More cooking experiments. And a clear look at myself

Tonight, I ran into more of the disadvantages of downsizing, mainly that you downsize yourself out of everything you’re used to having on hand. Who lives in a kitchen without baking soda? Apparently, I do and so does my daughter. I wanted to soak chickpeas overnight and cook them in the morning to make hummus. First problem with that was we couldn’t find chickpeas in the large dried bean section at Central Market. Duh! A foodie reminded us they’re garbanzos, and we bought twice as many as I needed for my initial experiment.

Then I didn’t think I had a pot big enough to cook them in 10 cups of water. Jordan unearthed one that works on my magic hotplate, so tonight the peas/gabanzos are soaking in salt water. But in the morning, I need to cook them with ¼ tsp. baking soda. My kingdom for a tsp. of baking soda.

Tomorrow I hope to cook the peas, make the hummus, and make homemade tabbouleh—a big order, since we only did the “exotic” shopping today and still have a long list for the “ordinary” grocery store, plus Jamie says he’ll be here at elevnish—read two or three, but it will be so good to see him and Eden. I hope to let the day unroll as it will. The cooking projects don’t have to be done until the next day or the next. I’m trying to learn that lesson—or unlearn all the compulsive lessons that I carry with me as baggage.

Today, after our trip to Central Market, we picked up Jacob at a friend’s house in a nearby neighborhood, one of seventies and eighties ranch style houses and huge trees, all lovely and comfortable. But people are tearing down original structures and building McMansions that stick out like sore thumbs. Apparently, no thought is given to fitting into the neighborhood. There are neighborhoods in this city where McMansions fit the general style, but not the one we visited this morning and certainly not mine. It distresses me.

But with Jacob in the back seat, monosyllabic as young boys can be, I listened to myself criticizing the big houses and realized how negative I sounded. I fear I do that about other things that don’t fit my standard of how things should be, from frozen hamburger to people (a big leap). I made myself then and there a promise to be more positive and less critical. I can keep those critical thoughts to myself.

I remembered something Colin said to me when I mentioned that the stream of visitors to the cottage had slowed down drastically. He suggested maybe I don’t always make people welcome. Sometimes I’m so wrapped up in my work that maybe I’m not fun. Another critical look at myself and another resolution.

Lord, I hope I can live up to all this. Meantime, I’m happy to report I had a wonderful and simple supper tonight. Fresh corn on the cob, steamed asparagus, and filet of sole. I used to have an awful time cooking sole because it fell apart. I dusted this with flour, and it browned perfectly and came out of the pan easily. Such a mild but good fish. Color me happy.

Lots of work and some insight

One of the good days. A nice rain, without the predicted thunder, lightning, and tornadoes, this morning. Sunshine, a slight breeze, and 70s this afternoon—happy hour on the patio was delightful. Jordan, her good friend Amy, and a surprise but welcome guest—Rae, our favorite of my caregivers. And three dogs. Much laughter, a few tears, and a wonderful sense of caring.

It had been a good day up until then anyway. I often fritter away the morning with emails and Facebook, and I did today, but my conscience got me, and I also edited another chapter of my novella and read a chunk of the book I’m reading to report to a competition. Usually by two my face is falling in my computer because I’m so sleepy but today I was so engaged by what I was doing that I didn’t even feel sleepy when I went to nap at a little after three. Made me think that maybe I’m back in the working groove. Hope so.

When son Jamie was here yesterday, we talked briefly about being introverts. Jamie is my natural salesman, never met anyone who didn’t prompt him to hold out his hand and say cheerfully, “Hi! I’m Jamie Alter.” His brother once said, “I don’t want to have to talk like Jamie.” Although Jame owns his own company selling toys on behalf of manufacturers, he is still primarily a salesman-and he’s wonderful at it.

When something came up about how loudly he talks on the phone, he said, ‘That’s my extravert personality. But I always feel there’s an introvert deep inside me.”

He got me to thinking. I think of myself as an introvert, but I realize I feed on people. I’m not a recluse. I need people in my life. Particularly when I was running TCU Press, I was outgoing and was praised for my people skills, my self-confidence in social situations, etc. I managed large parties, greeted authors, went to conventions, talked to groups, all with ease (well, mostly so) but I always knew I was playing a role. My position as press director was like a shield I hid behind. Put me alone in a cocktail party with no relation to my job, and I became a wallflower.

