A leftover day

 

Sue and Jordan

I think that’s a perfect name for Saturday. After a work week and before Sunday starts a new week, Saturday is the day left over. I had a busy week and a more active day yesterday than I am used to, so I promised myself a slow, easy day today. It turned out to be a day of leftovers.

I wrote like a fiend much of the week, averaging over a thousand words a day plus, most days, my blog. That wasn't drudgery—it was joy. I’m in one of the spells when the words seem to come easily and the story flows—and writing is fun. But yesterday, no writing. I was up early making tuna salad for a lunch guest and a dip for happy hour guests. At noon, my long time (50 years?) friend Linda arrived. She had the good manners to rave about my tuna, and we caught up with families, the few old friends we still know about, life as elders, and touched on the world situation. Her (relatively new) husband had an appointment elsewhere but popped in. and they both left shortly after two, because Linda insisted I need my daily nap. And I do. Sophie and I are always overjoyed to have Linda in the cottage.

In the evening, Subie, Phil, and Renee came for happy hour. The discussion was wide-ranging but got particularly spirited when we talked about wolves and their effect on the ecosystem and about the city of Greenville (see below). It was all fun, and we were tempted to stay where we were, but a little before seven we left for a farewell party for Teddy and Sue. I’ve explained this relationship several times, but fifteen or more years ago Sue moved into the house next door to me. I can still see her dad walking down the driveway when I asked him, “Are you my new neighbor?” and he replied, in a wonderful Canadian accent familiar to this daughter of a Canadian, “I’m your new neighbor’s father.” Sue, newly divorced, moved in with two young children, and her parents went home to Ottawa, Ontario. In time, Sue declared she needed a Fort Worth mother, since hers was so far away. I was honored and consider her my Canadian daughter. Along the way, she bought a house ten minutes away and married Teddy (one of my favorite people in the world). Now they are moving to Greenville, South Carolina—because they fell in love with the area. My parents retired to a small North Carolina town nearby, and I can easily understand the pull of the region. I’m excited for them but will miss them.

The party was fun, and I even knew a few people. But there were two stairs to get in, and we had to recruit a friend from the party to help me. That sort of got me off on the wrong foot, and it was hard to get my party face on. Still I knew a few people and enjoyed visiting. The setting was a gorgeous house, and I was particularly impressed by the hostess’ daughter who acted as the party angel. Teddy, bless him, helped me out and saw me safely into the car.

So that’s why today is my leftover day. I confess I am still wearing the flannel pants and T-shirt I slept in, and I think I’ll just fall into bed tonight, still wearing them. My work today was leftovers—my neighborhood newsletter, some bills and some insurance matter, more worry about the trees. Kept me busy all morning.

Even my meals are leftover: tuna salad from yesterday for lunch; a bowl of split pea soup brought to me some time ago by a friend. It’s been waiting for me in the freezer for another cold night, and tonight is perfect (at 6:30 it is 41 and headed down). The Burtons are going to Plank, the new seafood restaurant I really want to try. I threatened them if either one came home and told me they had a steak or a hamburger in a seafood house.

Tomorrow won’t be as easy. I’ll go to church in the morning, and I’ve promised to make Norwegian hamburgers for Sunday dinner. Norwegian hamburgers are something we learned about from Colin’s mother-in-law, who lived in Norway until she was seventeen and came to the US to marry Lisa’s father. The hamburgers are meat patties in beef gravy, but don’t dismiss them as like our hamburgers. Different texture, different flavor and delicious. We love Torhild, and we love her cooking. I hope I can do them as well as she does, and I hope there are leftovers.

How about you? How was your Saturday Stay safe and warm on this chilly night.

Assisted Living

       

No, I’m not moving to a facility! But I’ve been thinking a lot lately about independence, and I have a bold confession: I could not at this point in my life live independently. Oh, I love to tell people that I live alone and in some sense I do. I can live alone for, say, twenty-four hours or maybe a bit longer. But a week? Nah. Not comfortably.

