A new word, gratitude, and hot water

 

Sometimes my experiments go awry. This is salmon with horseradish sauce.
I did not save the recipe. Enough said.

A quiet day for me, spent mostly at my computer. I said to Jordan it was awfully cold, but she replied, “Not as bad as the other day.” A friend pointed out, however, that what we in Texas are feeling now is Rocky Mountain northern cold, not the southern cold we are used to—a distinction I’d never thought about (and am still not sure I get). But when Sophie comes in leaving the door open, it feels cold to me, southern or northern be darned. I had let up on my “really cold weather” precautions and taken the extra cover off the bed. So of course in the middle of the night I had to get up and prowl in the closet for my mom’s crochet afghan. And this morning, I decided I’d wash my hair just to be safe if the hot water goes out again. There was—eventually—hot water, but it sputtered and spit and never came on in a strong steam, which gives me cause to worry. Tonight, though, I could scald my hands washing dishes if not careful.

I heard from friends in Omaha today, which gave me a bit of misguided schadenfreude—they are buried in snow and have had temperatures well below zero and wind chill factors down to -40^o. Even while I am rejoicing that I am not there, I do worry about them. They both have had Covid over Christmas, he a fairly heavy case and she a milder case but fearing complications due to some ongoing health problems. It shows me once again that I must be grateful for the blessings of my life which include fairly good health for a woman of my age.

My small online writing circle uses Fridays to “brag” about how we spent the week. The woman who starts us off on Friday, my friend Stephanie, used today to talk about what we are grateful for, and I used that prompt to think about gratitude and my life. I’ve been a bit out of sorts, maybe due to the restrictions of cold weather and related problems, about all the things that haven’t been done—starting to use my new composter (my kitchen sink cannister is officially full tonight and a bit smelly), my new battery-powered electric blanket isn’t hooked up, my new cuckoo clock needs to be hung and started—it plays bird songs, so I have to get into the instructions and  see if I can figure out how to choose a song. I’m not optimistic about my ability, and I am woefully ignorant about recognizing bird songs, so I figure this will give me an education. I think my mattress needs to be turned—remember when your mom did that at least once a month and all by herself? Amazes me yet. But there is a deep hole where I sit every day to change clothes. Colin told me to Google it, and I did—found the mattress is supposed to inflate. I sent him a picture of the hole, hoping he’ll find a magic solution from a distance.

These delayed chores or whatever depressed me. So did the fact that Zenaida, who cheerfully cleans the cottage and does my laundry every two weeks, hasn’t been here since before Christmas, and I am expecting company three nights this coming week—to a house that badly needs the thorough cleaning I can’t do. I had a little pity party, feeling frustrated because I am so dependent on others. But Stephanie’s reminder jogged me into gratitude. I think for a woman of eighty-five who needs assistance walking, I manage quite a lot on my own. Some days I want to make a list so I can say to Jordan, “Look what I did all by self (a phrase from my kids childhood) today!” I will have to continue to send myself that message—and be grateful for hot water and other blessings.

My new word: my youngest grandson had surgery two days ago for a torn shoulder (this is the third time soccer has gotten him—two earlier broken bones). We sent him Tiff Treats (ice cream and cookies) and when he texted his thanks, he wrote, “Thank you, shawties.” Well, of course that sent me to the online dictionary. It’s slang term of generalized affection, African American in origin. But sometimes it’s more specific, referring to a beautiful young woman. Was that sweet boy being sarcastic with his aunt and grandmother? If so, he’s a sly one. I was impressed one way or another that he knew the word, although I can’t figure a way to work it into my conversation or my writing. I guess for the nonce sharing it with you will have to do.

Good night, shawties! Sleep tight, sweet dreams.

 

Church thoughts on a lovely day—and some cooking

          

This sunny, mild day is most welcome in North Texas after a string of chilly, gray days. This morning’s clouds burned off, and the afternoon is bright enough to cheer the spirits.

This morning, Dr. Russ Peterman titled his sermon, “Finding your vocation,” by which he meant finding that which God calls you to do. He stressed the difference between a career, which is about making a living, and a calling, which is about making a difference. It brought to mine a conversation of many years ago with dear friends, a husband and wife, he a doctor, she still in search of what she wanted to do. She had been a stay-at-home mom, earned a graduate degree in social work, and was still searching. Her words have always stuck with me. “I envy you two. You have found your passions in life—medicine and writing.” She went on to find her own passion in gardening but not with the same fervor. This morning on the way to church, Christian had mentioned Jacob’s passion for sports. I’ve come to realize a life lived with passion (no, not that kind!) is indeed a blessing, and I am grateful.

I get really weary of modern hymns in our church. They read like lectures, so this morning I was grateful for two old favorites: “Jesus Calls Us, O’er the Tumult” and “Here am I, Lord.” One of the apprentice ministers had said during the service that she thought the latter was her favorite, and after we sang it as our closing hymn, Dr. Peterman commented on the vigor with which the entire congregation sang. “I think that’s everyone’s favorite hymn.”

Cooking adventures this weekend: Tonight, there’s company dinner in the house, and Jordan is making that family favorite—Doris’ casserole. One friend calls this American lasagna, which isn’t too far off the mark. It‘s a meat sauce, and a noddle and cheese layeer, all topped with grated cheddar. The only trouble with it is that it’s so good, there are never leftovers.

So since I’m not cooking Sunday dinner, I have a meatloaf in the oven—just because. I love meatloaf, especially cold sandwiches, so I should have this to nibble on all week. Yesterday I baked several pans of chocolate chip cookies, and now my cookie jar is full, but I still have dough in the fridge. It was a new, slightly different recipe (billed, of course, as the ”best ever”), and it reminded me of my mom’s old recipe because you dissolve the baking soda in hot water rather than mixing it in the flour. I had to try a few last night, just for testing purposes of course, and they pretty near were the best ever.

Last night, in solitary splendor, I had a lamb shank for dinner with a side of butter glazed baby carrots. The carrots were great, the lamb shank not so much. It’s the second time in a few years I’ve tried shanks, both times pre-prepared. I bought this one at Central Market; it was said to have been roasted with rosemary and mint. This morning in the car I announced that I am through thinking I want to try shank meat—in my experience, it is fatty and stringy, and the lamb burgers we sometimes make have more flavor. Gosh, I wonder why Christian rejected my leftovers for his lunch today. I know in the hands of a real chef it would be a different experience.

The week ahead looks busy. I hope you all find it a good one. Not so sure I’ll be glued to the impeachment hearings. I find the Republican arguments slight and error-filled after the meticulous presentations of the Democrats.