A workday and a happy happy hour

 

Have I mentioned I have a new Irene in Chicago Culinary Mystery coming out at the end of the month? Just joking, because I know I have. It’s easy to think by now it’s all done, and I am idle, but that is not the case. Today I fired off two guest blogs to tell the cozy world about Irene in a Ghost Kitchen and tonight I’ll try to post on some cozy mystery groups web sites. I still have to proof the final version, when the formatter sends it, and get it up and available on Amazon, decide who gets comp copies, etc. A lot of details to wrap up, and so that’s where much of my day went today.

Jean and Jeannie Chaffee came for happy hour tonight, bringing with them a bountiful feast of dips and quesadillas and all sorts of good things. Despite our best efforts, they wouldn’t take any of it home with them, so I have a loaded refrigerator. Jeannie also brought Benji a bag of new toys, and he took an instant shine to her, plopping his slobbery tennis balls in her lap, crawling over others to get to her. I haven’t seen as much of Jeannie in recent times, so it was fun to reminisce about the days we shared office space—well, the administration didn’t know it, but that was what it amounted to. We had glorious funny lunches and all kinds of adventures. It was a good life, and we will always treasure those memories.

Those two ladies are getting ready to set off on an adventure—they leave this week for London for a couple of days and then a ferry across the Channel to France. June 6, D Day, will find them on the beaches at Normandy, with a crowd of at least thousands, marking the 80^th anniversary of that event. It gives me goosebumps to think of them crossing in a ferry, replicating that journey taken by all those men, many of whom never returned. I know the trip will be fun, and I suppose they’ll have lots of rich experiences—they will, for instance, spend a half day with the Bayonne Tapestry. They will probably also eat some really good, country French food, the food of the villages and not Paris—I offered Irene’s menu advice, but so far they have not taken me up on it. But it will also be a somber trip, commemorating a day when many lives were lost. It seems significant that we mark today the men and women who died for democracy when democracy itself is so challenged. A part of me will be with my friends as they make this journey.

Tomorrow, the world gets back to business, and I have a list of phone calls to make, questions to ask. We are supposed to have a cold front (lower eighties, which is just fine, thank you) coming in, with possible storms tonight. I will be glad if the world is a bit cooler, although the heat hadn’t struck me until late this afternoon when I opened the patio door for Benji and a blast of hot, wet air hit me.

I haven’t seen much of “In Flanders Field” by John McCrae this year, so here’s the final verse. It amounts to a challenge to Americans to fly the flag high and remembers those who gave all on June 6, 1944.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

 

 

 

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.

So far, a good week

Sophie does not care about elections like I do.

Maybe Tuesday evening is too soon to call it a good week, but this one is starting out well (hear that sound? It’s me, knocking on wood). Last night, Jordan, Christian, and I went to visit friends Subie and Phil Green in their new apartment at Trinity Terrace and were so impressed by how spacious it is, how well laid out, and how comfortable. Windows on the south and west provide a great view—well, okay to the west, it’s the parking lot but the city is beyond and to the south it’s mostly the roof of First Presbyterian. Their patio is the first one in that complex I’ve thought I would venture out on, because it’s only the third floor. Deliver me from Jean’s seventeenth floor balcony! I told Subie if they’d find me a ground floor apartment with an attached dog yard, I might move. I wouldn’t really, but it was good to see them so happily settled.

Most interesting part of the evening: their neighbor in the building is a man who grew up in the house where I lived for twenty-five years and where Jordan, Christian, and Jacob now live. Christian even found a place where he had carved his name—Kenneth Jones—into the cement in our now-crumbling driveway. Kenneth was born in the house next door to the west, moved to our house when he was five, and lived here until he married, at which time he and his bride moved to the house next door to the east. “We were working out way down the block,” he said. He had memories of when there was no Forest Park Boulevard and University Drive stopped at the river. Fascinating evening, and I certainly hope to see more of him.

Tonight was Mary Dulle’s happy hour night, but she brought longtime friend Sharon Benge with her. It was great to catch up with Sharon and particularly to hear her report on her oldest son. Years ago, Sharon and I lived in the same close-knit neighborhood, and I can still remember her and Bill sitting in our dining room and announcing they were expecting their third child. Fun memories. Sharon’s late husband always used to call to check on me, and I truly appreciated him. There are no friends like old friends.

Tonight I made a retro appetizer—stuffed celery. I tried hard to string it but didn’t get all the strings. Still I liked it a lot, better apparently than any of my guests. I used pub cheese that comes in a carton but spiced it up with a recipe I found.

During the day so far I have made my goal of a thousand words a day—that’s purely a goal I set for myself, but I figure it’s a way to keep up the momentum. If I don’t do something like that, I’ll never get this book written. I am reminded of the saying of Ivan Doig—I think that’s the author—who said writing is like driving when you can only see as far as the headlights. Certainly true for me with this book—my mind is usually only one scene ahead of where my writing is. I have no idea how the silly thing is going to end—but that’s good, because you as reader will not be able to guess the end. At least that’s my hope.