I realized though, talking to Jamie, that I miss the days of being an extrovert, being the center of attention, getting all that praise. Oh, sure, I have people around me, and I’m grateful for their company, continued presence, loyalty.

But those glory days are gone, a part of my past, just as my glory days of being a gourmet cook and entertaining large groups are over and done with. It’s part, I guess of growing older. And part of downsizing.

Someone said today that it’s good to plan for inevitable changes in our lives, and that’s what I did in downsizing and moving to the cottage. But it has its drawbacks and things that I miss.

I don’t mean this blog to be a downer Don’t get me wrong. I’m a happy camper, couldn’t be happier. Those are just some thoughts that came to mind with a slight twinge of regret. It really has, though, been a good day.

Floods, Fire, and a Wheelchair

            Brexit aside, the headlines this morning were pretty dismal. When I look at images of the West Virginia floods or the California wildfires, I feel blessed and safe and sometimes I wonder why I’m immune to all these disasters. Is it where I live? Surely it’s not because of good deeds. My heart and my prayers go out to people who’ve lost their homes and loved ones in either disaster.

God or whoever’s in charge, has a way of putting things in perspective. My walker seems pretty comfortable and safe today when I view those catastrophes. I may be temporarily housebound, but I have a dry, safe house to stay in, plenty of food, and a comfortable bed to sleep in. What more can I ask for? Just glanced at the TV in time to see a picture of a wonderful rare steak and potato salad—maybe, if I were greedy, I’d ask for that. Seriously, I often think about this—my cup runneth over while so many in the world suffer so horribly. Thanking God seems a pale thing in comparison.

My guest blog about writing my way out of depression was posted on One Woman’s Day (Story Circle Network) this week, and many folks seemed to miss the point that I had written my way out. I got lots of sympathy and advice about my depression, so I want to assure everyone it’s gone, vanished, kaput. Days like today, with its disastrous news, make me realize again that my depression, caused by this blasted ankle, is a paltry thing in the overall scheme of the world.

Meanwhile, we’re at it again—downsizing. Last week, it was books spread on every table of the house and piled high. A friend came by last night and exclaimed, “It looks so neat in here.” The books I can live without—and believe me it was a large number because I was heartless—went to Recycled Books in Denton. So today, it was dishes. Jordan emptied the buffet and spread the dishes out on the dining table; then she started on miscellaneous coffee mugs, saying no person needs thirty-five. Pushy, isn’t she? I reluctantly parted with some favorites, held on to others. She washed the cupboards and put dishes away neatly. I told her she’d be too tired for the party she’s hosting this afternoon. But it was good to have company and fun to dig through treasures I hadn’t seen in a while. She was frustrated when I’d say, “Well, that belonged to one of my grandmothers but I’m not sure which one.” We are sentimentalists and are keeping all family pieces.

Tonight Subie Green brought supper, and I was joined by her and her husband and neighbors Susan and Jay. Great casserole, wonderful watermelon/strawberry/blackberry/basil salad, and raucous good times.

It’s been a good day.

Me and food

My desk is a mess, as this photo testifies. That huge stack of papers is from my appalling collection of recipes—and that’s only vegetables and appetizers with a much reduced folder of desserts that I’m almost through sorting—and I rarely fix dessert.

I’ve been sorting these, kind of my punishment for being such an avid recipe collector over too many years. I am trying to be hard-hearted, and the number I’ve thrown away is astounding. But I come across old favorites that I may not have fixed in several years but can’t bear to throw away—something from my mom or a favorite aunt, a recipe a child laboriously wrote out, a dish I associate with a good memory. And back in the folder it goes.

When I did this with my mom’s recipe collection—easily as appalling as mine—I began carefully, examining each recipe. I ended throwing out whole notebooks without looking at them.

Jordan got me started on this to put files in my new super filing cabinet (which is not nearly big enough. It’s all part of the big merge in which I go to the cottage, and the Burtons move into the house. Since they’re now seriously working on the cottage, it’s all taken on a new urgency.