This was driven home to me last week when both Jordan and Jacob were out of town. I thought it was Christian and me, but I soon realized that it was Christian taking care of me. And that’s another thing—that word caretaker. I don’t like to think I need a caretaker—it sounds so helpless, so dependent. Jordan has long referred to herself as my caretaker, and she’s right. It’s “Can you get another roll of toilet paper down from that high shelf?” “Can you put these cans up on the top shelf?” “See that shirt I got halfway down? I can’t get it the rest of the way. Could you get it for me.” “Would you get such-and-such at the grocery.” But I digress.

Last week, it seemed I had a crisis for Christian every day—in just one day I needed wine, cheese slices for Sophie, and Drano because my kitchen sink was stopped up. I’m sure anyone who’s kept house knows what a pain that is—I could wash two or three dishes at a time, then let it drain, and move on to the next. I ate off paper plates and used the same spoon for everything. But Christian brought all three things I needed and handled my crises with grace. And that’s how my life is, because I don’t drive any more, can’t reach things—there’s a whole lot I can’t do. But somebody does it for me. Yes, it makes me feel worthless in a way.

The other morning when Christian came out to give Sophie her insulin shot, I said I had a new crisis. He didn’t exactly roll his eyes, but he may have hesitated a second. When I said I had dropped a roll of toilet paper behind the toilet and couldn’t reach it, he laughed and said, “That’s the kind of crisis I can handle easily.” But for me it was still really a crisis because I couldn’t reach it and my grabber wouldn’t get it.

So while I laugh and moan about all my friends being in Trinity Terrace, I realize I am not eligible for their life. Because I need help. The alternatives are not pretty, and every time I think about it I am doubly grateful to Jordan and Christian for making the life I lead possible.

Tonight we had guests for happy hour—Subie and Phil and her sister Diana and her husband John. I had fixed crab bites and baked goat cheese—two of my favorite appetizers—and they were well received. But it kept Jordan busy—refilling wine glasses, heating more crab bites. It seemed she was back and forth to the kitchen (a distance of maybe three feet) all evening. If she hadn’t been here, could I have done it? Of course, but it would have been more awkward and slower. Because she took over, it was a seamless social occasion—and a rowdy, happy one full of laughter.

But that is sort of the other side of the coin. What I can do for myself and others is cook, and I do it a lot. I fix dinner for four three or four nights a week—well, now that school’s out, make that dinner for three. Jacob is often out with his friends. But I can and do fix a wide array of meals—chicken hash, hamburger sliders, casseroles and salads that make a meal.  And many experimental meals—like this week, crab nachos maybe and open-raced beef and horseradish sandwiches. That, to me, sort of compensates for my dependence in other areas of life. It lets me contribute to the daily routine of living in what I have come to think of as our compound.

Yes, I have the best of both worlds—independence and caretakers. I know I am fortunate, and I am forever grateful. Subie and Phil have just moved into Trinity Terrace, and when I whined about being the only one of my friends who does not live there, Subie said, “If I lived this close to Jordan and Christian, I wouldn’t be moving either.”

The other thought that lingers, fortunately only in the back of my mind, is that time’s winged chariot is always hurrying near (with apologies to playwright Michael Powell and his play, A Matter of Life and Death—I just learned something; I thought that line came from Shakespeare or John Donne or one of the major English poets of the Romantic period.) I don’t know how long I will be able to do the things I do now for myself. I find that so depressing that I refuse to think about it. But I suppose change comes slowly, and we adjust. Meantime, I intend to practice what independence I can to the hilt so that I don’t lose it. I want to stay in my beloved cottage. Thinking ahead too far can be scary. I’ll live in the moment and enjoy it. Carpe diem!

Falling into bad habits

 

My family has left me on my own for supper on this drizzly Sunday afternoon. I’m not particularly blue about it, because I have a dinner plan—I will open a can of that good salmon I get straight from Oregon, put a lot of lemon and a bit of sour cream on it, and run it under the broiler. But I realize how quickly I would fall into bad habits if I totally lived alone.

Jordan has a cardinal rule: you don’t eat dinner in the clothes you slept in. But I am still in those clothes—a bright tie-dye T-shirt that the Tomball grandchildren made for me years ago and a pair of pants that could pas for slacks if your standards aren’t too high. But on the positive side, I have cleaned up, my hair is washed, and my bed is made. I’ll probably eat supper a lot earlier than we would eat if we were having family dinner.