I’ve also dealt with a host of business/housekeeping details this week—a bill for last year’s mammogram that was settled in April, but in October the insurance company asked the provider for (and got) a refund which then became a balance for me to pay—can they do that? I will file yet another protest. The upholstery cleaners I like so much are coming by to pick up a newly cleaned cushion which has a new stain—and Sophie is going to the vet so maybe we can figure out why we’re getting these small puddles. I had to reschedule my dentist appointment, since my covid cough is almost gone, and call an arborist because our lawn guy says our trees really, really need professional trimming. It’s always something. My to-do list included a book to order, a curbside menu to check up on, all the little stuff that makes up daily living. And I’ve talked to my brother each day—he’s still in the hospital, and yesterday his voice was strong. Today he’s been sleeping off some pain medication that made him crazy (in the words of his wife). It reassures me to talk to him each day.

It's election night across the country, and I am curiously hopeful. One column I follow—Wake Up to Politics—said not to pay too much attention to off-year results, but I think they will give us an indication of which way the political winds are blowing. I can’t believe some of the statistics I read online—like trump, who seems more deranged daily is leading in five key swing states. It’s too early to be alarmed by such, but I would feel better if we had some strong progressive victories tonight—like enshrining abortion in some states.

Sweet dreams, all. Think positive thoughts.

 

Busy days at the cottage

 

Kristine Hall, me, and Stephanie Raffelock

It’s been wonderfully busy around here the last couple of days. Today I had the fun of serving lunch to Austin author Stephanie Raffelock (Creatix Rising: Unlocking the Power of Midlife Women and A Delightful Little Book on Aging) and Kristine Hall, publisher of the online weekly newsletter all about Texas books, authors, and writing, “Lone Star Literary Life.” I had met both before, briefly and one time each, but we have ongoing email relationships. And I knew all along that Stephanie and Kristine also had an online relationship. So while Stephanie was in the Metroplex, it only seemed logical to get us together.

Besides, it gave me a nice opportunity to cook for guests. I had explained to Stephanie that no, I did not want her to take me to lunch. It’s easier for me to stay in the cottage and cook. So I fixed Coronation Chicken Salad—you can pretty much figure that one out. Developed in 1953 for the coronation of Queen Elizabeth, it reflects the heavy influence of the flavors of India on British cooking: curry, mango chutney, dried fruit, and sliced almonds. There is debate over whether it should have diced, dried apricots or raisins—I went with raisins, because cutting up dried fruit is a pain. Watch for the recipe on next week’s Gourmet on a Hot Plate (Thursday). I admit it was a bit of work: I cooked chicken breasts on Wednesday and cooled and diced them; Thursday I made the salad, so today all that remained was to serve it in lettuce cups, with a side of mixed berries. It was a hit—well, at least they cleaned their plates.

Coronation chicken salad

We talked of books and politics and food and aging and books again and Substack and it was all wonderful. We laughed a lot, were serious at times, and Sophie was in heaven because Stephanie played with her. Lunch went by way too quickly, and I’m wishing they’d come back once a week.

Last night I had dinner with long time friends Subie, Carol, and Kathie. We were celebrating two birthdays but more than that we were relishing the opportunity to be together. Like lunch today, it was laughter and stories, a bit of politics, a bit of life in the residential community where two of them live and the third spends a lot of time with her special friend. Our waiter, Matt, was young but patient with four old ladies who changed their minds a lot, tried to joke with him, and dropped things on the floor. I noticed that when we first were seated, there was so much background noise I resigned myself to missing much of the conversation. But I played with the settings on my hearing aids and ended up hearing everything perfectly and being able to participate easily in the conversation.

We had a good laugh over one of our number who asked the waiter what Dukes was—we three immediately, said, “Mayonnaise!” and she said, “I hate mayonnaise.” She ended up with the lobster roll which had medium mayo and loved it. I had oysters Rockefeller, which were really good. I longed for the half dozen oysters on the half shell, but I heard they were $25 and yet not enough sustenance for an entrée, so I resisted. A lovely evening, and we resolved to do it more often. And sometime I’m going to go back and have those raw oysters. For some reason, the oysters at this restaurant are all tiny and delicate, perhaps more palatable than big fat ones.

So tonight Soph and I are being lazy. I’m going to relish the last couple of days and sink into some pleasure reading. Looking forward to a long weekend.

Obedient Sophie when Stephanie said, "Sit."

Family and friends--and who we are

 

 

Sophie, because she too, deserves
that moment of consideration from me.

This morning a friend posted a story on Facebook. She went into the bathroom only to find an empty toilet paper roll and a new roll of paper sitting on the windowsill. Obviously, her husband had put the roll there but hadn’t taken time to put it on the dispense. What would your reaction have been? I admit I would probably have been angry, at least briefly. Well, I like to think the me who I am today wouldn’t have been, but I can tell you for sure the me who was married long years ago would have been angry. Ranting that he couldn’t even take time to install the paper on the holder. But Brandy, my friend, said she thought to herself, “He’s so busy, and he has so much on his mind, how thoughtful of him to make sure I had a new roll.” Wow! Learning lesson there.

I’ve been thinking all week about how we live with each other and how we treat each other. About being on autopilot with knee jerk reactions or stopping for that brief second before we speak to think through a situation. I fall down a lot of the time. Although I am not married any longer, I live in close proximity to my daughter and her husband, And there are lots of times I should keep my mouth shut or investigate before I speak. Tonight, me: “I never did get my dishwasher detergent back after it went into your house.”

Jordan: “I put it back. Did you look?”

Me: “Not for a few days.” I was acting on old information. At the very least I could have framed it as a question: “Did you ever bring my dish detergent back?”

