Life at the cottage has changed dramatically

 

Jamie and  his guitar

I have always believed that much as it nourishes our bodies, good food nourishes our souls, especially if eaten with congenial company. And I have consciously been a nurturer all my adult life. When pandemic hit, I welcomed Jordan, Christian, and Jacob to the cottage for supper almost every night. We had a few friends who we knew were quarantining as consciously as we were, and they came for happy hour on the patio, our logic being that open-air visits were safer. As a family, we ate well but not lavishly—no lobster and few steaks, but meatloaf and burgers that Christian grilled and casseroles I made and sometimes invented. Jordan and I made weekly menu plans and grocery lists, and one of my greatest joys was to scan the internet and a few magazines, principally Southern Living, for new ideas. By this Spring, of course, all that had changed. The Burtons had social and business obligations, Jacob was off being a high school senior, and I occasionally went to dinner with friends but was more likely to have friends to the cottage for a light supper.

Almost three weeks ago, all that changed again, all at once. I was told I should stick to soft food (anything I can cut with the edge of a fork—yogurt, applesauce, oatmeal, potatoes, etc.); I was told I can never have another glass of wine (If I wish to survive); I pretty much lost interest in food (nausea seemed to linger close to the surface). To my surprise I still enjoyed finding new recipes and already have a bulging fold labeled “Recipes to try.” Someday, someday.

Meanwhile the Burtons pretty much stopped showing up. I’m not sure what or how they and Jaie are eating, but I don’t hear dinner plans,etc. Jordan comes many times a day to ask, “How’s it ging?” or to discuss medical appointments, of which I have many. Christian rarely comes, and I think Jacob has been out here twice (we did have that lovely dinner at Pacific Table). Jamies is here now, for moral support and company to doctors’ visits, but he has the most irregular eating habits I’ve ever seen—he brought a jar of peanut butter and cans of ravioli with him—and his working hours are just as irregular. He works remotely but hasn’t found the perfect place yet—yesterday and today he’s at one of those rent an office by the day places at Clearfork, and he came in at 1:30 this morning.

But the result of all this is that I am alone, with Benji (and today Jamie’s dog) much more than I am used to—at a time when it is perhaps not the best thing for introspective me to be alone. But what this new schedule tells me most of all is that I was right—we gather at the table for more than physical nourishment. Eating together feeds our souls as well as our bodies.  I will be glad to get past this physical problem of mine and start cooking again. I will say that music also feeds our souls—last night, about eight o’clock, Jamie brought out his guitar. With memories of another pleasant evening when his guitar had healing properties, I crawled into my bed, and he played softly for me for about an hour. I was probably more relaxed than I have been in weeks.

Another Jamie adventure today: on our way home from today’s doctor’s appointment, we passed a car apparently stranded on the side of a high overpass. As we drove by Jame said, “Looks like an old lady.” Next thing I knew we were in the totally wrong lane for going home, and almost peevishly I asked, “Where are you going?” “Back to check on that old lady,” he said. And so we made the whole circle around the highway exchange and pulled up behind the stranded car. This scared me some, because you always hear about good Samaritans being hit by passing cars, but Jamie was careful. From the passenger seat, I watched him laughing and smiling. When he came back, he said, “She’s got a tow truck on the way. I told her I’d be glad to change the tire”—I looked at his white jeans—“but she said it was all taken care of.” Do you wonder that I’m proud of the kids I raised?

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

 

Tonight's supper

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

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

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

Me with a bob
on a good hair day

Me with short hair
(and Megan)

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

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

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

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

Benji on guard

The food around here is getting better

 

Dover sole unintentional hash

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

Almost pefect filets

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

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

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

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

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

A wonderful weekend

 

Megan, who loves dogs but does not like to be licked;
Benji, who loves to lick.

Four grown children, one terrific son-in-law, one grandson, a new dog, and fifty or sixty people that one way or another make my world go around. What more could I ask for? Sunday, Jordan and Christian did their usual great job of hosting and invited family and friends to celebrate Jacob’s high school graduation. These days at such events I get parked in the living room, but there was a visitor’s chair next to me, and I had a constant stream of guests to talk with. I like to take a bit of credit for Jordan’s hostess skills—after all I did throw those huge Christmas parties for years, and she was at my elbow helping every minute. She knows how to set a pretty table, decorate the house, and, most of all, make everyone feel they are the special guest of the day. There was lots of picture-taking, a TV basketball game for folks to watch, visiting on the front porch. The party started at three—I think the last guest departed about ten-thirty, though I had long since retreated to the cottage. Next morning, Jordan said to me, “Was that not the best part we’ve ever done?” and I agreed.

Special entertainment at the party was a trip to the back yard to watch Benji, who knew he had an audience and tossed his rope toy with class and a lot of little leaps. General consensus was that he is a great dog. The family certainly approves, and Colin kept offering to take him home and keep him for a while, an offer I declined.

