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.

 

Circadian rhythms, or my clock is broken

 

Cold salmon supper

What to have on Saturday night when you’re home alone for dinner: cold canned salmon with seasoned crème fraiche (lemon and horseradish), cherry tomatoes, and baby cucumbers. I would have added an avocado but I let it sit too long and it went bad. You could add a hard boiled egg to it, or maybe some green beans. I just used what I had. This was my mom’s favorite summertime supper, though now I’m trying to remember if she served it to Dad or saved it for nights when he wasn’t home. Daddy was an Anglophile, strictly a beef (or lamb) and potatoes man. Fish not so much.

I must admit I had a chance to go to Joe T.’s for dinner tonight. Jordan and Christian were going with two couples I’m fond of (both boys she went to school with from middle school on—it tickles me that their social life is still so filled with Jordan’s high school friends). At any rate, I debated: if I have an opportunity to go out and don’t take it, I feel guilty for not putting forth the effort, for daily becoming more reclusive in my cottage. On the other hand, I’ve just been to Joe T.’s and while a bean chalupa and sitting on the patio sounded good, I didn’t want to have to wash my hair, dress in real clothes, get there and wish I was at home. And I had lots to do on my desk.

Besides, my Circadian rhythms are out of whack. Just in case you don’t know, those are the rhythms that regulate daily life. Think of them as your internal clock, although this twenty-four hour cycle is something we share with plants and animals. For humans, we think of this clock in terms of sleep. The average adult needs seven to nine hours of sleep a night, and some authorities says it is most important to get sleep between ten at night and two in the morning.

The most common circadian rhythm disorder is delayed sleep/wake. If you go to bed later than you are used to, you may find it hard to wake up in the morning. In a reverse pattern, you may fall asleep early, like six p.m., and wake at two in the morning. Your sleep patterns are mostly governed by light and dark but also by melatonin in your system and by social behavior and physical activity. Circadian rhythm disorders may be caused by changes in your shift at work, brain injury, even jet lag.

What I’ve noticed in myself lately is a tendency to work late into the night—often getting to bed just before midnight—and sleep later in the morning. That’s a complete reversal for me, because I was always up early and usually asleep by ten. Even as a teen, when all my friends were sleeping till noon, I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at eight in the morning. Now, I thought the change was due to aging, but as I read about circadian rhythms, it may be due to a lack of physical activity. Dependent on a walker, I don’t get much exercise, and exercise is one of the clues by which your internal clock cues your body.

I think there’s another factor though—and it’s my dog. Last night, Sophie had to go out at three and again at four (she too is aging). I usually don’t have any trouble going back to sleep after these interruptions or if I wake myself to go to the bathroom. But they do interrupt my sleep pattern. And this morning I had to get up at six-thirty and feed Sophie, so she could have her insulin shot at seven when the dogsitter came. (Explanation: we have decided for various reasons that I will not give her a shot—the reasons range from the tremor in my left hand to letting her associate me with a needle; as it is, she is shunning me right now because I put drops in her ears, and you know how painful that is—NOT). So I was up from 6:30 until about 7:15, but with the distinct feeling that I hadn’t gotten my sleep out. So I went back to sleep until about 8:45. But all day I still felt that lack of sleep (did the overcast day have anything to do with it?). By noon, I was nearly asleep at my desk, but when I went to nap at two, I wasn’t sleepy. Go figure!

This is a daily problem for me, because Sophie usually wakes me at seven for her breakfast and to go outside, and I almost always feel that I haven’t gotten my sleep out. I usually go back to bed for what some call second sleep, and I find myself really anticipating that bit of deep sleep.

The study of circadian rhythms is called chronobiology. I’m convinced, however, that those who study these rhythms and disorders have not met Sophie nor taken her determination into account.

I bet fireworks can also cause disruption. Don’t forget to keep your pets—and any sensitive friends or family—safe during the holiday weekend. Happy Fourth!