This morning in church the sermon was about the sinful woman who washed Jesus’ feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. A difficult scene for us today to understand, believers or not, but it has nothing to do with washing feet and everything to do with how we perceive people. The Pharisee, in whose home Jesus was at the time, saw only a sinner. Jesus saw a woman who repented of her sins and who grieved. He saw an individual, not a stereotype.

I know from my own life how easy it is to look at a person but not see them—the difficult spouse, the impatient child, the cranky colleague, the annoying neighbor. We just don’t want to take time to find out who they really are, why they are annoying or cranky or difficult. In a surprise ending, after urging us to really look at others in his sermon this morning, Dr. Peterman urged us to take a deep to take a deep look at ourselves. Are we really who we like to think we are—or is there room for change.

I think a lot of it comes down to how we treat other people. Consideration means many things—It means checking our reactions before acting impulsively, it mean thinking about the other person and not just ourselves. It even means accepting help gratefully rather than resenting what is not done. It means putting others first at times—not all the time. Nobody is that perfect and self-sacrificing, but if you watch, you’ll find the instances when you should put that difficult spouse, the impatient child, the cranky colleague, the annoying neighbor first, at least for a minute or two.

One of my favorites of Jordan’s friends is the mom of a lovely, seventeen-year-old daughter, sweet, polite, accomplished. But the mom says sometimes she wants to say,
“Get over yourself.” It’s become one of my favorite pieces of advice, for me, and for those to whom I am close enough to say it.

A ladies luncheon

 

We may have had a ladies luncheon,
but unfortunately none of us looked like this--
and no cocktails were involved. 

Lunch is not a social time for me. I rarely go out for lunch or invite people in. I’ve got this daily routine down pat and socializing at lunch interrupts it. I work all morning, eat leftovers at my desk, and work until two, two-thirty when I take a nap. But today was an exception: Jean and a young woman I’ve corresponded with but never met came for lunch.

Since yesterday was a busy day, I did not have the meal prepared in advance as I often do. I did make a marinated bean salad yesterday, but when I got up this morning and got going instead of rushing to my computer, I made a chicken casserole. Not a big deal, probably took me an hour to make it and clean up the kitchen. The most onerous part was dicing celery and green onions and chopping up the chicken—a rotisserie chicken which was deboned and in the freezer. Jordan finally convinced me deboning them is not bad if you do it right away when they come from the store, still warm.

The young woman is the daughter and niece of friends of mine, her aunt long gone, her parents recently deceased. Mary Lou was a friend through the years—we met in 1970. Shortly thereafter she lost her daughter tragically, and I was one of the people she turned to. She was a big part of my life until maybe ten or twelve years ago when she retired and moved to Dallas. Through her, I met her brother, Alex, and got to know him because we both served on the board of the Friends of the TCU Library. At board luncheons, Alex and I would sit together and whisper about liberal politics, trying to stifle our laughter like naughty schoolchildren. We knew several people in the room would frown on our ideas, but we always had a good time.

In recent times, Alex’s wife developed Alzheimer’s and was in a memory care facility, and he moved into a retirement facility (not the one I’m so familiar with). Jean and I went to have lunch with him once, were planning to go again, and I was making plans to have him to the cottage for lunch to get him out of what I thought was a cold and unlovely environment. He fell, broke his shoulder, went rapidly downhill, and died about a month ago. I had been in touch with his daughter, Leah,.because Alex had almost no vision left (macular degeneration) and dictated his emails to her, so by the time he died, I felt I knew Leah.

So today she came to lunch, and that young woman (okay, middle-aged) Alex had described to me as an introvert who didn’t like to be around people, was outgoing, frank and open about her family, and talked constantly of how lucky she has been in the people who support her and her family. She seemed thrilled with the prayer shawl Jean brought her. We had a lively discussion and a good time.

And now I have leftovers for a frequent visitor to the cottage who is coming for supper tomorrow night. Meantime I’ve had a slow, lazy afternoon and evening, enjoying the thunder and rain.

Between hearing aids, grocery and social engagements, the week that started off to be a writing week has fizzled. Monday, I wrote 1500 words on my cottage memoir and felt so good about it. Full steam ahead. Since then, I have written countless words in my head but committed nothing to paper. I itch to get to it. Perhaps tomorrow, but Thursday is always the day I post a recipe to my Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog, and I haven’t even chosen the recipe. The road to hell is paved with … but then you know that saying.

Just in case you missed it, I had a guest post today on Lois Winston’s Anastasia Pollock blog. Lois has a spot for recipe blogs, so mine is on Texas caviar, a recipe developed by Helen Corbitt, later of Neiman Marcus fame, way back in the 1940s. It’s still good today. Check it out if you want a good side for a summer barbecue or picnic party: https://anastasiapollack.blogspot.com/2023/06/cooking-with-cloris-author-judy-alters.html 

 

Iceland, here they come—and thoughts on retirement life

 

Shipboard duck dinner

The tour report is not much today—pictures of yesterday’s dinner which consisted of two plates, one of duck and one of lobster. Both were “continental” size servings, though taken together they probably made a substantial meal. I could not tell how the lobster was fixed. Today’s dinner was lamb, Brussel sprouts, potato, vegetable quiche—much more substantial. Jordan reports that they are in the main crossing now, whatever that means.