Of course a bonus for me was having my other three kids home. Colin slept on the couch in the cottage for two nights, which I loved even though it meant he made my cottage cold as a meat locker. Megan was on the front couch in the house and Jamie in Jacob’s room since Jacob sleeps in the TV room these days. Talk about musical beds! Once my kids were grown and began to scatter, it was always special to me to have them all four once again under my roof. For a while, when the grands were younger, I could even accommodate most of the young families. But in recent years as our numbers have grown and we’ve absorbed a couple of boyfriends, there’s no way. The kids generally find nearby hotel accommodations. So it was a real treat to have my four all under my roof again—I am not sure why that pleases me so much, because if anybody is protecting or looking out for someone, it’s a reversal from childhood. When they are here, they wait on my hand and foot. But still I guess it’s the feeling that I know where they are and they are all safe for the night. We missed some spouses and the other grands, but it was still a highlight weekend.

Saturday we had take-out Railhead barbecue—Megan questioned why we weren’t going to Angelo’s, the shrine she remembers from childhood, and I answered proximity—Railhead is blocks away while Angelo’s is across town. And we’ve come to think Railhead is just as good. Since I’m supposed to eat soft food that goes down easily, there was some question, but I convinced them that I could eat a chopped sandwich. I did, no problem, and enjoyed it thoroughly. Still catering to my cravings, Colin went to Carshon’s Deli Monday before he left and got me the chopped liver I had been wanting—full of protein and soft so it goes down easily (he also got himself a Rebecca, his favorite sandwich, for his long drive back to Tomball).

The happy weekend ended with a crash. Sunday morning, early, Christian’s father texted that he was in the hospital with gall bladder troubles. We presume he drove himself to the hospital, which scares everybody. Surgery was scheduled for last night, but they postponed it until this morning—I am always in favor of morning surgery when both doctor and patient are well rested (we hope).

Monday afternoon Megan rushed me off to an unexpected appointment with an oral surgeon, only to find I will have four molars pulled before the radiation treatment. To me, that procedure may be the worst part of the whole ordeal. I am, to be honest, a dental phobic, a carryover from my long-ago childhood when dental work on a pre-teen with bad teeth was pretty brutal.

By early afternoon Monday, the children were gone—Jamie had flown back to Denver on a standby basis late Sunday night and, fortunately, got on the flight. Colin left after his Carshon’s run, and Megan headed to Austin after the dental appointment. So we are back to reality. The next two weeks will be filled with appointments, not a peasant prospect. But I also have lots of work on my desk, which is a good thing. Today I hope to wrap up the neighborhood newsletter for June, and then I have proofing corrections to key in for Irene in a Ghost Kitchen. I still have my eye on that late June publication date. I am counting my blessings and saying my prayers.

My news of the day

 

Friends, I have something to share. If you look inside my fridge tonight, you will not find the usual leftovers from a family dinner nor the half-full bottle of chardonnay. Instead you will find yogurt, applesauce, chocolate protein drinks, and some non-alcoholic wine. A lifetime of drinking wine has come home to roost, and I am facing a fight against a small throat cancer. Not to worry: we caught it early, and the cure rate is high. The next couple of months will be difficult—a soft diet, lots of specialists to see, six weeks of radiation, but after that I am confident of taking up my life again. At this point, beyond a definitive biopsy, I will not need chemo or surgery. I will always be at my computer, and I plan soon to be back in the kitchen.

In fact, I’ve been making a list of foods that go down easily. My list can get pretty imaginative—smoked salmon with cream cheese, chopped liver from Carshon’s Deli, polenta, tuna salad, egg salad, a loaded baked potato without the bacon. Tonight Jean brought pasta with a marinara sauce—she very considerately asked what I thought about meat and mushrooms, and I opted for the marinara—it was rich and tomato-y and absolutely delicious. She had simmered it for over two hours until it was thick and wonderful. Another friend has offered to host me the next time her retirement community has a creamy soup entrée. I have lost a few pounds because I was not swallowing solids, but now I see my way forward to some quite good meals. And I’m hungry.

I can not ever again have an alcoholic drink. Oh, wait! The doctor said maybe on my birthday. But my days of enjoying a couple of glasses of chardonnay in the evening are over. This has been controversial, with several friends saying they never heard of alcohol causing such tumors. But the new doctor, an ENT specialist that I like and respect, was quite firm, and I will follow his orders. Statistics on survival really support his position, and I want to be around yet for years to come. Yes, I know hundreds of people who drink more heavily than I ever did and never develop tumors. Good for them—but it happened to me.

Benji is a great comfort. I think he senses something is wrong, because last night he was all over me—in my lap (for which he is too long and leggy), head resting on my leg, lying on the floor watching me. When I went to bed, he ostentatiously lay on the floor next to the bed. Tonight he has not been quite so attentive—he got into his fascination with the motion-activated garbage can and then he paced the cottage. He is confined to quarters because he barked so much, but he is quietly lying in his crate on the other side of my desk. I find his presence a comfort.

Jordan and Christian have been tremendous support, and doctors’ visits have become family affairs. Jordan makes lists of doctors I have to see and things that must be done, and she supervises what I eat—why won’t that child let me have chopped barbecue? Christian has run so many many errands—returning this that I ordered, picking up prescriptions, scouting out a new pharmacy since ours is closing. This weekend my other three children will be here for an event marking Jacob’s high school graduation—but also to rally around their mom. I couldn’t be more blessed and more grateful.