I’ve just talked to Megan in Austin and of course we hit on the fact that all 17 Alters were supposed to be at her house for Thanksgiving. It’s not going to work out that way. They are recovered from covid and have disinfected their house thoroughly, including using those special lights hospital use. The problem, for me, is the trip down there. As soon as you tell me we can’t stop, I will have to make a bathroom stop—as Megan pointed out, a woman with a walker doesn’t have the bathroom options a man does. My sons do not feel that they have quarantined well enough to be with the family, so we will be four separate family units. It is more than a little sad to me.

It really is a gray day and chilly with drizzly rain predicted. I’m grateful that Jordan has decorated the cottage for Christmas, and I have two bright spots of light—a glass block with Christmas lights inside it that I’ve had for years and Jamie’s table-top artificial fireplace that glows with realistic flames. Or, depending on how you look at it, depicts the fiery eruption of a volcano. Scientists have now proven that putting up lights will make you happier, and these days I think we should give scientists all the credit we can. So I’m glad for that bit of scientific knowledge..

Beside that scientific boost, I’ve had a longtime habit justified in print. For years, when entertaining—a formal dinner or the huge tree trimming parties I used to give—I put the serving dishes out days in advance and put a little note in each to remind me what I intended to put in that dish. After she married and began to entertain on her own, Jordan did the same. Christian was astounded and finally told her, “You and your mom have a screw loose.” (Megan would be the first to let you know that gene for organization skipped her.) Today in his column, Sam Sifton mentioned putting the dishes out early and putting a sticky note in each. Need I say more?

A couple of nods to nostalgia: when I was a kid, my mom used to mix cornmeal with milk or water (I don’t remember which), pour it into a loaf pan and let it harden. Then she’d slice it, fry the slices, and serve them to us for breakfast with lots of maple syrup. We called it fried mush. These days, we have a fancier name for it—polenta—but you can put lipstick on a pig and it’s still a pig. I made tamale pie with polenta for the family last week, and it reminded me how much I liked fried mush. So when we ordered from Central Market, I got more polenta, and this morning I fried a couple of slices in butter and slathered them with real maple syrup. So good. I was a kid again.

My other nostalgia trip even pre-dates me. But Sam Sifton mentioned in his column that this is the 125^th birthday of Hoagy Carmichael and offered a link to Carmichael doing his 1930 classic, “Georgia On My Mind.” And there was Lauren Bacall in the still photo accompanying the music, looking intently at Carmichael who looked up sideways at her. Classic 1930s jazz. I loved it.

And speaking of anniversaries, I thought this anniversary of the assassination of JFK went by with little public notice. Too bad, when we are embroiled in one of the worst political threats our democracy has ever seen. It would be soothing to go, even briefly, back to the days of Camelot.

I kind of got carried away, and I apologize for this long blog. Stay safe and well—and cozy tonight.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

A day gone awry

Sometimes life hands you lemons instead of lemonade. Today I had planned to cook supper for the two friends I usually go out to eat with on Wednesday night. The menu was to be
“crispy” eggplant with lamb meatballs, chickpeas, a garnish of cilantro and lemon—recipe courtesy the New York Times cooking column. Part of the reason I was going to do this was that the recipe sounded intriguing to me but none of my local family will touch eggplant, and one of these friends said of course she’d eat it with me.

 I was so fixated on spending the major portion of the day cooking this meal that I even cooked it in my sleep last night. And before I slept, I put the chickpeas to soak and defrosted the ground lamb. I was all set for a cooking day.

This morning I had just put the chickpeas on to cook, when one of the two called to say apologetically that she hated to cancel but she had a sore throat and thought she should stay in today. I wished her well but agreed with her assessment—I really didn’t want her to bring her sore throat over here and share it. The other friend, when she heard this, said, “Let’s just cancel until next week.”