I finally had to look at a map to see where my child is going. It was not easy to find—oh, I found lots of maps of Iceland, but few that showed its physical relation to other countries and some that did were in foreign languages. I have finally figured it out though—Iceland is quite a way north and to the west of England, closer to Greenland and kind of between the Scandinavian countries and Greenland. The ship now must be in the open water between England and Iceland. I’m not sure when they reach Reykjavik. As I looked, I was reminded of horrendous statistics about what Americans don’t know about world geography, and I plead guilty.

Closer to home, while Jordan was eating those European-style gourmet meals, I was fixing King Ranch casserole, a dish I’ve been making for well over fifty years and can do in my sleep. It’s not even Tex-Mex—the only claim to southwestern cuisine is the half can or however much Rotel you put in. But it’s good. I made it for two friends who came for supper because we couldn’t go out—due to temporary health problems, neither of them can lift my walker in and out of a car, so the only solution was to eat here. Usually with these two, Subie joins us, but she could not tonight. She got a good laugh, however, out of the fact that we couldn’t go without her. I said it may not be too long before I can never go out to dinner because all my friends have gotten too old to lift my walker!

We did have a good visit—Kathie brought great guac, and Carol cleaned the kitchen, put away the food, did everything but wash the dishes, which I accomplished in no time after they left. Like many of my friends, their lives revolve around the Trinity Terrace retirement community—Carol and her husband have just moved in, and while Kathie has a condo in nearby Arlington, her gentleman friend lives at TT and she dines there with him every night, or so I gathered.

Despite the fact that so many of my friends live there, I am still much happier in my cottage, though I often feel a bit defensive about it. Sometimes what I hear about retirement community life reminds me of a college dorm, and I never did like dorm life. I am also claustrophobic enough that I would not want to have to do elevators alone, and I surely would not want to have to take an elevator down to the dog park every time Sophie wanted to go out. She is in and out ten times a day, and it’s much easier just to open the French doors. These lovely spring days, the door is open all the time, with a free-hanging screen over it, and she can come and go as she pleases.

Tonight’s dinner demonstrates another aspect of life in the cottage that I truly value—my kitchen, and the fact that I cook. Residents at Trinity Terrace—and most other retirement communities—have to buy a meal plan and use a certain number of meal points in the community dining areas each month. No matter how much I’ve heard several say they intend to continue to cook, they end up eating in either the cafeteria or the upscale, white linen tablecloth dining room. I’ve eaten there several times and thoroughly enjoyed it—but I would soon tire of it if I ate there every night. Sort of like the pre-packaged meals Jamie so sweetly sent me—I want to do my own meal planning.

And so I did tonight—making a grocery list for the coronation dinner I’ll fix Saturday night—so far just Jean and me, but we’ll have smoked salmon and coronation chicken salad and green pea salad. And then I planned meals that Jordan might like her first couple of nights at home—chicken dishes but not casseroles! —and a dinner for the adventuresome eater who dines with me about once a month and will be here later in the week.

Plus tomorrow is the day for my weekly cooking column, so I considered recipes for that. Want to know about cacio e peppe and why it is considered the ultimate test of an Italian chef? Read about it tomorrow.

Tonight my desk is full of projects—a couple of articles to be pulled from the Corbitt manuscript, a guest blog to write, that memoir to think about. I’m a happy camper. But I also downloaded the newest in the Country Club Murders series, so that’s my project for what’s left of the evening. Color me happy. How about you? Where are you on the scale of happiness?

What Sunday should be—with a minor crisis

 

My chicken dinner from Drew's Place

I looked forward to Sunday for several days. It was shaping up to be the kind of day I love—no pressure, and I could float through the day. I could sleep late, I had leftovers for lunch, and I’d worry about supper when the time came. I had a book to read, and a friend gave me an idea about something I wanted to write. To top it off, I finally ended with fried chicken leftovers—perfect supper.

Last night, we took fried chicken from Drew’s Place to Joe and Mary Dulle. They’ve had a meal train feeding them while Mary recovers from surgery, but the meal train had made its final stop. Jordan and I always said when that happened, we’d go to a restaurant near their new apartment famed for the fried chicken and take it to them; as it turned out, the classic lunch place, Drew’s, was much more reasonable. So, chicken in hand, we arrived for a tour of the apartment, a glass of wine, and a good visit. Great to see Mary looking so well, and now I can visualize them in their apartment. We came home, each nibbled on our chicken—of course we bought some for ourselves!—and gathered on the patio when the Burtons’ friends Sarah and Jay came over. Lovely evening, but it eventually got too chilly for me.

Yesterday morning Jordan, Sarah, and I had gone plant shopping. I know it’s a pain for Jordan, but it’s delight for me to be rolled through all those aisles in a transport chair instead of having to concentrate on my walker and my footing. This way I could focus on the plants. We bought things I’d never heard of, like optic grass, and old familiars like sweet potato vine, coleus—not sure why I can’t think of the others, but it was a hefty bill, so we got lots more.

Going to the nursery and then to visit the Dulles meant I was off the property twice in one day—as Christian said, a wild day for me. I don’t think it’s age so much as it is the breaking of my routine that tires me, but I was tired last night. When we came home from the Dulles, we found that Sophie doesn’t like her routine disturbed either—kt was a bit late for her dinner, and she had strewn dinner bowls on my bedroom floor, water bowl in the kitchen, and Pill Pockets (she couldn’t open it) in the living room. Sweet spoiled baby!