It will be a huge lifestyle change for me, part of which is that I’ll rarely be cooking big meals and entertaining as has been my delight for years. And that is part of the larger picture of aging. It’s all making me nostalgic. I realize how integrally food has been a part of my life since childhood.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m excited about the move and looking forward to a cozy cottage for Sophie and me. I expect my friends to come for happy hour in my cottage, and if I want to cook a big meal, I’ll come into the main house. But still, as I throw away each recipe, it’s like saying goodbye to the past. It’s time to move on and treasure the memories of a rich and wonderful past. And I’m now throwing away my apron—just about 9/10 of my recipes!

Want one I decided was a keeper?

 

Colin’s queso 

1 lb. hamburger

1 lb. sausage

1 lb. Velveeta

1 can mushroom soup

1 jar Pace picante sauce

Brown hamburger and sausage, breaking up the chunks of meat until it is all crumbly. Drain and put in the crockpot. Add Velveeta, cut in chunks, and melt. Add mushroom soup and picante sauce (really works best if you use Pace).

Serve hot with chips, or for a light meal put chips in individual bowls and spoon queso over.

 

 

I gave a party and no one came

With Jordan at The Gilded Cage book signing

It happens to all authors at least once and many more often. It’s not exactly true that no one came—I’d say about twelve non-family members came, but they were all people who are like family to me. Jordan’s good friend David, whom I’ve known since their high school days, wandered in first, and he, Jordan, Jacob and I sat alone, looking forlorn I’m sure, for over an hour. Just before party time we had a heck of a rainstorm—I thought my umbrella and I were going to be blown away in horizontal rain. Jacob was supposed to shepherd me but he abandoned his duty and ran for cover. Jordan came and helped me.

Jordan put this party together, and put her heart and soul into organizing it. It was at the Wine Haus but Chadra next door delivers appetizers, and she ordered a delicious assortment. I sold seven copies of my novel, The Gilded Cage, and two copies of the children’s book that started me investigating the life of Bertha Honoré Cissy Palmer—the children’s copies were a bonus and last minute thought.

Jordan, Chandry and Marj--good friends at the signing

There are several ways to look at this: some authors have parties and don’t sell any books. Seven is not great, but it’s okay. And I got lots of emails from people who were put off by the weather, by illness, travel, work, etc. So the word was out and some who wrote to me had already bought the book.

This book is, as I’ve said, a major effort on my part, my “big” book, the result of probably ten years of writing, putting it aside, writing and revising, changing the voice of the narrator. It represents hours and hours of work on my part, and I desperately want it to do well. I also hope that it gathers a national audience, not just Texas. It’s set in my hometown of Chicago, unlike my Texas-based mysteries. So I’m hoping some other measures that I’ve taken will bring it the attention I think it deserves—I’ll be on a blog tour in late May and early June arranged by the Historical Fiction Blog Tours—they know the sites for readers of historical fiction—and I’ve hired a publicist every other month for three months. We’ll see if these investments pan out—or prove to be, like tonight, a big bust.

So tonight I’m neither elated nor disappointed. It is what it was. I enjoyed the evening with friends--most of whom were Jordan’s friends who are like other children to me—and I was glad to see the close friends who went to dinner with us afterward.

A bonus to the day: this morning a lovely woman who has a used-book stall in a local antique mall came to go through my books and bought 134 books. Nope, it didn’t by any means wipe out my bookshelves but it was a start. My friend Carol Roark arranged it, was here to help, and has ideas for the rest of the books. A step forward in the long downsizing process, and it’s reassuring to know she found my books interesting.

All in all, progress and a lovely day.

Nostalgia

I’ve splurged and ordered something I’ve wanted for a long time—a four-drawer oak filing cabinet (I’m tired of metal). It’s needed to transfer my files, always overcrowded, to the cottage whenever that happens. Meanwhile I’ve been struggling with overstuffed drawers. So today I started through the first drawer of my two-drawer file, which contains mostly stuff related to my writing. Discovered I could discard quite a bit, but still filled one carton. Lower drawer contains business files and is more of a challenge—plus it’s harder for me to work bent over.