It’s a dog’s life

 

On this uncertain Fourth, Sophie is much on my mind. I have always known that if you love a dog, your life is theirs, adjusted to their needs and schedules. Tonight, I have turned down an invitation to watch fireworks from Jean’s seventeenth-floor apartment with a grand view because I don’t want to leave Sophie home alone. I read that one in five dogs disappear on July Fourth, frightened by the fireworks. Sophie, who is afraid of thunder, shows no such fear. The door to the patio is open, and distant fireworks sound all the time, perhaps from the country club. Sophie however is lying by my bed—perhaps the only difference is that she is in the back of the cottage rather than up here where her usual sleeping spot is.

She did the unthinkable tonight—ate a chicken bone, the thing we are always cautioned against. So far she seems fine, though I may be in for a rough night, just because I will worry. Instinct tells me she will be fine—street dogs eat chicken bones a lot and survive, and Sophie has in the past proven she has a cast-iron stomach. She once eight an entire large log of goat cheese. I feared a terrible night, but she showed no symptoms. Not too long ago she ate a basket of baguette slices—not just one slice, but the whole blasted basket.

Just to be sure tonight I called the emergency vet clinic and asked if I should feed her bread. They said yes, but they said most dogs can digest a chicken bone. So I’m watchful but we’re both okay. She is not in any apparent distress right now. And she wolfed down the bread. She is one of those dogs who is always hungry.

On other fronts, we’re not okay. Our internal clocks are not synchronized. I seem to have moved the whole day forward an hour our two—I sleep later in the morning and go to bed later at night. Soph, on the other hand, has moved her day backward—she who used to sleep until eight wakes me like clockwork at 5:45. And at 4:30 in the afternoon, precisely, she wants her dinner. Now, at ten o’clock, she’s apparently down for the night. This night she is not in her usual safe spot between the coffee table and the couch but is by my bed.

Maybe focusing on Sophie keeps my thoughts off Independence Day. In a small online writers group I treasure, several women said they could not celebrate when women have lost their independence and others are in danger of losing all freedom as the rogue Supreme Court chips away at life as we have known it in a functioning democracy. As I’ve said before, I’m not ready to give up, but I am appalled by the ignorance of comments I see on Facebook. One to the effect that we should all be nice to each other and everything will be fine—such a platitude, when we are faced with proof that a segment of our elected officials, including the highest in the land, tried to overthrow a legitimate election. Being nice is not going to cut it with people who do that. Another person suggested that we don’t need trump or Biden as president and how about Nikki Haley, Mario Rubio or Mike Pence. Political partisanship aside, far as I can tell, none of them are anywhere near qualified. Rubio is struggling in his re-election battle in Florida. Pence has become almost an invisible man, still reluctant to turn on the man who would have let a mob hang him. And Nikki Haley is surely not the caliber we need for our first female president.

What I’m trying to say is I wish Americans would open their minds, explore the issues, learn about the candidates, make informed decisions. I know I have strong opinions, so strong that some people are offended, and I know not everyone will agree with my judgements. But I don’t want to hear platitudes. Read Heather Cox Richardson and “Wake UP to Politics.” Listen to almost anything but Fox News. In this age of information, there is so much out there out there for us to learn. And it’s so important to be alert to lies and distortions—I suspect there are once again Russian bots trying to influence our upcoming elections, and I know not all politicians are honest. Too many simply try to stir up trouble and accuse the other party, without offering a solution of their own.  It’s important, perhaps more so now than ever, for each of us to be an informed voter.

Lecture over. Texas is so dry that the Fort Worth city fireworks started a grass fire, even though crews have been watering the area for days. So the show was cancelled. I sure hope it’s not an omen.

A fantasy dinner

We must celebrate the Fourth, our Independence Day,
so that our children and grands may grow up free in a democracy
in control of their bodies, their votes, their natural resources.
God love them all.