So there I was, chickpeas cooking, defrosted meat, and an eggplant in the fridge. Besides, I wasn’t at all sure I’d want to gear myself up to cook a big meal again next week. But on the theory of making lemonade out of lemons, I proceeded. Cooked the chickpeas—a whole new experience for me since I wanted to order canned ones and was a bit astounded to end up with dried. That’s a digression and will be part of my “Gourmet on a Hot Plate” column tomorrow. But they turned out okay.

I went ahead and made the meatballs, and I have to say they smelled wonderful when they were cooking. You have to love lamb to appreciate that aroma, but I do love it. I figured I’d eat a couple tonight, maybe a couple tomorrow, and freeze the rest.

So far so good—chickpeas cooked and ready to be frozen. Meatballs, the same. But then there was that eggplant that suddenly didn’t sound so good to me. I’m not fond of baba ganoush, the traditional Mediterranean eggplant dip. The heavy garlic in it often makes it taste bitter to me. But I remembered that long ago my ex used to fix sort of an eggplant salad, a memory from his Jewish mother’s kitchen. It’s like the sardine salad he used to make—something I could easily do from scratch.

So in the next day or two, I’ll make eggplant salad. Warning to those coming to the cottage for happy hour—you may be faced with eggplant salad/dip but you are not required to eat it. Hmmm—maybe I could stir some chickpeas into it. Or another new thought—roasted chickpeas. Stand by for a report.

Meantime, relieved of cooking the whole meal, I did get some work done today and am now well into a cozy mystery I’m enjoying. The day was far from a loss.

Tonight as I write I can feel a chill creeping into the air. It was seventy today but is supposed to be in the mid-forties by morning. With rain tonight. Stay warm and dry everyone.

Good news and a lazy day

My conscience bothers me on a Sunday when I’m too lazy to go to church, but today I told myself that I was still tired, recovering from the hospital stay. I’ve got to stop giving myself that message. Resolve: to get out more, to exercise more.

Because, tonight, good news. Our neighbors, who are both doctors, came over to catch up with my health. It was extremely kind of them, but we wanted them to know so that if I have an episode and want immediate help, I can call them. The good news part is that my heart rhythm is regular—no a fib. I pray that it stays that way. A little learning is a dangerous thing, and of course I have a theory about what caused the a fib and why it’s gone, but I won’t go into that. I honestly do feel better—but still tired.

Wrote my thousand words today and piddled the rest of the day. We had a picnic tonight—that’s sort of what we call it when we eat in the cottage instead of at the dining table inside. But the dining table apparently is still full of now-clean dishes from last night’s dinner party, and homework has been added to the mix. Christian fixed barbecue chicken in the crockpot and, lacking any other buns, served it in hot dog buns.

A belated thought about last night’s dinner party: I entertained often in the house, with frequent dinner parties of six or eight (plus me, always adding the odd number). I am delighted that Jordan and Christian have taken up that custom, and invite me most of the time—It’s truly a pleasure to still sit at my usual place by the kitchen door (Jordan calls it my princess chair) and enjoy the conversation and good food. Christian is a good cook and also an adventuresome one. Last night we had bulgogi, a Korean dish he made of flank steak. Megan had given him the recipe, saying her boys loved it. It was the first time in a long while that I’ve had flank steak that wasn’t too chewy—and I attribute that to Christian’s carving it really thin. The marinade made it delicious, so thanks to Christian and, secondhand, to Megan.

After the picnic, Jacob brought his homework out. Christian was puzzled by some grammar questions, but I found a secret long ago to pronoun usage. Suppose the sentence given is “We and them wanted to go to dinner.” Instead of trying to remember the rule, break it into two sentences. You would say, “We wanted to go to dinner,” but not “Them wanted to go to dinner.” Clearly it should be “they.” I thought my explanation was wonderful, but I fear Jacob was a bit confused. Oh well, I’m sure it’s not the last time I’ll repeat that little lesson.

Busy week coming up. Doctor and dentist, a radio interview, and the biggie of the week—my launch/signing for Pigface and the Perfect Dog. I hope if you’re close by, you have it on your calendar. At the Wine Haus just down Park Place and across the tracks, closer to Eighth Avenue, 5:00-7:00 p.m. Come enjoy fun and fellowship. I’ll post a graphic on Facebook tomorrow.