So, my friends, if I’m here again and gone again, more irregular than usual in posting blogs, I ask you to bear with me. Minor and temporary lifestyle adjustments coming up, but all will be well. Prayers are of course appreciated.

PS Please note that I still have a new Irene in Chicago Culinary Mystery, Irene in a Ghost Kitchen, coming out in late June. It's not on Amazon yet but will be soon. Watch for it--it's got family secrets, French food (and lots of recipes), one bad dude, and enough mayhem to make you turn the pages (I hope). Given the direction my writing has taken of late, it's fitting that I frame my current situation in the context of foods I can eat, don't you think?

Obituaries, a vet visit, and a good dinner

Haute cuisine in the cottage

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Sunday evening supper and tears near the surface

 

One of my favorite pictures. 
John and I enjoying a happy time at his ranch.

Renee came for Sunday supper tonight, and we had a high old time talking about everything from Jacob’s upcoming prom to osteopathic medicine. Sunday supper is a longstanding tradition in my family, the sense that it should be just a little bit better, a little bit different from ordinary supper. When I was living at home and my brother gone to college or the Navy, Mom rolled her tea cart into the living room, in front of the fireplace, and we had a casual, light supper—a souffle or cheese strata. Today, Sunday supper is still special—we try to have everyone home and the menu is carefully chosen. Tonight Christian cooked an Asian beef and green bean stir fry, and, mixing cultures a bit, I fixed a Lebanese potato salad. Christian didn’t think the two would go together but admitted tonight they did complement each other

But tonight it was the Sunday suppers of my children’s high school years that were much on my mind. My big brother, the patriarch of our family, died yesterday morning at the age of ninety-two. He was my last surviving blood relative and the man I knew all my life would protect me. Everyone asks how I am, and the answer is “fine, but teary.” John and I have lived in close proximity probably more than not—as children, of course. He went to boarding school as a high school junior and was never home again, but in 1961, he declared I needed to get out on my own and took me off to Kirksville, Missouri where he was studying osteopathic medicine and his wife was working on a master’s in English. I too worked on that master’s. That move set the course for my life, including marriage to an osteopathic student and a doctorate in English. I moved to Texas in 1965, and he to Colorado in 1966. In 1980, he moved to Fort Worth to join the faculty of the Texas College of Osteopathic Medicine.

In the early 1980s, John and I found ourselves both single with six teen-agers between us. Sunday suppers became an institution. We gathered at my house each week, inviting stray people we thought needed to join us—the parents of my goddaughter often, a good friend recently divorced several times, the kids’ friends. I fed anywhere from ten to fifteen those nights. Presence was required for the kids unless they had a job obligation, which some did. John presided over the table, led us in grace, and ceremoniously served the meal. Table manners were strictly monitored,  mostly by John, and I’m proud to say today all six of those kids have great table manners.

I loved cooking those dinners. Mostly they were a success, though sometimes not. I remember a turkey Wellington recipe which I have long since lost to my regret, and I distinctly remember one night I did a marinated butterflied leg of lamb (I must have thought I was a rich woman). Sometimes we had a turkey or a casserole or whatever I chose. One night, when my office was working on a regional cookbook, I fixed a cornbread/hamburger casserole I’d found the recipe for. John took one bite, looked at me, and asked, “Sis, is the budget the problem?”

Probably though the kids most remember the conversation. John went around the table, asking each person perhaps what they were grateful for or what they had done that week. No one was allowed to shrug it off—you had to have a cogent, intelligent answer. The classic that everyone laughs about to this day is the time we were asked what we were grateful for. Megan had brought a new beau to dinner (in retrospect quite brave of her) and the young man stood (his first mistake—none of the rest of us stood) and said, “I am grateful for Megan and her beauty.” The adults managed straight faces, but the teens couldn’t handle it. To this day, everyone laughs about this.

Today, Sunday dinner is served around the coffee table in my cottage, a far cry from that crowded, formal dining room on Winslow Avenue. But John will always be at my dinner table—and in my heart. We had our differences, particularly political—how he grew up in a staunch FDR/Mayon Richard Daley household and turned out a conservative is beyond me. But we learned, especially in our golden years, to put those aside in favor of our strong bond. We loved to talk, for instance, about the Indiana Dunes where our family had a cottage or Chicago, about which these days I am more nostalgic than he was.

John was sick, mostly bedridden for over a year, and our togetherness, such as it was, was always by phone—he lived south of Granbury on his ranch. We talked every few days, and I always ended the conversation with, “I love you.” It was hard for him, and he’d say, “Back at ya.” So here’s back at you John!

An emotional evening

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rain and company and dogs

 

Kegan (left) and Colin in Fayetteville, Arkansas.
Kegan is visiting the University of Arkansas.
I love the angle of this picture--and the view.

Rain gauges all over the city probably varied, but I heard we got anywhere from three to five inches of rain yesterday. It was, to my delight, an all-day, rolling thunder kind of rain—sometimes fairly heavy, sometimes slower so that it would soak in. The sun never peeked at us, and sometimes it was as dark as evening. I wouldn’t want a steady diet, don’t think I could live in the Pacific Northwest, but occasionally, such a day is a welcome break. The wonderful Zenaida cleaned my cottage, I did some cooking, and had a great nap—rainy days inspire naps! Yesterday, I outdid myself—my afternoon nap was followed by a long evening nap, from nine to eleven. I then spent over an hour looking at dog pictures and went to bed at twelve-thirty. Had the best, soundest sleep in forever.