For some time now I’ve moved this recipe to the front of my “try this week” selections—and then moved it back again. It just didn’t see like the right time, or it sounded like too many strong flavors for my mood, or maybe I was just lazy. But tonight good friends came for happy hour. The original plan was that I would go to supper with them, but I wasn’t sure how reliable my stomach was, and I forgot to ask Christian to clear the driveway, so there were two cars, impassable on my walker, between me and an outing. It was all for the best, and I was okay with it. But I had no dinner plans.

I saw them all off to a restaurant that makes extraordinary fried chicken and asked that they bring me back two pieces, which they did—they will be tomorrow night’s dinner, with potato salad, for Jean and me. But what to eat tonight? I had a sudden idea—that sardine recipe I’d been moving about. Of course, when I wanted it, I couldn’t find it and had to print another copy out.

It may have sounded good to me because my long-ago husband used to make a sardine spread I really liked. He claimed it was an old Jewish recipe, and maybe it was—or not. I’ll never know. But he mashed sardines with lemon, onion, salt and pepper and spread the mix on rye toast. It was really good.

But the recipe I found tonight was for toasts—you toast artisan bread (I used five baguette slices) and the minute it’s hot from the oven, spread the bread with a cut garlic clove and then a thin layer of butter. Follow that with thinly sliced tomato, lightly salted, and then sardines (mine came out of the can in bits and pieces but that was because I had trouble opening the can—I cannot do those ring lids! Not enough strength in my hands). Then thin slices of onion—I used the sweet onions I’m so enamored of this season. Salt and pepper it all again, sprinkle with lemon juice and drizzle with olive oil. Who needs basil on top of all those strong flavors—I ignored that part?

First of all, it was hard to eat—drippy. Second, that garlic was really really strong. Omigoodness, I’m still reeling. And when Carol came to bring me the chicken, I warned her to keep her distance. In this day when we’re all so fearful of Covid, she stepped instinctively back, as though she thought in the hour and a half since I’d last seen her, I’d developed Covid. I said instead that I’d eaten a lot of garlic, and she said “Yes, I smell it.”

I’m not sure it’s a dinner I’d repeat often, but it was really good. Another time I’d go lighter on the garlic. And the sardines in the fridge? Maybe I’ll make Joel’s spread out of them and raise a toast to his memory.

Meantime, tonight, fireworks are bursting all around us. I think it’s too early to be those from the concerts in the garden, so I gather individuals are gaily breaking the law. Sophie is not at all bothered—though thunder bothers her a great deal. Interesting to me that she can distinguish between the two. I don’t remember her ever being nervous on the Fourth but there’s been so much publicity about taking care of our animals, I thought I should watch carefully.

Over my long life I have been to more different fireworks celebrations than I can even remember beginning with my teen years when church friends and I went to Soldiers’ Field in Chicago for stock car races and the fireworks. Can you believe me folks let me do that? These days I never again want to go, never want to hear them bursting right over me—it makes me feel like my heart is stopping. But for some odd reason I find a certain satisfaction in sitting in my cottage and hearing them—even though I know many are illegal. Hope not many people lose eyes, fingers, noses, etc. tonight.

It's a funny year to celebrate Independence Day. There’s a wide belief abroad that we have no independence—mostly due to recent decisions from the rogue Supreme Court—and that we have nothing to celebrate. I believe we have to celebrate the country we were meant to be, that country idealized in our constitution, the land where each voice matters. Granted today, that seems a futile dream, but I am optimistic. We can’t turn tail and run. We have to stay here, celebrate democracy and fight for it. Okay, I’ll get political: Vote Blue! It’s the way to defeat those we would tear down our democracy.

A quiet and safe Fourth of July

Fireworks in Fort Worth

The pool in Blanco

It’s a quiet Fourth at the Alter/Burton compound. Jordan ahs gone off with her high school girlfriends for a weekend at a rental house in Blanco. The house they’ve rented has a wonderful view of the Hill Country and a smashing swimming pool, which would be important to them as they like to lie out. (My granddaughter recently said something to me about laying around, and I quickly corrected her that it’s lying around—but I can’t correct these girls.)