The Garden of Friendship

Hibiscus Jordan planted by my cottage

She had to trim a tree to get them enough sun for blooms

Several women have said things to me in recent months that amounted to, “You have so many friends. I don’t have friends like you do.” I think they don’t realize you must be a friend to have friends, and you must work at friendships.

They really are like plants in a garden. You cultivate them, from planting the seed—or idea—to nourishing and feeding often. One woman (she’ll recognize herself, so please know you are not alone in this) said a new widow near her mentioned going out to dinner, but it hadn’t happened. I pointed out it wouldn’t unless she took herself over to the woman’s house, knocked on the door, and said, “Let’s go to dinner.”

Over the years, I have had countless dinner parties in my home, mostly small but always people I wanted to spend time with. One friend said something about my guests reciprocating—that old, “If I entertain you, then you owe me.” No, they don’t always reciprocate, but it takes a lot of rudeness to get yourself off my friend/guest list. I persevere, and I’ve decided most people appreciate it. They may not have time to entertain, or interest in cooking, or it may just not occur to them. I don’t take it as a personal affront.

A friendship I cultivated: a young woman (from my perspective) who was once a work-study student in my office. She went to work in a writing-related field, but then moved away. Suddenly she was back, having gone to cooking school and worked in a vineyard. Voila! We had two things of interest in common: books and food. She’s a sous chef at a major restaurant in town. We met occasionally for lunch, and she kindly brought me lunch more than once when I was housebound. Now that I’m cooking, I’ve invited her for lunch—a bit intimidating, but I think I can handle it. Just an example of the two-sided work that goes into a friendship.

When I meet someone I think is interesting or has interests like mine, I’m not shy about inviting them over, maybe first for coffee or wine on the patio. I do cook dinner for friends some, but it’s limited in the cottage with sparse cooking facilities. But entertaining is a great way to make and keep friends.

Letter-writing has become almost obsolete in this day of social media, and I’m the first to admit that I communicate by email and Facebook. Using those tools, I’ve re-connected with friends from my childhood, including the girls who grew up next door. They live in northern Michigan, but one visits me when she’s in Texas—what a rare treat! I also have a couple of friends I’ve kept in constant touch with for fifty years or more. Some are not the frequent communicators I am, and I have to realize that silence doesn’t necessarily mean they’ve forgotten me…nor I them.

Tonight I had dinner at Press Café with Betty, my longtime dinner pal. For years now, we have made it a habit to go out to dinner on Wed. nights. When I was housebound, she brought me dinner. But now we’re exploring new restaurants and having a ball. Press Café is not new, but we both love the fish sandwich—except that it’s hard to eat and I got half down my shirt. But Betty is yet another example of a friend—we work at it, we make sure to keep up with each other. And I know she’s there if I need someone.

Tend to your friends, folks.

Blending Generations

This blending of generations that will take place over the next six months or so at my house is going to be interesting. In fact, it’s already begun. Jordan delights in hosting happy hour at my house—all her friends live around here. So tonight we had a four o’clock happy hour—two Lily B. Clayton moms who have been so helpful about bringing Jacob home since I don’t yet feel capable of negotiating the steep driveway, the street full of traffic, and the crowded schoolyard. I am grateful beyond words to these two—Amy and Amber—and very fond of them personally to boot.

I was supposed to go to supper with friends at 6:15, but I wavered. I was really tired this morning, and, to my surprise, stiff and sore from what I thought was a minimal yoga workout yesterday. I envisioned the girls leaving about six and me settling down to a quiet evening at home, complete with smoked salmon for dinner (my splurge at the grocery store this morning). In the long run though I decided to do to dinner, and it was a good thing. We went to a First Friday gathering that friends have sort of informally organized at the Kimbell Museum. Delightful except that I couldn’t hear any of the conversation—the dining area is not acoustically friendly, plus they had a three-man jazz band playing. The music was soothing and pleasant, and I settled into enjoying it and not hearing the wild tales that a former Democratic county chair was telling at our table.