When I filled the first box I had to open a carton of books returned by the restoration company—mostly it was packing paper and then some mass market paperbacks. Whatever they did to them worked because you couldn’t tell they’d had any damage. There were maybe 20 books—I sorted them into “keep” and “not keep” piles. There were also four video tapes—probably from the ‘90s and most likely of my interviews on City Cable TV when I used to interview authors. I doubt they survived moisture plus baking, and besides what would we play them on. The trouble with technology is that things are outmoded so quickly and no longer relevant—or retrievable.

Going through the files was a nostalgia trip, especially those that I discarded. One for Scooby, my ever sweet Aussie who died four years ago; another for a dog that I had to put down because he was a biter and bit Jacob twice—that really tore a new hole in my heart. Jacob asked tonight, “Is he dead?” Jay and I said yes. “Why didn’t you just give him to someone else?” We tried to explain that if a dog bites randomly it isn’t fair to give him to someone else. There were also files about publishing projects that never worked out, companies that I am sure are long out of business. I saved a lot of files about my career that will someday go to my archive at the Southwest Writers Collection but for now will go into my new file cabinet.

Big worry: what if the new file cabinet arrives before I empty the old one? And then there’s the file drawer under my desk, with active files, to sort out.

Believe me, downsizing is an overwhelming task. Meanwhile, they should deliver flooring tomorrow for the sunroom so it can acclimate and perhaps put it in first of next week. Still no city permit for remodeling the cottage.

Life goes on.

Living in chaos

My dining room; if you look hard, you can see a table

This morning I was reluctant to get out of bed. After my sleep marathon on Sunday, I’ve noticed I’m slow to get out of bed and anxious to return to it. So of course my mind leapt to the extreme conclusion: I’m depressed. Isn’t that what they say about people who spend their days and nights in bed? In truth, I’d get impatient lying abed if I weren’t so darn tired.

I lay there and thought about it and decided that of course I want to avoid the world—specifically the house—I’m living in, because it’s chaos.

Jordan and I have three challenges—downsizing, hail damage, and a weekend garage sale. She does the lion’s share of the work but goes home at night to a relatively organized home and goes to work. She’s not with this mess 24/7. When that realization came to me, I got out of bed and went about my day, but it was a hectic day.

Lewis, the contractor, came to look at the claims adjustor’s report; the restoration company delivered 47 cartons (the inventory says 37) of supposedly salvaged books—we will have to examine all of them. Jordan said she’d do it tomorrow, and I hooted. It will take weeks! I made appointments with AT&T—the U-Verse box is out due to water damage—and with an exterminator because the claims adjustor said we have rat (live, not dead) the size of a small dog in the attic. My day was full of busy stuff like that.

Last night Jordan went through lots of cupboards pulling out things for the garage sale, so they are now on every available surface in the house. Plus things from her house are scattered all over, in bags, in the dining room, my bedroom. And then there are those cartons of books in my dining room. It’s a freakin’ disaster.

My guest room; no, the antique trike is not for sale

 

Using my cane, I wend my way through boxes and piles. This afternoon I sorted two bags of books and determined that most can go to Saturday’s garage sale. That’s another thing—I hate garage sales and hide in the house during them. This is a project for Jordan and neighbor Jay—I suspect Christian is fervently hoping that Jacob has a Sat. morning baseball game.

And remodeling speculation and anticipation goes on. Lewis delivered an estimate yesterday and it is high, as I expected, but we found some places where we could cut corners. He’s waiting for an okay from all my children before he spends the money for a city permit.

Lesson I’ve learned from this: when I was 40 and 50 I served dinner to 20, more or less, every Sunday night; in my sixties, I entertained frequently, with elaborate dinners like coquilles St. Jacques; I’m now in my late 70s and I can’t do it anymore and shouldn’t beat myself up for not doing it. Nor should I nurture my guilt over feeling tired. I am tired. Chaos wears you out. I’m going to bed early, with the sure knowledge I got a lot done today.

Downsizing--still and again

A portion of one of my bookcases
in my house
 

Moving from 1850 square feet to 600 proves more complicated every day. I have three built-in bookcases, two large free-standing ones, a barrister’s bookcase, and the top of my mom’s secretary, all filled with books, some shelves with books piled sideways, etc. Plus some storage areas that I filled with books, and the boxes of books that came down from the attic. That’s a lot of books, and they have become our major preoccupation these days. I left for dinner with a friend tonight while Jacob was still doing homework—so Jordan, being compulsive as she learned from her mom, sorted more books.