I truly admire Jordan and her friends for remaining so close in the years since high school. I won’t give away their ages, but trust me—they’ve seen more than one high school reunion. Yet these are the women she would turn to first in moments of joy or crisis. And I am most fond of each of them.

Meanwhile, back in Fort Worth, Christian, Jacob, and I are having a quiet but satisfactory time. Jordan charged Christian with taking care of me, and he’s most attentive. Lucky for him though I am over whatever bug I had and do not require as much attention or sympathy. Today I read most of the day, because I have a book I agreed to review, and I figured the best way to go after it was to get it done. So I devoted the day to it.

It’s a book about two women traveling through France, seeking the stories of women in various small cities and towns about food and family and how they survived World War II. I enjoyed it, especially the family stories and the recipes. One of a man who was separated from his mother as a child by the bombing of Paris and how that affected him as an adult. Another about a woman whose family had a farm. Of what they ate, she said, “We didn’t have to diet,” as she described sometimes having one potato for a family of five. Even in these difficult times in America, I don’t think we can truly grasp the hardship of Europeans during that war.

As for food, my comment is that the French sure ate a lot of rabbit—in rillettes (I think that’s a paté) and stews and other dishes. I have had rabbit once—chicken-fried—and liked it, but like many Americans I am leery of looking at a bunny and then finding it on the dinner table. The French apparently have no such compunctions, and I’m not sure why I do. We eat chicken, don’t we?

Back to the mundane. Christian and I decided on take-out fried chicken tonight. We chose a nearby restaurant, but friends told Christian the chicken was really spicy. He knows I don’t like that, so we settled for the Cook Shack—I had a good chicken sandwich and cole slaw but not the fried pickles I wanted. And I still have a craving for good, old-fashioned, bone-in fried chicken. When quarantine is over—will it ever end?—I’m going to Drew’s Place, where they serve soul food, including fried chicken with mashed potatoes and green beans. Meantime, this was good.

Christian is spending evenings watering my new grass. The rain we hoped for has not materialized and is now not predicted for a couple of days. Like taking care of me, watering the grass was one of the things Jordan charged him with while she is gone. Woe to him if she comes home and finds brown spots!

So ends an unusual Fourth. I found it hard to feel celebratory today. I’m too upset about where my country is, with a pandemic killing thousands of my fellow Americans and racial unrest being fueled by the man who is supposedly leading us. America today is not the country of my dreams—I pray that we will be able to reverse this and begin the long, slow climb back to greatness, a new kind of greatness that leaves behind some of the problems that got us where we are today. But we need a totally new administration to do that.

Fourth of July memories…and today

Today is another one of those holidays when I feel my age. No, my bones aren’t creaking, and I don’t have any aches. But I missed the neighborhood parade, and tonight I’m missing the fireworks at the local country club, although my family has gone there as is their usual custom. Now, I know I don’t want to sit on a curbside (I’d never get up!) to watch a small local parade, and I surely don’t want to sit on a blanket on the ground under fireworks exploding over my head, but I am still aware of being out of the loop.

If I didn’t make it to the parade, my car did. Friends Marj and Colman came to get it last night to drive it today in the parade not for our neighborhood but for an adjacent one. I thought it looked pretty spiffy, and Colman pronounced it a good car, said he enjoyed driving it. I had given him a thorough lesson on how to get out of our twisted, tortuous driveway—and darn if he didn’t do it without ever having to realign once. I am so jealous. You might note that cute guy sitting in the passenger seat. He’s special to me.

I was thinking back on previous Fourths and came to the resounding conclusion I have no tradition. When I was a teen, friends and I used to go to Chicago’s Soldier Field to watch stock car races—so unlike me! —and the following fireworks show. Looking back, I’m amazed my parents let me do that.