The back yard is beginning to look like summer. Jordan has most of the pots filled, but we need new grass—the winter rye was really awful this year and has huge, ugly bare patches. Somehow the lawn guys took out my mums a couple of months ago—I had wanted them left until time for spring flowers, but now there’s unslightly barren ground in front of the deck. Instead of pentas, which were a disaster last year, I’m going to put in native plants. Lots of bright yellow with black-eyed susans, gallardia, coreopsis, and the like.

So back to today, Christian and I collaborated on matzo brei (I had sold it to him as like migas, but he pointed out migas have pico and seasonings). The matzo brei tasted like matzo (big surprise) and was good, maybe a bit bland and a lot heavy.

Jordan went to the grocery but was gone an extraordinarily long time. She came home to tell us she had a flat, had to go get Fix-a-Flat and fix it herself. That left a quandary: they couldn’t drive to Coppell on that tire, they couldn’t drive Jacob’s SUV because it goes in tomorrow for brake pads, and they wouldn’t drive the VW. Jordan saw it as yet another sign the gods are picking on them; I saw it as an unfortunate incident. They ended not going to have dinner with Christian’s dad but going to a friends’ fiftieth birthday party.

So now I’m about to heat the potatoes and green beans that came with my chicken and have a lovely dinner—still have fried chicken. And a book I’m enjoying. Can life get any better?

Hope everyone has a great week.

How the other half lives

 

Hasselback kielbasa ready for the oven

Many of my friends, especially people from University Christian Church, now live in the downtown high-rise retirement community, Trinity Terrace. My good friends Jean and Jeannie live there on the seventeenth floor, next door to each other (which happened by serendipity). Despite my absolute delight with my cottage, I am sometimes a wee bit jealous of the social life they have there. Nobody needs ever to eat dinner alone unless they really want to.

Saturday night I was invited to dinner with friends there. We had happy hour in an apartment I’d not seen before. On the ninth floor in a corner, it has windows to the south and the west (I get so turned around in that building). The view is spectacular—from the dining table, from Morris’ office, and from the living room. For a one-bedroom apartment, it is spacious and open, with quite a bit of storage space (oh, how jealous that made me!). Morris’ special friend and my good friend, Kathie, decorated it for him and will tell you proudly that almost everything came from garage sales. Morris’ personal art collection decorates walls, tabletops, and display cabinets. The whole apartment is a marvel.

From there we went upstairs to the Blue Spire, the upscale dining area. It’s a social experience—people stop by the table for a chat, you wave at others on the way to your table. Everybody seems to know everybody. The menu is good, though I too often am tempted to have things I can’t ordinarily get—fried oysters, bone marrow, etc. Saturday night it was liver pate, which turned out not to be the coarse country pate I was hoping for but a buttery something—good but rich, so I settled for a large salad for my entrée. Of course, Caesar salad is not without its own richness, but it was an outstanding version of the classic. But then I completely lost my mind and had crème brulee for dessert. I paid for all this indulgence the next morning when the best way I could describe myself is sluggish.

I loved being there, seeing the apartment, meeting new people. (I have also seen Jean’s apartment which is equally unusual, full of her late husband’s artwork, much of it in a special wall of bookshelves). But in the long run, Trinity Terrace makes me grateful for my secluded little cottage, where I can cook to my own taste, keep whatever hours I want (at TT you have to be in your apartment by nine or ask for an extension). I know I am so lucky to have this living situation, and I am appropriately grateful. But I sure did have a good time Saturday night.

So Sunday night, a good friend from church (no, she doesn’t live at TT) came for supper. To indulge Jordan I made stuffed mushrooms with a cream cheese/Pecorino filling that was so good. For dinner we had spanakopita from the Greek festival at the local orthodox church. So delicious, and I know I could never make it that good.

I made a retro fruit salad over the weekend and took some of it to Kathie and Morris because I had a jar of hers to return (it had come filled with split pea soup). When I gave it to her, she, a deliberate eater (is that a good way to say it?), made no pretense that she would eat it but immediately said, “Morris will love it.” And he said the same thing, so I hope he did. What was in it? A can of peach pie filling, a can of fruit cocktail (drained), and three bananas (sliced). Told you it was retro.

I seem to be on a menu kick tonight, so here’s tonight’s dinner, in the oven as I write—Hasselback kielbasa with oven roasted carrots, potatoes, and onion. The vegetables were tossed in olive oil, salt, pepper, and dried thyme, the kielbasa basted in a mustard/honey combo. It smells heavenly. The recipe called for fennel, but I’ve never cooked with it, always put off by my notion that it tastes like licorice. Maybe I’ll have to try.

Kielbasa dinner plate

 

 

Growing older day by day

Birthday orchid from Jordan and Christian
chosen for the pale yellow walls in the cottage.

If you extend your birthday beyond the actual date, does that accelerate the rate of aging? I certainly hope not, because that’s what I seem to be doing. My actual birthday on Friday was low key—I worked, as did everyone in the family. But Jordan insisted on dinner in the house at the dining table, with roses, good china, and all that. The menu, at my choice, was hamburgers and salad. Christian grills the world’s best hamburgers, and Jordan makes a killer blue cheese salad. For dessert, good moist chocolate brownies.

Yesterday was again a workday, but son Jamie and Eden arrived from Frisco about five o’clock. Eden is the youngest of Jame’s two girls, a rising sophomore at UCLA, brilliant and beautiful—very California looking with long bare legs and a bare midriff. She’s a sweet softie an has always had a special place in my heart. This was my chance to see her before she goes back to school next weekend.

