I was willing to pretend she was going somewhere. She ignored me. Since it was Sunday morning and my neighbors—and my family—were probably trying to sleep, I was grateful she didn’t bark much. When she did, it was high-pitched, almost a squeak—from excitement.

Finally I did what goes against my every principle: I left the door ajar and went back to bed. But I didn’t sleep. Every fifteen minutes or so, I got up to check on her. She was still running. Finally a little after nine I got up and started on my day. To get her in for her morning shot, I had to call Christian—of course she came to him right away. He gave her a shot, and I confined her to the cottage.

I had warned Christian not to leave water in her dish, but he thought she’d already splashed a bit and that was the end of it. Little did he know. She was mad at me, especially when barking to tell me she wanted to go out had no effect. She banged the food dishes around a bit and then, in her anger, flipped the water bowl and walked in it. You see above a picture of the results. I triple-mopped the floor, and it still needs to be done professionally.

One advantage—during all those fifteen-minute dozes, I did really good work in my head. Noted the next scene in the novel-in-progress and came up with a plan—and titles—for the first four chapters of pieces of my cottage memoir. When I finally got to my computer, I made notes of all that had been racing through my brain.

Apparently, however, Soph was not through with the zoomies—or at least the squirrels. I let her out a bit after noon, and she went right back to running and barking. Veterinary experts tell us the zoomies are natural to all dogs and result from pent-up energy. Zoomies are not bad for dogs—in fact, they look like they’re having a barrel of fun when they’re running. But there is always the danger that running so fast they will injure themselves. Once, before we got rid of deconstructed granite in some flower beds, Soph tore the pads on her paws badly and was off her feet for several days while we treated with salves and ointments. And let’s be realistic—she is twelve years old and has a chronic condition and six months ago was at death’s door. I worried a lot about her this morning.

The squirrels are to blame, of course. They know exactly what they are doing when they tease her, and she falls for it every time. What they say about dogs having the thought processes of a two-year-old is so true!

Tonight we had happy hour with the neighbors directly behind us. Two or three years ago, they asked me to sign an easement waiver or whatever so they could build a cabana/guest house closer to the property line. My cottage also sits too close to the line, but it was obviously built before zoning restrictions. They are good neighbors, nice people (with sons about Jacob’s age), and I was glad to do it. They and their architect—who also designed the renovation of my cottage—were most considerate of my privacy. The new structure directly blocks the view from my bathroom window, but a fence covered in honeysuckle hides their pool equipment and, besides, who spends a lot of time staring out the bathroom window? Windows on my side of their cabana are for ventilation only and are up high—all they see is trees, which is pleasant for them and keeps my bathroom private.

So tonight we saw the finished project, and it is classy. The cabana matches the house and faces the new pool. The main, two-story house has a new screened-in porch on the first level and an open porch above which must be off their master bedroom. They’ve created a lovely oasis, and I was delighted to see it. Having grown up with a scrrened-in porch in Chicago, I am more than a bit jealous.

A nice end to an off day. I may have to take a nap before I go to bed. Sophie is now calm and angelic, and occasionally I think the look in her eyes says, “Will you forgive me?” Here comes a busy week. I’m looking forward to it. You?

My non-cooking cooking weekend and a doggy discovery

 

Panzanella (Italian salad)

Shh! Don’t tell Jean, but that dinner I was too tired to cook for her last night—white bean soup and panzanella salad—was delicious tonight. Like my mom’s migraines, my ennui of yesterday was a one-day affair, and while I won’t say I bounced back, I think I sort of hopped—awkwardly. And thanks to Jean, I had a loaded baked potato for lunch—the one she brought from Jason’s last night was huge, and I was not yet ready to eat heartily then. Today I was ravenous. (I just took a picture of the panzanella and sent it from my phone to my computer—it arrived with the captions, “pan smells.”

Slept late this morning, went to church online, made croutons for the salad (not as difficult as I anticipated, but the crust on Central Market sourdough is so good but so tough), and made the soup. Then I had to have a nap, but that’s not unusual for me.

Church was interesting. Russ Peterman has been preaching sermons based on various hymns, which delighted me because I can still recite the word of the old hymns I remember from childhood and in my mind I can hear the melody (somehow it doesn’t come out well when I try to sing, and I am in awe of choir members my age who lift their voices in praise). Today’s hymn was “How Great is Thy Faithfulness,” which I don’t remember but I learned today is a beautiful, soaring piece of music. The sermon dwelt on the fact that we are not promised eternal happiness on earth, but we are sure of God’s faithful love when tragedy strikes.