About five-thirty yesterday my friend Katie made her way up the soggy driveway, reporting that traffic was a mess, she was wearing her old clothes and no make-up, and she was wet. It’s lovely to have friends who know they can come to your home without fussing over their appearance. I didn’t invite Katie to look at her and how she was dressed, but to talk to her and pick her mind. And pick I did the minute she walked in. She’s knowledgeable about plants so I thought she could tell me what my great yellow wildflowers are. She said she thought—wait a minute? Thought? She wasn’t certain? —they were cosmos. We looked at cosmos online, and it comes in many forms, so it’s easy to say that’s what I have. That’s my story from now on. I had already identified the coreopsis tucked in next to the taller cosmos.

Our talk was not limited to gardening, though we did touch on composting—which her grandson is doing. I said I don’t care if we ever use my compost as fertilizer—I’m just glad not to be throwing all those scraps into the trash and eventually the landfill. It’s remarkable to me how much composting is lessening my footprint on the earth. Speaking of fertilizer, though, I did read a neat hint today: when potting a new plant, put a raw egg on a small bed of dirt in the bottom of the pot. It will disintegrate and is wonderful fertilizer. Also save the water when you boil eggs—it’s rich in calcium and good for your plants.

As usual, Katie and I caught up on grandchildren and talked a lot about dogs and some about the Episcopalian church in Fort Worth—she is the assistant to the bishop. Katie is also an activist, so we did discuss politics, especially local—there’s one onerous Republican official whose ears should have been burning. Somehow, we missed the news of the day which seems historic to me now: the bipartisan passage in the House of the three separate foreign aid bills. It’s almost like Speaker Mike Johnson, who had been castigated by many for refusing to bring such a bill to the floor, pulled a rabbit out of a hat and became a magician. However he did it, my hat’s off to him, although I know we have vast political differences. Like most of us, I was anxious to get supplies and help to Ukraine, though I have my doubts about how much we should continue to support Israel, and I know little of the Taiwanese situation, less about TikTok. I do know however that the bipartisan effort was significant and a resounding defeat for trump and his MAGA supporters of Putin.

It being the weekend, I did cook: last night we had a combination of chopped chicken, mushrooms, green onion, and cream cheese baked in crescent roll dough and served with a tossed salad, with a store-bought blueberry pie for dessert—the latter was a sudden impulse buy and now I’m left wondering what to do with all that pie. Tonight I made a baked goat cheese dip—so rich and so good—when dear friend Betty and her daughter, Dana, came for an early happy hour. Another joyous visit, this with a lot of cooking talk, with Dana paying tribute to her mom for all she taught her. Later in the evening, Christian grilled his terrific hamburgers for us. Are we spoiled?

Much of my weekend has been devoted to the study of dogs. Colin and Lisa went to meet the dog I thought sounded just right and reported that he was calm, sweet, easy with new people—all good, but they sensed health problems. I texted the owners that if they met certain conditions—a health certificate, long overdue neutering—I would take the dog. I have not heard from them, so I guess that’s a no, and I am back to looking at endless pictures of available dogs. Picked out a couple to call about tomorrow. This dog business is a huge problem for me, and I want to settle with a new companion. Patience is not my strong suit, and I do not like being without a dog. For one thing, I’ve taken to setting my alarm system at night.

Another week, and I have much I want to get done. I bet you do too. Sweet dreams.

Odd inconveniences, a good dinner, and Omigosh! What are Republicans doing to poor Ukraine

 

This morning I woke to a gray, dull day that seemed to threaten rain at any moment. Stretching and lying in bed enjoying the moment, I thought a day of reading and napping sounded just perfect. Of course, that’s not what happened. Jordan and I were out the door at 9:15 for a doctor’s appointment for me. All is well, and I got a good report, including praise for doing all the things I should—vaccinations, mammograms, etc. But I will have to take a swallow test because I’ve been having difficulty swallowing large pills lately, pills that I’ve taken for years with no problem. My doctor explained I would drink barium and they would x-ray it going down—yuck! It’s been over thirty years since I had to drink barium and I still have not-so-pleasant memories. What struck this osteopathic child was that my doctor did not palpate my throat (he said if it were thyroid there’d be a big and visible mass) and he didn’t look down my throat. He knew, without touching me, what the problem was—almost certainly not serious—and how to deal with it. But I grew up in the old days when a doctor laid hands on. I guess, like many things, I have to learn to adapt. He did come in physical contact to listen to hear and lungs and examine the healing lesion on my scalp.

When we left the doctor’s office, the sun was peeking out, and the day ultimately turned out to be pretty. I meant to get someone to take pictures of my wildflowers but didn’t get it done. But we came home to no water—it’s not as though the whole block was cut off. It was just our house. Christian called the water department, and they said it was probably a problem with our meter. They would have someone out to fix it today. Fortunately, I had leftovers in the fridge for lunch, but it was a bit frustrating to leave the unrinsed decision in the sink. To say nothing of not flushing the toilet. My nap came in handy because when I woke up, the water was back on. I don’t say this often, so here’s a cheer for the Fort Worth Water Department.