We intended to go out to dinner, though I had mentioned a little hesitation because of rampant covid—I have so many friends with it, all of them vaccinated and boosted. Jamie reluctantly agreed to a patio, but I doubt many restaurants are opening their patios these days with the heat. Long story short, without advance reservations, we couldn’t find an open table. Jamie was amazed at the change in his hometown where it used to be you could drop in anywhere and get a table. Times are a-changing in Cowtown bigtime.

We ended ordering take-out from Bonnell’s, so all three of us piled in the car for the drive, with Eden at the wheel (it was her car). Since she doesn’t know the city at all we have to navigate for her, but it was fun. Honestly, I feel like a recluse, but I so seldom leave the cottage that I was amazed at all the changes I saw. Like a little kid, I’d say, “That’s new!” and “That wasn’t there,” and “Look at that!” Much of what I saw was new residential, some of it so very good, and some not so good. Why are they building so many white houses these days?

Jordan was at an office retreat, and Christian had gone to pick up Jacob in Plano, so we had tons of food—Jamie’s eyes have always been bigger than his stomach, since he was a little kid. Christian and Jacob came home about eight, and we all had a laughing visit.

Tonight, Subie and Phil came for happy hour before they take off for month in their cabin in the Pecos Mountains, where it’s cool and raining. I’m happy for them, and I now Phil is always at his most easy happiness in those mountains where he spent part of his growing-up years. But we will miss them. We fixed pickle snacks which are suddenly all over the internet, but we didn’t get them crispy. Just grated cheese in a mini muffin cup, a pickle slice, and a bit more cheese. I think the problem was that it called for a non-stick pan and, thinking the one Jordan brought me was not that, I sprayer it with Pam. After I washed it tonight, I think it is indeed non-stick.

At the last minute, Jordan and Christian had to make an emergency run to the airport so we tabled the chop suey Jordan was going to help me make. I will do the prep and Christian will cook it tomorrow. Meantime I fixed myself a supper that would not fly with my family, but it was so good I ate every bite. Artisan toast with garlic, butter, tomato slices, sardines, and onion slices, drizzled with olive oil and lemon.

My sardine supper.
Honest if you look closely, there are sardines under all those sweet onions.

But wait! My birthday isn’t over! That aging process goes on—next weekend, most of the family will gather, and I’m excited as always to have all my chickens in one coop (bad metaphor I think, but I will be glad to have them all at home). We’ve been hashing out menus and so on, but I believe it will be the dinner I used to request as a child for my summer birthday: sliced cold turkey (some among us will have to heat theirs, but I love cold meat), potato salad, and marinated vegetables. And chocolate mousse cake.

Meanwhile, tomorrow is back to work. I am plowing through Helen Corbitt entries on the Portal to Texas History—a wonderful resource, but Helen has 134 pages of entries. Good friend Carol, an archivist, is teaching me streamlined ways to winnow them down. I learn so much about computers with every project. This one seems particularly tough—tell me it’s not my aging brain!

Have a happy week, everyone.

Birthdy flowers for my desk.

The house birthday party

 

Lovely house party tonight with about forty guests. They fell into two basic categories—friends Jordan grew up with who have wholeheartedly made Christian part of their circle, and the old folks—my friends. The mingling was great, and as one guest said to me, “The energy of this group is really wonderful.” It was fun, for me, to visit with people I’ve know forty or fifty years—and one guy I probably hadn’t seen in twenty-five (a longtime friend brought him)—but also to visit with friends who’ve become part of my close circle in the last few years. And to watch the interaction of kids—okay, they’re not kids any more but that’s how I think of them, because most go back to their high school days. They may not want to think this, but they are now all middle-aged (shhh! Don’t tell Jordan). Several of them—including one of my sons, two sons-in-law, and the boy I always call my extra child—turn fifty this year. The one thing all those here tonight have in common is memories of good times at this house.

Jordan and Julia
accidentally wore the same dresses

Christian gave a lovely toast to the house, stressing how it had sheltered me in the main house and now in the cottage. He talked about how the cottage has sheltered others, including my sons, one of whom was here tonight, and a couple of newly divorced women—one of them was here too, in fact the one who gave my current home the name, “The Cottage.” Then he said he thought he came late to porch parties, but he was so glad he was part of them. Everyone raised a toast—a lovely moment.

One girl brought up the engagement party that Christian arranged when he proposed to Jordan—perhaps the porch party to outdo all others. He arranged for Jordan to be shopping in Dallas and spent the day cooking a huge pot of meatballs, writing notes so she had to go on a hunt, and finally enticing her out to the then-empty cottage. She crossed a path strewn with rose petals only to find him waiting in a tux. He got down on his knee and formally proposed. What neither of them knew was the Jordan’s siblings were hidden in the house—and bunches of her friends were at a house down the street, just waiting to come. We had sixty people—including a lot of kids—and we ended sitting on the lawn and singing old familiar songs. Yes, this house holds good memories.

I had two of my four tonight
Jordan and Jamie

I spent the evening on the patio, and at one point looked up to see Melanie, my Frisco daughter-in-law come out the door. Such great joy! She and Jamie are busy professionals, and I hadn’t dared hope they would come.

So tonight I am filled with gratitude for all the blessings of my life. One neighbor said I was “Queen Juju” holding court. It wasn’t like that, but I did stay on the patio and guests came to greet me—even mobility problems have their good sides. But to think that as I age, I am so surrounded by people that I love and who I love in return—such a blessing. I hope I can be worthy of all the attention I get.