I remembered a tsunami that killed thousands one year in this century. A friend who was a nonbeliever asked me how I could believe in a good god who let such happen, and I posed the question to our then-minister. He said, “Shit happens, but when it does, God is there to help us.” That was essentially this morning’s message, and since this year a lot of “sh*t” has happened to those I love, I found it meaningful.

Just as I finished making the soup this morning, my induction hot plate began to sing to me—an ominous sign. It had gone berserk. In the six years since I have relied on one, this is the second to fall apart. It leaves me without a way to cook, except the toaster oven. Fortunately tonight Jordan took the soup pot inside and heated it. I have ordered a new hot plate—it should arrive Tuesday. I understand a good friend is already pledged to bring us dinner tomorrow night—good timing.

Tonight I discovered a dog rescue group I didn’t know existed: Doodle Rock Rescue intrigued me. It seems to me yesterday but I am sure is a lot longer that labradoodles were new to the dog world, expensive and rare. Now they and all the designer variations have become so common that they are a glut on the market and many need rescue. It speaks to a lot of things to me—prime among them owners who do not take dog ownership seriously, not recognizing dogs a living beings who love, hunger, know pain and fear.

Of course I would love another doodle—Sophie is a bordoodle, a deliberate cross of a border collie and a miniature poodle. I don’t think she would take well to another dog, and after the recent expensive adventure with her health, I don’t think I can afford another dog right now. But I am so glad there is an active rescue organization for these dogs. This overbreeding, if that’s what it is, has apparently not affected the price of kennel-bred dogs—I just checked the kennel where I got Sophie eleven years ago, and the price has tripled—it was high enough then.

My good friends Sue and Teddy got a Bernadoodle (Bernese mountain dog/standard poodle) about a year ago. Mina is a lovely girl, full of energy, happy, and loving. Just this week, looking for a buddy or Mina, they rescued a labradoodle, almost a year old, a male who has the same high energy and loving disposition. He was raised in a loving home but the owner was unable to care for him because of illness. Sue, Teddy, and Mina are over the moon with joy and I’m a wee bit jealous.

Springfield doodles

Healthy dogs and ailing friends

 

Jordan and Sophie, the day we brought her home eleven years ago.
She has always been at least part Jordan's dog.

Praise be! Sophie is coming home tomorrow. Jordan and I can pick her up sometime after three. This means the clinic has her insulin regulated, and they feel she will be okay to be home. The doctor stressed this morning he didn’t want us to get her home and have to bring her right back. She will have a checkup one week from tomorrow, but we are excited to have her home.

Jordan wants Christian to go with us, so she can hold Sophie. My repeated reminder that I am perfectly capable of holding my dog on my lap fall on deaf ears—Jordan will feel better doing it, and since the brunt of care (insulin shots) is mostly going to fall to Jordan, I will acquiesce. Jordan also says she’ll spend the night in the cottage at least the first night.

I am hoping Sophie’s transition from clinic to cottage will be smooth, but I know that’s not a given. I remember once, having had surgery, when I thought if I could just get home I’d be fine. On the way home, Colin stopped and got a to-go order of chocolate bread pudding with raspberry sauce, my favorite from a favorite restaurant. When I got home, I suddenly felt as if a truck had run over me, backed up, and done it again. I collapsed into the bed, and it was days before I ate that bread pudding.

For one thing, Soph may have her days and nights mixed up—she’s been eating at midnight. And I’m not sure she’s got her house manners back. So it may be an interesting few days. But my cottage will once again be happy when she’s back. I’ve had several friends come in and remark on the fact they didn’t have to watch for Soph as they opened the door. They uniformly wilt in disappointment.

Not to be disloyal to Soph, but I’ve been enchanted by two dogs lately. Saturday, when I had supper with friends Sue and Teddy, I met their year-old Bernedoodle, Mina. She reminds a bit of an English sheepdog—shaggy, big, goofy, and full of love and high spirits. I was immediately taken by her, and it was mutual—with her muzzle dripping from drinking, she’d come to me for love. Yesterday neighbors Jay and Susan brought over their houseguest who had just picked up her eight-week-old Aussie pup, and as a softie for Aussies, I was immediately captivated. He was loveable and sweet and cuddly and wanted to chew on everything, including my fingers and clothes. The owner hadn’t named him yet, though I have been unable to suggest a good name. But some days I want an Aussie to keep Sophie young. Do not tell Jordan and Christian I said that, for they would descend on me with the wrath of the furies.