Today, my archivist friend Carol came to make a start. She sat quietly, making notes, frequently consulting her phone—I later found out she was looking at current retail prices for various titles. She asked for three books—one sells for about $125 but she wanted it for research. At lunch, with two other friends, we discovered that one book Subie had taken is worth something like $300 on the market—she felt so guilty she bought my lunch!

Most of my books are not collectibles—a few will bring $100 or so retail which means I’d get at best $25 for each. Most are in the $30 range. I don’t want to get rich from this—I just want to clear the shelves. Carol noted enough titles of interest that she wrote to some used book dealers to see if they’d be interested in coming to look. What I must do first is pull any books I want to keep—a dealer will be quickly discouraged if he picks a book and I say, “Oh, no, I’m keeping that.” There are many books I’m sentimental about—but I need to keep only those I use frequently or those of really special value to me. Like the history of Blue Willow china—we eat off my mom’s set daily, and I gave another set to my niece who said she was thrilled to have something that belonged to Grandmother.

Carol even unearthed my master’s diploma, thesis, and bachelor’s certificate. Now if she’d only find my doctoral diploma and dissertation. I swear I had them once.

Today I emailed the archivist at Southwest Writers Collection, where my papers are. We’ll take three boxes of papers to Austin this weekend, but he said he’d like at least one coy of every book I’ve written. Does the man know what he’s letting himself in for?

I feel really good about doing this now, while I can answer questions, point out books in which I have a short story or essay, even though it’s not a book by me. But there’s a lot of work ahead. I am so fortunate to have Jordan who does the lifting, hauling and organizing while I sit at a table with a glass of wine, and I’m fortunate to have helpful friends—even if they do get some of my most valuable booksJ

A sad story: I have a first edition of Larry McMurtry’s book of essays, In a Narrow Grave. Probably worth quite a bit. The sad part? I underlined and wrote all over it when working on a paper on McMurtry for graduate school. I’m keeping that one.

My Life is in Disarray

Can you even see the little black dog on my lap?

Well, maybe not my whole life but surely my house. Downsizing continues. I now have four bags for Berry Good Buys—which benefits victims of domestic violence at Women’s Haven—and six or seven bags I will save for the Association for Retarded Citizens when they pick up in a couple of weeks.

This is how Sophie and I help—we lie there and watch, and I say yea or nay. Occasionally Jordan sets me to work sorting a bag or something. In one I found tax returns from 2006. If the seven-year-rule holds, I can get rid of those, though Colin will probably want to take them to Tomball where he can legally burn them. (We can’t do that in Fort Worth.)

What was once my guest room is now downsizing central—a disaster on wheels. A friend may spend the night tomorrow, and I’ll have to carve out someplace for her to sleep. Meanwhile, the detritus (a friend used that word last night at dinner, and I have adopted it) is spilling over into the rest of the house. My current project is to try to bring order to the rest of the house and ignore the guest room.

Tomorrow I will take bags to Berry Good Buys, which will make the living room look better, and the garbage carts will be empty so we can refill the recyclable with all the stuff in another corner of the living room. I will try to put away most of the stuff in my bedroom and find out what the boxes are. Yesterday, in cleaning the guest room closet and armoire, Jordan just put everything she didn’t know what to do with in my room. Sigh.

I used to be known for keeping a neat house. I didn’t really care if there were dust curls in the corners, but I wanted everything picked up and not cluttered. Word was, “Don’t set your coffee cup down or she’ll whisk it up and put it in the dishwasher.” I’m afraid those days are gone for at least a year until I am settled in my new quarters. Then I won’t tolerate any mess, loose papers, left-behind ice cream dishes or coffee cups. Small quarters don’t need clutter.

Meantime I’m trying to live with disarray.

One attic, twenty years

People say, often in extreme circumstances, that their whole life flashed before them. Today, my life paraded slowly by me, nostalgic bit by bit. The kids cleaned out the attic--to the right is the clean, empty attic. It's a remarkable change. Getting boxes and things out of the attic turned out to be the least of it, though everything was so dusty the kids put scarves over their faces. But it was the sorting that was most difficult.