Christian fixed chicken piccata tonight following a Southern Living recipe and I made cheese grits from the same source, plus we had the cucumber salad I made earlier in the week. A really good dinner, if a bit lemony. After all these years, Southern Living is still my go-to.

Tonight I shared Dan Rather’s daily column on my Facebook page. I hope you’ll take time to read it. Rather, whom I admire a great deal, points out that by stalling aid to Ukraine Republicans in the House are fulfilling Putin’s every wish. Ukraine, which has already suffered so badly in the name of democracy for all of us, is losing territory (and men) in the eastern part of the country. MAGA Republicans don’t seem to get it through their thick heads that the freedom of Europe is a stake, and if Europe falls America is at best isolated, at the worst without trade partners and vulnerable to miliary takeover. To me, it’s as simple as teaching math to a first grader—two plus two equals Russia steamrolls across Europe. Marjorie Taylor Greene, the dimmest bulb in Congress, says Putin claims he wants no more land, just Ukraine, and she believes him. I have a bridge in Arizona to sell her. As Rather says, men like Mike Johnson are playing politics with people’s lives. Is Johnson stalling because he’s afraid of losing his speakership? I cannot tell. It’s too late to hold his caucus together—that ship sailed long ago. I suspect his motivation lies in his recent trips to Mar-a-Largo, and the idea that trump is pulling political strings to get back in the presidency, as the cost of man’s lives on the battlefield, is so abhorrent I’m speechless. And I can’t even begin to contemplate what would happen to poor Ukraine if trump weaseled his way back into the Whie House.

Please do whatever you can—write your congressman, your senator, anyone who can put pressure on Johnson. I suspect Democrats will swallow hard and support him because they simply don’t want the upheaval of having to choose another speaker, poor choice though he is. Without saying that, maybe reassure him. We’ve got to raise our voices and get the off dead center. It’s unconscionable.

Seems rather silly after that to say, “Sweet Dreams,” but that’s my wish for you. And maybe positive thoughts about the world situation.

Monday all day long

 

This is one of those days when I’m tempted to shrug it off with the explanation, “All work and no play makes Judy a dull girl.” I have nothing outstanding to report from my day—or maybe I do—and the national news did not inspire me to comment. One report I read was full of minute by minute reports of jury selection in the trump trial—well, ho hum! I’m waiting for something blockbuster to break loose, or maybe at least for Stormy Daniels’ testimony. And, mostly I guess, I’m waiting to see what the decision will be. You hear so many things—some pundits say this is the most consequential of trump’s trials, and other say it will be impossibly hard to prove that he had felonious intent. I’m not holding my breath. It seems to me the American public is going to have to consider, when they vote, not these cases and their many delays which may well stretch out beyond our November elections. What they must consider is the no former American president has ever stood trial for a felony nor ever been indicted on 91 counts. Meantime, I am really tired of trump everywhere in the news.

Otherwise, the international news is discouraging. Netanyahu is promising revenge on Iran where, if I’m not mistaken, he started the pissing war that is taking real human lives. I once saw a map that showed Israel’s geographic place in the vast Middle East—it is but a tiny dot. You’d think Netanyahu would realize the precariousness of his position, but I suspect he’s gloating because Israel’s defense network was able to deflect most of the attack, which of course is a good thing in terms of lives saved. That doesn’t mean they will always be able to do so. To me, they are like David and Goliath—only this time I’m not so sure David has righteousness on his side. I weep for the people of Israel and for the people of Gaza. I don’t know much about it, but I like the name of a group that sends me emails: Win without War.

And Mike Johnson has still refused to bring before the House a bill that would aid Ukraine and Gaza. He is so in thrall to trump that he does whatever the former, twice-impeached president wants. And trump apparently wants revenge on Ukraine because Zelensky refused to support his attempt to smear Biden during the 2020 election campaign and also is in thrall to Putin because he admires blind power. What a chain of thralldom they present. And how directly they violate the principles of American democracy. As for Johnson, I am tired of pseudo-sanctimonious Christians. There is no question in my mind that the American people at large understand the importance of supporting Ukraine and, despite our long ties to Israel, the humanitarian need in Gaza.

One of the things I’ve increasingly come to believe is that compassion and empathy are always more effective than punishment. I believe with all my might it holds true for our whole correctional/penal system which needs a massive overhaul. It is true in our treatment of the homeless—countries and local communities which have responded with compassion and provided homes and stipends for the homeless have seen that some large percentage go on to build productive lives. What do we accomplish by criminalizing those who would feed them, kicking them out of their encampments but offering no alternative. It is true for immigrants—in communities where they are welcomed, they become contributing members of society. “We have to stop criminalizing poverty.” When we yank lunch programs from children who are food-starved, we create a rebellious segment of society; feed them, and they become contributing members of our society.

Okay, I’m wandering around tonight in philosophical fields, and I am much more at home with the concrete, with specific facts. So I will say today I went back to Irene in a Ghost Kitchen, wrote a blurb and copy for Amazon. Then, with perfect timing, I got the beta reader’s comments. Lots for me to think about as I dig into yet another trip through the manuscript but basically good comments. He thinks it’s a book that will work. So now I have a project, and that makes me happy. Watch for a cover reveal soon!