I had dinner with good friend Carol tonight and was struck again, as we talked, by how many people have had a holiday or post-holiday season with a spot of some kind on their moon. Four of my good friends are facing surgery, most of it pretty major, in the next month. Carol said she had said to someone it is ironic when Judy (that’s me) is the healthiest one among us. But it seems to me so many people have said their holidays were okay, but … and that “but” includes things major and minor. Ours, of course, was Sophie’s illness, and the sudden decline and recovery of June Bug, the only dog I know with a cat’s nine lives.

I don’t think the troubles people are experiencing are a bad omen for the year, nor do I think the chaos in the House of Representatives signals bad things to come. Call me Pollyanna, but I think many of us are getting our troubles behind us. And the House? They’re revealing their pettiness daily—I think (hope) they’ll flare and fizz out.

My crossed-fingers prediction? 2023 is going to be a good year!

Good news and gratitude

       

This will be brief because I am having computer problems tonight, but I wanted to shout out a big dose of gratitude to the many who read my blog and have expressed concern, good wishes, and prayers for my Sophie. Today, Sophie saw a doggie internist who diagnosed her problem as diabetes to which she has not responded as most dogs do. She will be spending a few days at the doggie hospital, and we are all hopeful of a full recovery, though she will have to have insulin injections twice a day for the rest of her life.

     Last night, we had about given up all hope and were preparing ourselves for the inevitable. But Jordan wanted to take her to the specialist who sees their Cavalier spaniels for cardiac problems. Thanks to Jordan and Christian, who are well known at the clinic, we were able to get an appointment. Jamie came over from Frisco and drove Jordan, Sophie, and me to the appointment--dogs are obviously family members for us and severe illness is a family affair. I am so grateful.

Totally content—well, almost

 

Home from the hospital.

As I write tonight, Jamie is sitting on the patio strumming his guitar to soothe Sophie, and it works—she is sound asleep. I would love to have him inside, but who would interrupt a man playing guitar for a sick and miserable dog. And for me, it’s a joy just to know he’s right there—I can hear the guitar faintly, and I can see him through the French doors.

Sophie may be home, but the news is not good. She apparently has a mass in her stomach. There is some chance that it is a foreign object she ate and has been unable to pass, but it is more likely a tumor. Colin quickly reminded me not all tumors are malignant. Sophie had the poor timing to get sick, twice now, over a long holiday weekend, so it will be Tuesday before we know what’s next. It will be a long weekend.

Meantime, Jordan is taking extraordinary care of her, doing all the things I can’t get down on the ground to do. The vet’s office gave her instructions on how to feed with a syringe (Soph is not at all interested in food, this dog who used to steal whatever she could off counters). Jordan also successfully gave an insulin shot tonight—the only agonized reaction was from Jamie. Soph didn’t seem to mind. She’s terribly lethargic, and I miss my wild, mischievous child, but we can all tell she is glad to be home. And we are glad to have her. Jordan plans to sleep on my couch tonight, so she can listen for her.

Junie among the flowers.

It's a doggie-down weekend. June Bug, one of the Burtons’ Cavalier Spaniels, outlived her life expectancy—and a heart attack and stroke—several years ago. Poor baby has been on her last legs for a long time, but today she has taken a downhill turn. Her back legs aren’t working right, and Junie, who is always ravenous and loves to steal Sophie’s food, wouldn’t eat her own dinner tonight. So Christian is on watch in the house while Jordan is out in the cottage.

Suppertime in the
cottage.

It's always a joy to have Jamie come to visit. I benefited from his guitar this afternoon and thought how soothing it was to sit and listen to him. He is frustrated that I don’t recognize even songs I know and love—I have a tin ear, and I can tell him it’s Joan Baez, but I can’t tell him it’s “Diamonds and Rust” until I hear the lyrics. We had planned to go out for supper but, of course, could not leave Sophie, so we ordered in. Jamie ordered Mama’s Pizza (his favorite since high school) while Jordan, Christian, and I had dinners from Pacific Table.

We’ve talked of kids—my grandkids—and, with Christmas fresh in our minds, started planning for Christmas 2023 which will be an Alter Family Christmas. We’ve talked about food and fun times in the past, and Jamie’s disappointment that the idea of taking me for a train trip won’t work—the bedrooms, he says, are not what they appear in the pictures but are small with bunk beds. He keeps saying, “But you love trains, and I like them too.” I told him it’s true, I do love a train trip, but like many things, train trips are among the memories I treasure. It’s hard to make someone fifty years of age understand that in my eighties there are many things I know I can’t or won’t do again, but it’s okay because I have the wonderful memories. Train trips among them—and my memories start when I was a very young child, and my parents used to take me on Pullman sleepers from Chicago to Toronto to see the Canadian relatives. But I am touched by Jamie’s determination—he is now working on Plan B. He says he wants to give an experience, not material goods.