The attic work crew standing in front of
the trash pile

My role was to sit and sort, which may have been the most tiring. How do you decide what to keep, what to donate? Some of it was easy—Jamie for instance put aside a whole collection of T-shirts, sizes 2-6 or so, one of which said “Kiss me, I’m Greek” and another, “Alter’s Cherub.” He was sentimental about almost everything he found. Colin, the accountant in the family, sorted out records carefully and, I think took some home to be shredded. Melanie it seems is fascinated by genealogy, particularly since we both share Scottish heritage, and she sorted out two bins of papers, etc. that gave hints of my family background. She left with those plus two family Bibles for their genealogy—she will bring them back after sifting out the information.

They found everything from my baby doll—which we plan to send to a doll hospital—to my MacBain plaid kilt, which probably fit me when I was eighteen. I think we were all surprised by what an emotional and nostalgic day it turned out to be. In the process of sorting, we relived my childhood and theirs—it made Jamie sad for times gone by but it gave me the sense of a life richly lived. Colin is less likely to talk about his feelings, but I said to him tonight that today reassured me they had a wonderful childhood (left unsaid were the words in spite of adoption and divorce), and he replied, “Oh, yeah, we’ve had a terrific life.” I also realized as they sorted file folder after file folder, that I have research and written an awful lot in my life. Deciding what to do with the multitude of magazines I had articles in was one problem.

It’s been a day of accomplishment—they all kept looking at each other and saying, “I can’t believe we got it all done.” But also a day of looking back with gratitude, especially to my parents and the life they created for us, the memories they left us with. And most of all a day of realizing how close we all really are, how much we love each other. I am a rich woman.

Tomorrow I'll start reclaiming my house.

Jordan's on a mission

Jordan is a woman on a mission these days, and as a result we have a new happy hour routine—it’s called work and sort. She works…and I sit and say yea or nay. She’s gone through most of my drawers and closets, kitchen cupboards, and everything but the fridge. The result is five bags for Goodwill or Berry Good Buys, plus a dining room table laden with dishes for her siblings to take or decide against. She’s gone around the house and put stickies on the art work, either with someone’s name or “Stay.”

It’s an interesting process. I don’t think most families even think about this until a loved one is gone. I am glad to be part of it, getting to keep some things that matter to me, being brave about things I can live without—she told me today she was proud of me. For me, it’s a chance to share a lot of family history with her—like my mom’s silver grape-leaf pattern covered dish. I remember yet the time she put it too close to a flame on the stove and melted one of the grape leaf clusters. And my grandmother’s wedding ring—tiny and the rosiest gold you’ve ever seen.

We are putting some things of Mom’s away for my brother, who will come some time soon to collect them. But tomorrow, all my kids arrive—they’ll go to the stock show and rodeo tomorrow, but Saturday will be a work day. Jordan intends to send them up to the attic to sort and clean. I remain grateful that they don’t allow me to climb that pull-down staircase any more.

It’s hard to tell at this point what will fit in my new cottage (we haven’t even gotten the architect’s final plans yet though they’re promised for this weekend) and what Jordan and Christian will want to keep in the house and what will fit with their furniture. We’ll end up putting some of both in storage.

Jordan said tonight she feels good about this process. She ought to because she’s already worked her tail off getting us as far as we are. I feel good about it too—perhaps a little impatient. But it’s an exciting time to live through. And I am so grateful to Jordan for all her work—where does she get the boundless energy after a day at the office?—and to all my children for their enthusiasm and support for this project.

What a lucky woman I am!

Downsizing...while cooking spaghetti pie

 

Folks, I’m afraid you’re going to get worn out with the subject of downsizing, but this is what it looks like, and it ain’t pretty. Jordan worked like a demon this evening in my kitchen. The result is all this laid out on the dining table for her siblings to look at when they’re here next weekend. Each one has a corner of the table and then there is a spot for things they just might want. I have visions of them saying, “No, thanks,” and we’re left with all this stuff. I also want to say to them please don’t be offended if you see something you gave me. Christian said tonight, “You sure have a lot of sets of china.” Too true. Jamie has already gotten the Imari he wanted; I have always known what Megan wanted—the Suzy Cooper, and I am hoping Colin, as keeper of the MacBain tradition, will want the plaid china. If they don’t take it all, I may invite the neighbors in.