Tonight my friend Mary V. came for supper. I had grave doubts what I intended to feed her—the spinach dish I didn’t make for my chef friend last week because I had no spinach. Now I had spinach, saved from my kitchen fail with spinach and scrambled eggs. Not a good start. But I chopped the spinach, added more salt, sauteed in butter and melted cream cheese—which made creamed spinach. I heated heirloom tomato slices, piled the spinach on top of them, and topped with grated cheddar. Ran the whole thing under the broiler—it was delicious. Mary brought grits; I added marinated cheddar, just a few cubes each, and cucumber salad, and called it a hodgepodge dinner. Mary called it a success.

So I have a positive reader’s report, with suggestions I understand and can see will make the book better, and I have served a good dinner. I think I’ll go to sleep with happy dreams tonight. But no dog news. I leave you with this quote from Ann Lamott: Courage is fear that has said its prayers.

Sleep tight, my friends.

Minor misadventures and cooking redemption

 

 

After the eclipse, I would have told you that for most of the day there was a spot on the moon. Nothing serious, but nothing went quite right.

The major project for today was for Jordan and me to go to Christian’s office for covid booster shots, because this is the day once a month that a visiting nurse comes to give shots—a wonderful service his company provides its people, and he was going to let me take advantage. Going places in the morning is always a bit of, well, a reach for me. I much prefer to spend the morning at my computer. But I dutifully dressed in street clothes, even washed my hair so Christian would not be embarrassed by his mother-in-law.

We were early; the nurse was late. I sat in my transport chair in the hall and tried to keep up with emails. Finally, she arrived—a substitute because the usual nurse, her mother, couldn’t come today. It’s been six months since Jordan and I had our twin covid cases, and we were finally eligible for the booster. The nurse didn’t have Moderna, only Pfizer, but she assured us we could switch. I said our doctor said not to switch, and she immediately said to follow the doctor’s advice. So I asked for RSV, which I also need. She didn’t have it. Then she found two doses of Moderna. But she could not take me Humana Medicare. She talked to her mother, who said something to the effect that she loved Christian so much her daughter should go ahead and give me the shot. I do not understand any of this.

Upshot: I got my covid booster but haven’t gotten the RSV shot yet and will probably have to go to a pharmacy for that.

I was expecting a lunch guest tomorrow (she has since had to postpone until Thursday). Heather was a student intern in my office at TCU Press more moons ago than she would probably like to remember. She went on to editorial work at Harcourt, and then I lost track of her. Turned out she had been in San Antonio attending the Culinary Institute of America. We hooked up again, and when I was working on my cookbook, Gourmet on a Hot Plate, she was a huge help. But we had at that time great political differences. I suspect she is more forgiving about that than I am. At any rate, the relationship just sought of drifted into space, but recently she emailed that she had published a small children’s book and needed marketing advice. She admitted we probably still have our differences but maybe we could set them aside. So she’s to come for lunch.

I am seriously challenged by cooking for someone who trained with the CIA, but I found a sort of non-recipe I liked: marinate tomato slices in balsamic vinegar and then top with creamed spinach and grated cheese—run under the broiler until cheese melts and is bubbly. Perfect! So I ordered spinach from Central Market, but it didn’t come with my weekly order. I was sure I could get it before Wednesday, but today I thought, “Yikes!” Then Heather emailed to say she has to cover for someone at work tomorrow (she’s in charge of food service at an extended care facility) , so I presented her with my dilemma—did she want to bring the spinach or did she want my signature tuna salad? We have settled on the tuna, and she will be here Thursday.

Tonight was Mary’s regular happy hour night, and I was so pleased that I had gotten a jar of pickled herring for her—she loves it, and I pretty much do too. But when I was trying to cut off the cellophane collar on the jar, I noticed my fingers already smelled like the pickling liquid—red flag. And then the lid to the jar popped off sort of spontaneously. One unusable jar of pickled herring, and one big disappointment. I will call Central Market in the morning—may be too late for a refund, but at least they should know.

But after these mishaps and my kitchen fails of the weekend, I redeemed myself tonight. Central Market had sent me an unasked-for lb. of ground chicken. They hadn’t charged me for it, and I know they couldn’t take it back, so I had to do something with it. I’ve made chicken burgers in the past and not liked the texture. Lettuce wraps seemed the perfect solution. I got the copycat recipe online for PF Chang’s lettuce wraps, raided Christians supply of Asian seasonings, and made my first-ever lettuce wraps with real butter lettuce—a luxury. Served with sugar snap peas (I’m not sure it wasn’t a mixture of sugar snap peas and snow peas—hard to tell them apart and Central Market may have slipped a bit). It was, if I do say, delicious, and a recipe I’ll keep and reuse (may have to buy my own sesame oil and hoisin sauce, etc.—I did not use Siracha but substituted the ordinary Heinz chili sauce I had).

So how was your post-eclipse day? A spot on the moon or all in order?