The intervening years are a blur. I don’t remember fireworks in Kirksville, Missouri where I went to graduate school, nor do I remember much about celebrations in the years of my marriage. Except one year when we went to the home of a friend of Joel’s. They shot off their own fireworks, and I was terrified those cherry bombs and whatever would turn around and get us. I was only used to professional shows that I watched from a distance, not something in someone’s back yard. Jordan was a baby that year, and I clutched her close to me. On the way home, Joel braked the van so abruptly that I slid onto the floor, still clutching my baby girl.

Some years the kids and I went to various “high points” to watch the city show. One year it was the long Lancaster Street bridge, with their Uncle Bob. He and I both had panic attacks, induced by height, on that darn bridge, and the kids had to lead us off.  A couple of years I went with friends to Oakwood Cemetery where there was a great view of the city show, and then for several years I went with neighbors and friends to the country club. But I can’t say that I have a great tradition of enjoying fireworks. Actually, I don’t like to have them go off directly over me. I’m always sure my heart is going to stop.

Jordan and Christian hosted a few friends for pizza before the fireworks tonight, and I went in to have a drink and visit. These were some of my favorites among their friends, and I enjoyed it. But I was soon ready to come out to the cottage and fix my supper.

I’ve dubbed this a salmon Fourth. Last night I stuffed a head of iceberg lettuce with cream cheese that I’d cut diced vegetables into. So today I paired the leftover salad with some smoked salmon I had in the fridge. And tonight, I made salmon croquettes—one of my all-time favorites—and heated up some green beans that Christian had tossed in butter with sautéed shallot. Dressed both the croquettes and green beans with lemon. So good.

I have fireworks on the TV, from where I know not, but I’ll probably spend the rest of the evening reading. Thoroughly content.

Whoosh! What a weekend

Even being on the fringes of the wedding party, it was quite a weekend, what with the happy hour Friday night, the ceremony and dinner Saturday night, and tonight the bride’s parents for dinner. I loved every minute of it.

Friday and Saturday nights I met and talked with so many interesting people. I’m in awe at the wide range of Sue and Teddy’s friends and the warm wonder of their families. I think by Saturday night I had pretty much figured out who was who, including the man who rode his motorcycle here from British Columbia to be part of the wedding. But the food was good, the company excellent, and it was all lovely. When I said classy, Sue said, “That’s what we were going for.” She got it in spades.

Today our highlight was that Jacob came home from five days in D.C. as the guest of his buddy, Adam Veasy, and Adam’s parents, Mark and Tonya. He talked to me about it for five minutes and then he was off to a Christian music concert, but he said the best part was wandering around and seeing the city. I’m sure, thanks to Congressman Veasy, he got an insider’s view of things. He sent a few pictures, but they haven’t filtered down to me so far. I am glad to have him back in Texas, even if he’s so busy I rarely see him. But I’m so grateful he had the experience of our capitol.

I spent the day cooking and fiddling. Made a chicken casserole, decided it wasn’t big enough, and added more chicken and sauce. Good thing because there was very little left. It's a chicken/mushroom/avocado casserole in a sauce of mayonnaise, white wine, and sour cream.  I wasn’t really pleased with it—it wasn’t as creamy as I remembered from previous times, although our guests were complimentary. Now if I were really an experimental cook, I’d get some cream cheese in these to strengthen what is supposed to be a rich, creamy sauce.

Cathy and Bob Lyon, Sue’s parents, are from Ottawa, Ontario, and since the newlyweds were presumably hibernating somewhere, we asked the parents to dinner. They are, by now, old friends. I remember when Sue moved in next door, at least twelve years ago. I saw Bob in the driveway and asked if he was my new neighbor. He replied that he was my new neighbor’s father. We’ve been friends every since, and it was fun to rehash the wedding with them tonight. Friends Subie and Phil Green also joined us for dinner, and they added immensely to lively conversation, which ranged from oil pipelines to ticks.