I made spaghetti pie tonight, from a recipe I found I know not where. It was really good, but we would make some changes in it another time. Here’s how I would do it:

 

8 oz. spaghetti, cooked, cooking water reserved

1 small yellow onion, finely chopped

1 lb. ground meat (use turkey if you want—I used beef)

1 c. tomato paste, divided

Herbs as desired

3 large eggs

1 cup grated Parmesan

8 oz. Mozzrella

2 Tbsp. olive oil

Salt and pepper to taste.

Cook pasta, drain, rinse, and set aside

Sauté onions until transparent. Add ground meat and brown until no pink shows. Add ¾ c. tomato paste, ½ c. pasta water, and season to taste with salt and pepper. Stir, adding more pasta water if needed. Sauce should be consistency of a thick Bolognese sauce. Add, to taste, a bit of thyme, Italian seasonings, oregano—whatever suits your fancy.

Separately, mix eggs, cooked pasta, parmesan, 1 cup mozzarella, and ¼ c. tomato paste.

Grease 9” pie pan. Spread half meat mixture. Top with spaghetti mix, tamping it down as much as possible to make a level top. Add remaining meat mixture. Sprinkle with remaining mozzarella.

Bake at 350 for 35 minutes. Let stand for 10 minutes before cutting into wedges with sharp knife.

Jacob loved the pasta part and shoved the meat aside; Christian wanted more meat; Jordan and I decided the original recipe call for too much pasta—12 oz. But we all declared it a keeper recipe. I was particularly proud of cooking this tonight because I haven’t been cooking much—back issues—and did this tonight with only one time out.

I cooked; Jordan cleaned and sorted, and we tripped over eachother. So now I have a newly organized kitchen and a full belly. She warned me not to even ask where all my dish towels had gone.

Downsizing

Downsizing to get my lifetime of accumulations into a three-room cottage is going to be a challenge. I have family pieces of furniture, silver, etc. that I don’t think will fit in my new quarters but I don’t want to part with them. I will of course offer them to the children, and there are some things I want to hang on to for now but someday I hope one of my children will want then. Like the wonderful oak chiming clock on the mantel that my mom went to school by as a child.

For years I thought I wasn’t going to think about this downsizing problem. I’d just let my children deal with it after I’m gone. But now that we’re into it, I’m glad to be able to be part of it, to voice my opinion. Tonight Jordan pulled silver pieces, badly tarnished I admit, out of a buffet I seldom open except to get the ice bucket. There were two silver tea services, and I was chagrined that I couldn’t tell her which belonged to who. I think the more ornate one was my paternal grandmother’s, and the more sleek, modern one belonged to my mom. I am more casual in entertaining and almost never use silver, which I realized with a pang when Jordan pulled silver serving dishes out and said, “What are these for?” One covered dish—Mom’s or something she inherited from Dad’s mother—is of the ornate grape pattern, but on the serving dish there is a place where the silver melted. I remember when I was a child and Mom set the dish too close to a flame and melted a bit of the pattern. Makes it more precious now.

Jordan also packed up Christmas today. I had it all in a pile on the dining table, but she wanted to pack it in a way that would make sense to her next Christmas. No more of my grocery sacks. She brought plastic bins with lids. As always, she got it all packed and discovered Christmas items she’d left out. She also organized all the wrapping material, which I generally just stuffed into black plastic bags. How did I get such an organized daughter?

Next on her agenda is what she refers to as my ten drawers of T-shirts. A slight exaggeration but I do have more than I use. And a small cabinet full of athletic knee-high sock which no one in the family would ever wear. I’m hoping we can give away a lot of this and avoid a garage sale.

All the kids will be here the weekend of the 29^th, and I’m hoping they’ll take a lot home with them.

This is an ongoing process, and you’ll probably hear a lot more about it. Meantime, can you think of a better ticket that Donald Trump and Sarah Palin? Oh good gravy. I stumbled into the kitchen this morning, turned on the TV, and heard this horrible shrieking, grating female voice. Sarah, of course.