A sort of nothing weekend

 

Usually I plan ahead and see that there are good things on my calendar for weekends, but this weekend? Nothing! It’s a bit of vanity to realize that one reason was that I couldn’t wash my hair. Sounds silly and frivolous but I think it’s true. I had that thingie removed from my scalp on Friday, and the doctor said to wait two days to shampoo. That was Friday late morning, so does Friday count as one of the days? I decided to err on the side of caution and wait until Monday. But my hair had Vaseline in it from the procedure and was generally a mess, and I was self-conscious about it. Tomorrow I am going to wash it first thing in the morning, and I expect the world to be a lot better.

We hoped to hear about the new dog we are interested in today—hear as in an invitation to greet and meet. But it didn’t happen. The wheels of dog adoption, like a lot of other wheels, move slowly. Having adopted four children, I should not be surprised at this slow procedure, but I guess I expected pet adoption to be easier. It’s probably a good thing for pets that it is not. The foster said she wasn’t able to get approval of my application today, so we wait (I am already conditionally approved). I was afraid that the poor boy was so attached to his foster that he wouldn’t want to be uprooted, but Jordan found out that agencies rotate dogs, not letting them stay too long with any foster for just that reason. I suppose that also cuts down on foster fail, where fosters fall so in love with the dog, they decide to be the permanent adoptive family. We did hear that the boy we have our eye on has been in foster care for two years, which makes me so sad I want to rescue him immediately. But we have also heard that he is afraid of “everything,” and that gives me pause. I had an experience with a fearful dog at Christmas when my granddaughter’s dog was afraid of my walker. And I want a dog with some spirit. So I am uncertain.

Weekends are usually good cooking times for me but that too went awry this weekend. I planned last night to make cod in a butter/lemon sauce, so with my grocery order I requested a lb. of cod. I got a quarter lb.—enough for no one else but me. We had garlicky chicken thighs in an anchovy/lemon sauce. Good, but I wanted to cook the fish, partly because I like fish and partly because I’d like to add more of it to our diet. Jacob has been wanting spaghetti, so tonight I made a recipe called Weeknight Bolognese. I can’t recommend it. I chose to make it on Sunday so I could cook all day, but the recipe really didn’t take that long—except for browning two-and-a-half lbs. of ground meat (beef and Italian sausage). I got wide pappardelle noodles, but the sauce wasn’t as rich and thick as I wanted. In fact, it was thin. Good flavor, but not what I want in an Italian sauce. And I thought it was way too much meat in proportion to the sauce. Jacob didn’t say anything, but I noticed he didn’t eat much. I’m going to plan soon to make an old-fashioned, Italian nonna kind of Sunday soup that cooks all day. Honest we could have used the bottled Rao marinara sauce Jordan bought, and it would have made me happier.

It's ten o’clock, and I have just had my second nap of the day. I relish my afternoon nap—it’s become a part of my routine, and I think it healthy. But when I fall asleep at my computer at eight-thirty, it’s a clear sign that I am not engaged in what I’m doing. So that too will have to change. I find I almost never want to go back and pick up where I left off—clearly I abandoned them because I wasn’t that interested. So I’m on a mission to find a book that absorbs my attention and calls me back.

All of this leaves me with a lot of resolves to kick up my interest in life. Fortunately, I understand that these dull, down periods are a part of life and are regularly more than balanced by periods of high activity and engagement. It’s up to me, so I resolve to be a new person (again!) starting tomorrow. Now who’s got plans for next weekend?

 

 

The search continues

Some time ago a good friend brought me this plant holder with a poinsettia in it.
I named her Serenity because I hope that was what she would bring me.
Nor she's abloom with spring flowers, and I think she's serene, a model for me.

I spent too much of today on my ongoing search for the perfect dog to fill the hole left in my heart and my life by Sophie. Don’t get me wrong—the perfect dog is the offbeat rescue, the slightly different one, the one that maybe no one else will want. I leafed through pages of Petfinder (they have 226 pages of adoptable dogs), and tonight Jordan and I looked at many. We laughed over a dog named Juju, since that is my grandmotherly name. “It would get confusing,” Jordan said, “which Juju would we be calling?” Another dog was named Panic, and Jordan said she could hear what happened if at three o’clock in the morning I opened my door to call, “Panic! Panic!” She thinks the emergency squad would be here immediately.

I had found one dog that really interested me. His name is Oreo, an Aussie mix, four or five years old, house- and crate-trained, and billed as a perfect gentleman. But another dog, with the unlikely name of Merle Haggard, stuck in my mind. He’s about two years old, a black dog, the same weight as Sophie (which is perfect for us), house- and crate-trained. So many of the dogs that interest me need canine companions or lots of exercise because they are high energy breeds. Merle Haggard’s description says he will adapt to my energy level, and he likes to chase squirrels, which was Sophie’s main occupation. Jordan and Christian are enthusiastic about Merle Haggard, so I put him first on my list and Oreo second. We would love either one.

This whole business is frustrating because you apply and … nothing. I did get a response from Saving Hope that I was conditionally approved, but once I specified a dog, I heard nothing. Poor Merle Haggard has been in their care for almost two years, and I think that’s partly because it’s hard to place black dogs. After Sophie I have a soft spot in my heart for black dogs (okay she was sort of mottled with silver—he is almost totally black). Anyway, you’d think the agency would act quickly on an expression of interest in a dog that had been there a long time, but not so. I’m told by those who know that the problem is volunteer help. I find that’s cold comfort.