Jamie and his fire

Jamie lit a fire in the pit on my patio, and he, Jordan, and I sat out there. Jordan provided me with my insulated jacket (some forty years old), a blanket for my legs, and a heater. Jame built a fire that, as I told him, would have made Jack Boyd, his old Boy Scout leader, proud. Sophie lay on the patio, the small evergreen tree was festooned with Christmas lights, and that light system Jordan put up sprayed tiny green lights on the trees, my children’s faces, and the wall of the neighbor’s casita on the other side of my yard. It was an absolutely idyllic moment, and I kept telling myself to relax and enjoy. It doesn’t get much better. And I am still making memories.

Mellow moods don’t come easily to me, but tonight has put me in a mellow mood, grateful for the blessings of my life, for children who care so much about me and my dog and who I love so much. I am optimistic about 2023.

Survival Mode

Phil in his all black splendor, with his coat on his lap

The first hint of bad weather sends everyone in Texas frantically scrambling to prepare—stocking up on groceries, getting out the ski clothes, setting faucets to drip. And when the cold hits, at first it’s almost an adventure. There is a sort of “I’m tough, I can do this” mentality about it. And then reality hits.

Realty hit at my cottage Thursday morning. When I got to my computer, about nine o’clock, Sophie wanted to go outside. I checked the weather, told her it was 27^o and too cold. As a demonstration of my authority, it should be noted that she went anyway. Within an hour the temperature had dropped eleven degrees and it kept dropping. Sophie was back inside. And every remaining leaf on our big trees had blown off, so the yard, once almost clean, was now ankle deep in leaves again.

Still, for most of yesterday, everything was pretty much okay. I kicked up the heat, and my two wall hung heaters are blowing their hearts away. It’s a bit chilly but not really uncomfortable. Sophie decided staying out for long periods of time wasn’t wise, and she’d retreat to her crate to sleep. I read, worked, napped and the day went along as usual.

In the early evening, neighbors Greg and Jaimie came for happy hour, bringing many good things—the result of Jaimie’s creative cooking—especially a wonderful goat cheese dip. We visited, laughed, gossiped, and ate a ton of that goat cheese, which proved to be my supper. When I asked if they wanted lap robes, they said the temperature was fine. Though, they did drive the one short block from their house to the cottage, and Greg joked about bundling up to go a few houses to see a neighbor.

Late at night I read, with a glass of eggnog to help me sleep. Soph was up once about four because her water dish was empty. When she gave a half-hearted bark that she wanted to go outside, I said, “No, ma’am”—and she forgot about it and went back to sleep until seven. After I fed her, we both slept until almost nine. No artic freeze was going to bother us!

But this morning I discovered I have no hot water. And it was definitely chilly in the cottage. I worked at my desk, wrapped in a blanket that tripped me every time I got up to do anything. I couldn’t—or wouldn’t—wash my hair in cold water. And probably the worst of it is that washing dishes in cold water (I have no dishwasher) is one of the least pleasant things I’ve done in a long time. (As I write, the dinner dishes are in the sink.)

Subie and Phil arrived for happy hour, Phil wearing a black great coat and Fedora and looking for all the world like a Mafioso don, although I tried to cast him as Father Christmas. When I offered lap robes, he draped his coat over his knees, and his seeing-eye dog, Porter, settled at his feet and began to snore—loudly. We had jolly discussions about a lot of things and then ended on politics—it is a delight for me to talk with people who are knowledgeable about current issues and challenges. Of course, it helps that we’re on the same page politically.

Porter, content to sleep and snore at Phil's feet

We talked too about the current upsurge in flu, rsv, and covid. I have for some time now kept my distance from people who travel and fly a lot because everyone I know who has come down with Covid—including Subie and Phil—has brought it back from a trip. Sue, my “adopted” Canadian daughter, and her husband Teddy are just back from NYC and I started to invite them for drinks this week. Then I caught myself, and we have a date on the calendar for next week. We cancelled our weekly happy hour with Mary because her husband had Covid—even though she tested negative, I didn’t want to take a chance. I hate living with this caution, but I think at my age, with a couple of chronic conditions, it’s better to be safe.