I went to dinner at 6:15 and came home at eight to a house full of people and screaming kids. In the course of the evening we apparently hosted three kids, four women, and three men in addition to my immediate family. Over Jordan’s protests I cleaned most of the kitchen and waited for them to leave. Jordan, Christian and Jacob were the last ones out the door, shortly after ten. I’m tired. And I have some cleaning up to do tomorrow. Their chore will be a trip to the liquor store to replenish my nearly exhausted supply of wine.

Don’t get me wrong. I adore Jordan’s friends. They are kind and friendly and loving toward me. They go out of their way to include me in conversations, ask my opinions, make me part of the family, and thank me for having them over. But if the cottage were there and waiting for me, I’d have gone out there about nine and let Jordan worry about the kitchen either tonight or tomorrow (she’s usually so good about that but tonight she fell down a bit). I could enjoy the young company and then have my solitude. Tonight it was 10:30 before I settled alone at my desk—and that’s a time I value.

Progress on remodeling is slow, and I cringe every time some well-meaning soul asks if I am living out there yet. The answer is no. Remodeling hasn’t even started. The contractors, Lewis and Jim Bundock, have been to the city twice and come away without a permit. I’m hoping the third time is a charm—maybe even next week. Sometimes I can envision myself out there and other times I have a hard time wrapping my head around it. It will be an adjustment, but as tonight proved, a good one.

 

Cooking for company

This was a cooking day, the kind I really enjoy. Oh, I got time in for some computer work and a nap but primarily I was preoccupied with this evening's meal. Jordan had invited friends of theirs, with a son Jacob's age. It both pleases and flatters me that she wants her friends to eat my cooking at my table. But she always comes an hour early to make sure the house is to her liking (I actually had straightened my desk and done a few things like that). But she lights candles, moves this here and that, and fusses. And she gets  bit uptight about it--I know the thing to do is wait quietly until she has a glass of wine. I only fussed when she turned on the a/c thinking she was just lowering the temperature.
We debated over the menu a lot--from a down-home casserole that is a family favorite to a fancy fish dish. I was told that our guests like seafood, so the final choice was sea bass cooked in parchment and seasoned with ginger, soy, sake, and green onions, rice, and stir-fried veggies. That meant a morning trip to Central Market to get fresh sea bass. It was a simple meal, but I spent much of the day putting it together--making the soy/sake sauce, cutting up veggies, making an appetizer of goat cheese and wasabi, cooking broccoli so the young boys could have plain broccoli while I mixed ours into the stir-fry. I had set the table last night, so when I finished chopping and fixing, I had a wonderful tuna sandwich and a great nap. (I'm afraid to say this aloud but I sleep so well lately!).
Our guests arrived, we had appetizers on the deck, and then I realized the husband had to leave early to catch a plane, so I rushed to make packets of sea bass, stir fry the veggies, and get Jordan to fix the boys' supper (Cane's chicken, broccoli and rice). I was worried that cooking sea bass filets for 10 minutes in a 400 oven might leave them underdone--turns out I did them for 15 minutes inadvertently and they were perfect. I think the parchment contains the moisture.  Anyway, it was a successful dinner and met with lots of raves. Dinnertime conversation was lively and entertaining--for some reason we got off on the JFK assassination and various aspects of it.
One guest left and the rest of us sat around having a great discussion about this, that, and the other thing over vanilla ice cream with chocolate/raspberry liqueur sauce. A perfectly lovely evening.
Jordan is wonderful about doing dishes--I helped on the fringes but she basically had the kitchen cleaned while I was packing up the few leftovers and putting dishes away. We make a great team--but then we've always known that.
The event of the evening: Jacob's loose tooth came out. He's been worrying it loose for days but refused to let anyone touch it, in spite of threats, promises and whatever. He and his dad were roughhousing tonight and whoop--there it came. Such a tiny tooth to cause so much fuss, but it did leave a gaping hole in his smile.
Tonight I am thankful that I have kids who value my company and want me to meet their friends and cook for them. I love my friends my own age, but it's a blessing to have friends of all ages. One of the many blessings of my life. Thanks, Jordan! Life is good.