So tomorrow it’s back to work, and I have a lot on my desk, plus taking my car for its final repair. The world goes on, but it’s nice to have had a whirlwind in the middle of our dailyness. Fun to sit here tonight, with the patio door open, and hear the fireworks from the Concerts in the Park. 

The Fourth, with all its glory

My Fourth of July feast for one—homemade potato salad, a hot dog with kraut (the way I like it), and corn on the cob. My family is off to watch the fireworks at the country club, a huge display, beautiful but noisy right on top of you. And crowded. At lunch today Jordan asked earnestly if I was all right staying home alone. If not, she said, she’d make it happen for me to go with them. Sweet of her, but the last thing I want is to sit on the ground (probably not physically capable, certainly not of getting up) in the midst of a huge crowd and have fireworks thunder in my ear. And stay out too late. No, I’m happy at home, with the TV showing Macy’s fireworks show but the volume muted—I can look but not listen.

I have friends who are staying home because, as they said, “We have dogs.” So many dogs are terrified, and the number of frightened animals who end up in shelters is appalling. Sophie bless her sleeps through the nightly display that ends each Concert in the Garden, not far from us.

Maybe being alone on a holiday makes you nostalgic, but I’ve been thinking about past Fourth celebrations. When I was a teenager, I went with the older kids to Soldier Field in Chicago where there were stock car races—amazed now that I found that entertaining. Also a bit amazed that my parents allowed those outings. But what was then a marvelous fireworks show followed—I suppose it would pale in light of advanced pyrotechnics these days.

When the kids were little I remember going to the 8^th floor of the medical school where their dad worked and watching the city display. Later, single, I took them to various places all over town with a good view—the parking lot of the same medical building, a bridge over the Trinity River (their uncle and I both suddenly became uncomfortable on that high bridge, and the kids had to lead us off). Traffic coming home was always a tangle, and it was a late night. One year I went with friends to a historic cemetery on the river—we had a good view. And for a few years I went to the country club with Jordan. But I really don’t like to have fireworks explode in my face as it were—makes me think my heart is going to stop with the next loud boom. I am content at home with my dog. I may watch on TV, but only with one eye—I’m deep into a good mystery, What You See, by Hank Phillippi Ryan. She’s a master at capturing tension—or maybe what I mean is angst.

Jordan, Christian and I went to lunch today at a relatively new place, HG Supply. I’d not yet been there. Split a club sandwich with Jordan—one of the best and most flavorful of those concoctions I’ve had. French fries were unusually good, and the lemon aioli/ranch dressing out of this world. Christian had Frito pie which was huge but looked delicious—I may try it another time if I can get someone to split it with me.

You have to park a ways from the restaurant, so I got some good walking in, albeit with the walker. We passed an attractively landscaped area that sent my antenna up immediately. “That’s not grass!” It was fake. Christian said he loved it. “You don’t have to mow or water.” Still protesting that it was fake, I said, “It’s not contributing oxygen to our environment,” and he replied, “That’s why they put in these other plants” which is clearly not true. They put in some succulents for appearance. Jordan, ever our arbitrator, commanded us both to stop, and Christian said, “Your mom always starts it.” It’s a good thing it’s all light-hearted. But, damn, that was ugly fake grass, a color green God never created. Makes me so angry!

Happy Fourth everyone. Go plant God’s green grass, water it, and mow it.