Tomorrow the temperature is to be a bit above freezing, and by Sunday into the forties. So perhaps my tankless water heater will defrost, and life can return to normal. We’ll look back on this cold spell and say, “It wasn’t as bad as 2021,” and that will be the truth. But it’s bad enough. I want to go back ten years when we rarely if ever had cold like this. I think in all my years in Texas, I remember one year when the temperature got to 14^o. I lost half of the grass on my large front yard and all the Indian Hawthorns across the front, and I will never plant them again.

But, hey, we survived, didn’t we?

Wild critters, cold weather, latkes, and a moment in history

 

The gorgeous, lush poinsettia given me by a neighbor.
It occupies a place of honor on the bookcase.

Gosh, what a lot has gone on in the last twenty-four hours! For me, it started last night about eight when I read a post by someone who had seen a “large” coyote heading into our neighborhood. Truth be told, I think we have coyotes all the time, situated as we are above the zoo and the river. But when someone sends out an alert, you feel obligated—or at least I did—to take it more seriously. And what did the poster mean by “large”? How many coyotes had she seen for reference. I worry not only about Sophie, but about the little dogs in the house—and that stray yellow cat that I keep spotting in the back yard. I kept Sophie in as much as I could, much to her disgust, and was on high alert when she was out. What would I do? Not much I could, except to push my walker outside and charge the animal, yelling and screaming. I go on the theory that they are more scared of us than we are of them. Glad that so far, I haven’t had to put it to a test.

We are living with threats of sub-freezing weather and extreme wind chill. In Texas, bad weather doesn’t just happen—we like to worry over its approach for days and milk it for all its worth. But Thursday, the high is to be 35, with strong wind chill. That’s the day Jordan and Christian are going to the Baylor bowl game in the TCU stadium, but Christian tells me they will have access to indoor seating. Not sure how that works, but I have my fingers crossed. It’s supposed to be bitterly cold through Christmas Day. A test to see if the grid really will work or not. Memories of Snowmaggedon are still strong with Texans.

When my kids were little and we celebrated Hannukah, we had an annual latkes dinner with a family I knew from graduate school. I remember that making latkes was a complicated, labor-intensive thing, but I didn’t worry much about it because the men took over. We served egg and tuna salad on the side, which strikes me as strange now. The other thing I remember was that my friend’s father and mother were always in town for the holiday, and he kept a roll of dollar bills in his pocket—held together by Scotch tape, I presume. He would peel them off one at a time and distribute to the children, who were in awe. I know they remember it to this day.

So the other day I found a recipe for latkes done in the air fryer, and Jordan and I decided to try it. I’m sure my Jewish friends, past and present, are scornful—and it turns out they would be right. First, I worried about what to serve. Tuna and egg salad wouldn’t do it with Christian and Jacob, so I settled on meatloaf—which Jacob doesn’t like, so his mom made him a turkey sandwich.

Christian, being the resident air fryer expert, did the latkes, after I grated the potatoes (remind me not to volunteer for that again) and mixed the potato and onion with matzo meal, eggs, salt, and pepper. They were good—and not greasy, which was to me the advantage of the air fryer. Jordan really appreciated the absence of grease, but I missed the greasy, hot, flat cakes of the traditional method. These were potato cakes. I’ll brown a couple in a skillet in the morning and see if I can get a good crust on them. But I consider tonight’s experiment a modest fail.

I’m always struck that my children know so little about JFK’s assassination. It was almost ten years before their birth. So now I’m wondering what my great-grandchildren, as yet unborn, will know and remember about trump. But this country made history today—the first time a congressional committee has ever referred criminal charges against a former president to the Justice Department. When you think about it, that’s an earth-shattering precedent, one that could only be inspired by overwhelming evidence. Now of course it’s up to the DOJ.

And now we will get the armchair experts and the funding appeals. I’ve already gotten those emails pleading for my opinion on whether or not trump should be prosecuted. And I know they will segue into a funding appeal, as though funding a Democratic PAC could influence the DOJ. Last week, when Brittney Griner came home, we suddenly had a nation of armchair hostage negotiators who knew what Biden did wrong, what he could have done better, including bringing Paul Whelan home. Now we’ll have armchair prosecutors who know what and how Merrick Garland should be doing. I’ve already seen an opinion piece titled, “Garland is a failure.” I wish those armchair experts would shut up and let the wheels of justice grind, however slowly. The one thing we know about Garland is that he is slow, careful, and meticulous—and he doesn’t act until he’s sure he has a case. I’m sure, with the special counsel, he’s building an air-tight case. Meantime, I wish the media would pay a little more attention to what a significant moment this is: it shows, once again, that democracy works.

As I said, a day full of interesting stuff. I’m ready for peaceful sleep, with no coyotes.