Otherwise it was a lazy Saturday—Zenaida came to clean the cottage, and we had several teary moments remembering how much Sophie loved Zenaida and how she used to follow her around. I got some desk work done, read a lot of political updates, made the dough for a snack for Monday morning company, and had a long nap.

We would have had dinner at a decent hour tonight, except Jordan joined me in looking at dog profiles. Then Christian came along. He had spent the day enjoying the Fort Worth Food and Wine Festival (you can interpret that as you will) and he wanted to talk more about Merle Haggard. So it was after seven when I finally started cooking and near eight when we had dinner: chicken thighs in a garlic/anchovy/caper sauce. Delicious, but so greasy. One of those recipes that has you start it on the stove, then whisk the skillet into the oven. I can’t do that, so I winged it in a bit, but it turned out to be delicious.

While Jordan and Christian waited for supper, they sat on the patio.
and she took this of my honeysuckle in bloom. 
A pesty plant but so pretty when it blooms.

I finished out the evening with a long conversation with an old friend who lost her husband this week. I know that it’s the age I am—I lose friends, my friends lose loved ones, and it’s what life is. The best I can do is listen, and I’ve been trying hard to do that. But every time I am called on for comfort, it reminds me of my own mortality. But more than that, it reminds me how lucky I am to be as active and healthy and engaged as I am.

So it’s certainly been a mixed bag of a day. But as always, I am grateful. Sweet dreams, everyone.

 

Pickles and Pineapple

 

Or what do we do with the leftover ham after Easter?

We had a really good ham for Easter this year—flavorful but mild, the kind that doesn’t need mustard or horseradish sauce or any disguise. But even with twelve people, we had a ton left over. Jordan has been telling me she doesn’t like ham, which cuts me out of ham dishes on our menus. But now, trying to avoid carbs, she and I are both eating ham for lunch. Still a bunch leftover. I can make myself ham salad, which I like a lot—it makes terrific sandwiches. And tonight I made a ham cheeseball, which was pretty good. Online recipes sources are full of ways to use that ham, but most just don’t intrigue me. Like mac and cheese with ham—I’m just not a mac and cheese person. Scalloped potatoes with ham sounds a lot better to me, but if Jordan wants a cleansing diet, she’s not going to eat that. I will end up freezing some of my portion of the leftovers.

Another thing online recipes sources are full of lately is pineapple. The controversy over pineapple topping on pizza has been around for a while, but it seems to have taken on new life lately. I’m not a pizza fan and definitely not a pineapple pizza fan. But the recipe that most puzzles me is pineapple casserole, which is all over the place this season. I cannot fathom it, so today I look at the Southern Living version, because I really have confidence in that magazine’s recipes. What I found was basically a white sauce made with pineapple juice instead of milk or cream, added sugar (in case, heaven help us, the pineapple wasn’t sweet enough) and grated cheddar, because according to the recipe the strength of cheddar will “hold up against” the sweetness of the pineapple. I remain unconvinced. I do remember, with pleasure, that my mom made a Jell-O salad—that scourge of the fifties—with pineapple, julienned carrots, pineapple chunks, and orange Jell-O. It wasn’t half as bad as it sounds. I also remember upside down cakes with pineapple that came out on the top. Think I liked those. Mom also occasionally cooked a ham steak—a good bargain I’ve learned these days—with a sauce of pineapple juice, brown sugar, and maybe onion or bacon. It was pretty good, though I feel no urgency to try it again.

I’m not sure what pickled pickles have to do with Easter except that watermelon pickles seem common on some tables. My mom used to fix a pickle/vegetable tray for big dinners—celery sticks, carrots, etc.—but nine times out of ten she found it, after the meal, still in the back porch cooler where she’d stashed it. But, pickles too have been all over the internet. I recently started getting emails from a web site called Olive My Pickle. They not only try to sell their products, they try to educate on the benefits of fermented food. Apparently there was an article in Time Magazine recently about fermented foods as probiotics. and this site was recommended. They sell not only pickles but an array of olives, kimchi, etc. Fort Worth is home to Best Maid Pickles, and that company has opened a retail store, the Best Maid Pickle Emporium, on Vickery Boulevard where they sell  pickles, pickle juice (supposedly great for brining chicken), Bloody Mary mix, condiments and even T-shirts. I confess I want to go there just to browse. I grew up thinking I didn’t like pickles—it took marriage to a Jewish man and kosher dills to teach me how good they are. My mom grew up hating sauerkraut—in a German household she had to eat it, so I never tasted that either until I was grown. But now I love it. For some reason, I’ve shied away from kimchi, though it is the kind of thing I usually like. Have you tried it?

And perhaps the ultimate pickle news: the Clausson folks, who make great pickles, have introduced a pickle jelly bean. Where are you, Ronald Reagan?

The popularity of pineapple and pickles is testimony to the power of social media. I’m quite sure we would not pay inordinate attention to these two foods if we weren’t bombarded with them on the net. Then again, maybe I’m just more aware because I’m a foodie and spend time every day on food sites.

If you try a pineapple casserole, please let me know about it.