In my kitchen

Confession: I am a hoarder. I hoard recipes. I have thick and worn files titled "Entrees tried," "Vegetables," "Appetizers," "Desserts," and, best of all, "Entrees Not Tried." When I'm trying to come up with a dinner for company, I usually go to the latter--who wants to cook the same thing all the time? I experiment on my guests.
Tonight, though, I was leery about my recipe choice. A recipe for eggs baked in a tomato sauce has been floating in the "Not Tried" file forever, and I finally decided to try it. With only one guest, I cut it in half and made the sauce this morning. To begin with, you sauté onion and poblano peppers--I used one pepper and even then feared it was too much. I'm not a fan of peppers, nor is my stomach. Add various spices--cumin (which I couldn't find in my cupboard so I substituted green chile powder), sweet smoked paprika, salt, etc. I refrigerated the sauce, heated it before my guest arrived, and cracked four eggs into it, let it simmer covered for about 15 minutes and then served it with trembling and trepidation.
The egg takes up most of the sauce, so what I envisioned as an entrée running all over the plate was not that at all. The eggs were cooked harder than I usually like them but with the sauce it was fine. And the sauce was delicious, in spite of all my worries. The smoky flavor was a great addition. You can find it, if you're a Southern Living subscriber, in the September 2014 issue--or you might find it online called "Eggs simmered in tomato sauce" (original title, no?)
I served a salad of corn, black beans, cherry tomatoes, and lettuce with an avocado dressing with it.
Tomorrow I will make potato salad. The potatoes are already cooked and in the fridge. Chilling potatoes is a trick I learned from this recipe for County Line Potato Salad. They are so easy to peel and dice when cold. I have recipes that call for dressing quickly while the potatoes are hot, and I have to say that's a pain. County Line Potato Salad (you can find it online) calls for an astonishing amount of dill pickle relish--but it tastes great. One of my favorites. It serves 18, so I'll halve it for a party of eight.
The fly in my ointment is that my dishwasher refuses to start. Enough times that I know this is serious. I decided tomorrow would be given over to potato salad and washing dishes. But it dawned on me tonight that since I'm not cooking any big meals for twenty of my nearest and dearest, I can just leave the dishes in there and hand wash what I use for each meal or cooking session. My low back likes that idea a lot.
Fourth of July and potato salad--they go together, don't they? I'm looking forward to hamburgers and hot dogs. Y'all celebrate but stay safe--even sparklers are dangerous!

Summer arrives so suddenly

Last night, I heard a great loud noise, like a crash as if something had fallen. My immediate reaction was to call out, in a reprimanding tone of voice, "Sophie!" What, I wondered, was she doing now? She's been trying I think to develop a hot spot on her back--itching it on the underside of the coffee table or the front panel of my desk, scratching a lot. Benedryl has helped some but not a lot, so naturally I thought she'd found a new way to scratch her itch. Poor dog was sleeping peacefully until I yelled at her.
A few more great crashes of sound, and I realized it was fireworks from Concerts in the Garden, a beloved Fort Worth tradition. I always enjoy hearing the fireworks and wish the trees weren't so thick so that I could see them. Sophie isn't bothered, although I have had dogs who were terrified.
The debut of Concerts in the Garden marks the beginning of summer. This year it coincided with the last day of school. Jacob and I have both been ready for the day for three weeks or more. The atmosphere at the school was one of anticipation, letdown, less homework. We all slacked off.
Yesterday Jacob went home with a friend to spend the night, so I celebrated with a late nap. But I woke up feeling a little dismayed. The weekend and the whole long summer stretched endlessly before me. Now that's not exactly true. Last night I got involved in what I was doing and stayed up until midnight--late for me. This morning, after sleeping to a tardy 7:45, I have done computer work, filled out an information sheet on a forthcoming reprint (no small chore), and made a ham loaf. Tonight Jacob will be here, but I know he won't eat ham loaf, so I'll have to figure out what to feed him beside an ear of corn. He'll be tired, and he'll chill with his iPad.
The summer will be no less busy. I plan to focus on letting the world (and you) know about "The Gilded Cage," the historical novel set in Chicago's Golden Age that I plan to release this fall. And I have a draft of a third Blue Plate Novel to edit. Plus publicity to do for Texas is Chili Country, which will release in November. No doubt I'll be busy...and I can sleep late and take luxurious naps. No, summer will go by too quickly.
A few days ago I blogged about eating high on the hog. It came home to bite me yesterday when I really didn't feel myself--not sick, just lethargic. Taught me a lesson about that high hog.
Happy summer everyone!