Baby Steps Toward a New Way of Life

 
We got the architect’s sketch of a layout for the garage apartment yesterday, and it made me excited about the prospect of my new life. I’ll  have a sitting/office area, redone bathroom (with lots of grab bars), bedroom and small “kitchenette” area with the things that are out there now—fridge, hot plate, microwave, etc. Any cooking I do will be done in the main house.

Several people have had suggestions—pocket or barn doors to conserve space (contractor say hardware for those is expensive and not good quality), skylights (they might leak), counter space in kitchen and bathroom, and a long list.

The drawings raise as many questions as they answer: where is the secure walkway for me to get from cottage—the official name we’re giving it—to main house? Parking three cars? (Jordan was nicely philosophical about that). We’ll need a new roof and perhaps new siding. Do I carpet in the bedroom? Then I’d have to vacuum.

I foresee a long process ahead—much more work on the plans, then shepherding them through the permit process. We’re still a long way from beginning construction, but it’s a start.

After the holidays we’ll get serious about downsizing my belongings. A good friend who is an archivist will help me cull out my books; Jordan will continue to help with closets and drawers—I have more T-shirts than any ten women need, and I have a habit of wearing the same ones over and over because they’re clean and on the top of the crowded drawer. Lots of knickknacks and dishes I really can let go of—but also too many with sentimental value. It will be a long process. I look at a piece of furniture and think, yes! I want that in the cottage. But not all my family pieces will fit out there, and want it to feel open, not crowded. I will have to be realistic.

Some may remember that this year, beginning with my July birthday, I decided to keep a Word document file of each blog post, with an eye toward compiling a book. It may turn out to be more interesting than I thought as it will chronicle this business of merging households as well as my struggles with balance and hip and leg pain.

My brother asked me tonight what I attributed my improved walking and optimism to and I answered without hesitation: physical therapy. My Canadian daughter (I’m her Fort Worth mom since her real mom is in Ontario) was here tonight and said I was back to being myself. High praise. For a while there, I was quite depressed and afraid the blog book would chronicle the year I grew old. Don’t feel that way anymore.

So, yes, 2016 will be interesting.

 

Anticipation

I made these in the early sixties when I was dirt poor.
Jordan isn't sure she wants to give them up.

Probably the worst part about anxiety is worrying about what’s coming next. We hear lots of advice about live in the moment, and I try, believe me I do. But I never seem to get there. I once had a fling with a man who often said to me, “Go on. Bring that bridge right on up here and jump it.” That’s me—jumping bridges before I get to them. Tonight I’m worrying about going back to physical therapy for the first time in months, though I know they’ll come out and help me walk in.

More worrisome is the downsizing of my house. I woke in a panic about six this morning thinking about all the things I have squirreled away in various drawers and cupboards in this house. I truly think I’ve downsized each time I moved (which was often there for a while), but I have drawers full of socks I never wear, an attic crammed with I don’t know what—I think my notes (two file drawers full) for my Ph.D. exams are still up there, plus boxes of old linens nobody would use today and the children’s save boxes. Somewhere Jamie has a T-shirt I got when he was about three that says, “Kiss me. I’m Greek.” That’s the trouble—so many things—furniture and on down to little things—have sentimental attachments.

Today Jordan, Christian and Jacob got my Christmas things out of the attic. I proved more hard-hearted than she did. When I said, “We can get rid of those,” she complained, “I remember them from my childhood.”

What comforted me in the early hours this morning is that this can be a gradual transition. It’s not like selling a house when you close and have to be out in 48 hours. I was so comforted, I went back to sleep for two and a half hours.

Meantime, my two nine-year-old gentleman guests slept the clock around, from 10:30 to 10:30. I finally asked Jordan via text if I should wake them (the parents were good and went to church-I didn’t want to venture out in the cold rain and the sleeping boys were a good excuse). As soon as I went to do that, they were awake, so I served waffles.

Tonight my only concern is that I left a turkey wing on my plate on my desk when I went to get Sophie the dinner she was demanding. She ate the whole major portion, though I had eaten most of the meat. So far, no distress, but I am watching carefully.