All the credit for tonight's party goes to Jordan. People raved about how great the house looked, how wonderful the food. And it was all Jordan's planning and doing. I like to think she learned from her mother.

PS: Sophie had a grand time going from one to the other for love. Many of those here tonight were people she, like me, knows and adores. She is now tapped out in her favorite spot, tired but happy. I’ll follow her soon.

Bad days and good days

 

We all have them—ups and downs—but this week was particularly chaotic for me. Early in the week, I bumbled along writing my neighborhood newsletter which came out this month to a whopping thirty-two pages. Not sure if that’s a good thing or not, but I was pleased with a lot of the content.

But then Wednesday was an unsettling day. Tuesday night when neighbors Mary and Pru came for happy hour, we sat on the patio, and my Sophie joined us. Nothing she likes better than company on the patio. But that evening, it was clear that she was having stomach issues—I shall not get more specific. But she woke me to go out several times during the night, and I am one who values sleep. By three a.m. she quieted and slept until we both got up close to nine. Still, I dragged all day.

And I was barely up when Christian came to tell me Brandon, my Austin son-in-law, had spent the night in the ER. That was all Jordan, also in Austin, told him in the middle of the night. So we were left to wonder much of the day. Gradually we learned that he had checked out one of Austin’s city electric scooters and fallen, broke his jaw. By that night, we knew that he had surgery and, a biggie in my mind, did not have to have his jaw wired shut. Now, he’s recuperating, sleeping a lot, taking his meds, the swelling is going down. But Wednesday was his fiftieth birthday--bummer. The “epic” party scheduled for this weekend has been postponed.

Today has been a much better day. Because I’m a foodie at heart, grocery shopping, while a chore to many, is a delight to me. I love to wander the aisles of Central Market (for non-Texas folks, it’s an upscale market with a wide selection, but I especially appreciate the freshness of the vegetables, meat, and seafood). Jordan doesn’t like to go there, because parking is difficult, and she is so busy it’s easier for her to just shop without me. We order curbside pickup from Central Market about once a week.

But today, neighbor Mary took me. I drove through the store in one of their motorized carts and only had one near miss—a trash can latched on to my cart and wanted to go with me. Honest, it was a great delight for me. I bought groceries for the family, but a few treats for me, like smoked salmon. Plus Mary and I had fun together—she was great about reaching items off the shelf for me, returning the cart from the car, etc. We hope to do that again. And yes, I had a long list and spent a lot of money. The last thing Mary’s husband said to us was something like, “Try to make considered decisions.”

This evening Jean came for supper—she had been on a museum outing to Mineral Wells where they visited various sites, tasted some mineral waters, learned some history, and had a good time. She came straight here, and we relaxed. Dinner was good—fresh beets with greens, cod, and half an artichoke each. Beets take a long time to cook and then I waited for the pan to cool so I could roast the fish in it. So we had a good long time to visit and catch up. A lovely, pleasant evening.

This has not been a good week for writing, and I intend to focus on my work-in-progress this weekend. But a friend in a writing group talked about “brain writing,” when you’re not actively working on a project, but your brain is always busy with it. That’s what I’ve been doing.

I’m happy to report Sophie is feeling much better and was unbelievably demanding for attention tonight. The vet sent home some prescription canned dog food. That dog has never had wet food in her life, and now she’s ruined—I am afraid she’ll never settle for kibble again. She loves the wet food, and I can easily hide medicine in it and she never knows.

So here we go, sailing into the weekend. Jordan is to be home Sunday, so maybe Monday we can get back to normal. Meantime I have much enjoyed having the attention of two men—one almost fifty and one almost sixteen. There’s a silver lining to every cloud (wasn’t that a WWI song? I remember my mom was offended when I as a youngster suggested it was a Civil War song). Anyway, it’s a good thought, so make it yours for tonight. It sort of describes my week.

Counting my blessings on Easter Sunday

 

Jacob and Eva today

For complicated reasons, I did not go to church this morning but watched online. The rest of the family went to the nine o’clock service and sat in the very front row with two couples who are their good friends and to whom I feel close. And one couple had their daughter, Eva, with them. Jacob and Eva have known each other all their lives—born two months apart—but
rarely see each other these days. For several years, we had an Easter tradition of brunch at the house following the nine o’clock service (a couple of years it was the sunrise service!). Covid called a two-year halt to that, so it was fun to see the two of them together again. And to

Jacob and Eva
2014

be with the adults.

Some year in between

I admit I got a little teary, the good kind of tears, seeing them all sitting in the front row. The Burtons have not been back to church in person since pandemic, so it was an occasion. They had worried about getting seats—the Easter services are always overflowing—so I laughed that they were in the front row. Hope our minister friend noticed. Even online, the service was lovely, the sermon good (“the worst is never the last” which sounds like a more intellectual way of saying what a physical therapist said to me not too long ago: “God’s got you!”).

The music was glorious (and would have been more so had I been sitting in church in person). The melody and words to so many old hymns are firmly fixed in my mind from childhood. I was never much of a singer (neither my dad nor I could carry a tune, but we sang heartily, making up for melody with volume) and now, with age, my singing voice is weak. But watching at home, I could sing along—and I did. They sang “Jesus Christ is Risen, Alleluia!” and another familiar one—my mind just went blank—and then the Hallelujah Chorus. I did not sing along with that but I was much impressed by a soprano in the choir who closed her music and sang from memory. She had a strong voice and pretty much carried those extremely high parts.

Everybody adjourned for brunch—a noisy, happy affair with several conversations going at once, but lots of fun. It was potluck and very good, though we repeated some of the dishes at a traditional mid-day dinner with Christian’s family. Different folks, but still lots of laughter.

There was some picture taking, and it provided, for me, the only sour note. Five or so years ago we had taken a picture of me with the girls who went to church this morning, so nothing would do but we duplicate it. Then there was a picture of me with the guys (including Jacob) and finally, one of me with one of the guys which again duplicated one from several years ago. I had taken care with my hair, fresh and clean, and I had on my new sunflower shirt (a tribute to Ukraine), so I smiled my way through the pictures. I have to say, defensively, I have never been photogenic: my grandfather used to tell my mom the only place he would hang her picture was in the barn because she took such a poor picture (parenting has changed, thank goodness). I think I inherited that mindset from my mom. For several years Bobbi Simms was half mother/half friend to me. She also as the kids said, “Told it like it is,” and she used to worry about why I never look as good in a picture as in real life.

Today’s pictures were pretty bad. I look like a pale but puffy old lady with wispy thin hair. Not at all how I feel or think of myself. I will only share one, but you’ll see the contrast between me and those vital women in the forties. Two resolves: I’m going to put on make-up more often, and I emailing my haircut person tonight.

I hope, if you celebrate, that your Easter was as full of blessings as mine. Remember, the worst is not the last. The ending is up to God.

Highlights from a stand-out day

 

Yesterday was a stand-out day because of two things. First was that friends Subie and Phil Green took me with them to get second booster shots at Tom Thumb grocery. What I dreaded turned out to be a pleasant experience. I woke in the night before worrying about it and couldn’t figure out why—in recent years I have been poked with more needles than I can even begin to count. I am not afraid of shots, so why was my antenna aquiver. When we got to the grocery, I realized it was a very long walk from the handicapped parking to the pharmacy. Told Subie I’d really like to drive one of the store’s motorized carts if I could figure out what to do with the walker. After she skeptically asked, “You know how to drive one of those things?” she volunteered to push the empty walker. So we paraded through the store—Subie with the walker, Phil led by his seeing-eye dog, and me bringing up the rear in my grocery cart. Don’t get Indy 500 ideas—they don’t go very fast at all

We got our shots after a wait that wasn’t too long. Today Phil has no after-effects, Subie has a sore arm, and my arm is tender to the touch but nothing more.

What I learned from this incident is that when I am anxious about leaving my secure little cottage, it’s anxiety about negotiating unknown territory. The walk from car to pharmacy would have taken me forever and left me breathless and exhausted. The motorized grocery cart made all the difference. In the spirit of recognizing that and planning ahead to take care of myself (yeah, that’s a hard lesson to learn), I have requested that we take the transport chair to church Sunday. It will be my first Sunday in physical church in two years, and I am mightily looking forward to it—but only because I won’t have to negotiate the walk from car to pew amid an Easter crowd. Thanks to Jordan.

The other thing that happened is that my longtime good friend in publishing, Fran Vick, sent me a picture of her with the only cat I’ve ever loved—Winona Juddley, so named by my son Jamie. I am a dog person who has never loved cats, exceopt this one who wormed his way into my heart. Jamie found him abandoned as a young kitten on a country road in Minnesota (please do not ask what Jame was doing in Minnesota) and brought him home. Wywy had an identity problem—born male, he identified as female. Or we identified him as female. For a year I kept telling Jamie not to let her out because she’d get pregnant. When Jamie finally had the money to take her to the vet, that good doctor said, “I can tell you why this cat isn’t pregnant.” When Jamie moved on with life, Wywy stayed with me—a beautiful, large, fluffy animal (part Maine Coon we think), and I adored him. I never knew until Wywy that cats could have such sweet dispositions.

This particular night, Fran had come from Dallas to support me at a program where I was being interviewed. Rather than drive to Dallas late, she spent the night. About one o’clock a stray cat came to our glass front door to taunt Wywy, who howled pitifully. So I picked him up—bad mistake. In his rage, he bit me (I am quite sure he ddn’t realize it was me), and when I lifted my arm, the cat came with it. Blood everywhere, and when I woke Fran she helpfully said, “Judy, that’s deep.”

We were in the ER until three or four, getting antibiotics and whatever. For Fran that ended that night. For me, it went on for days as I had to return to the ER for an antibiotic infusion—my hand was red and huge with infection. But it didn’t diminish my love for Wywy, though I swore if it happened again, I’d get a broom.

I had Wywy until probably 2015. When it was clear he was miserable, almost unable to breathe, Jamie came from Dallas to hold him while the vet put him to sleep. (I’m getting teary writing this). And then Jamie cradled him in his arms taking him out to the vet’s truck (it was a house call). I miss that cat to this day, and now I miss Fran because we’re older and our lives have gone separate paths.

She was director of UNT Press when I was at TCU Press, and along with Gayla Christiansen of Texas A&M Press, we called ourselves the three ladies of university publishing. We had lots of good times, plenty of sleepovers fueled by wine and good food, and now have wonderful memories.

The cat night is not one of our best memories. But both Fran and Wywy are memories I cherish.