Of gardens and change and aging

 

A corner of my yard two years ago

Microsoft or whatever genie lives inside my computer decided today to show me pictures of the garden two years ago when it was lush and green. It was particularly inappropriate today because John, the lawn guy, came this morning to walk the yard, talk about what was hopeless, what might come back, what to do through the winter. The new rosemary is toast, the honeysuckle needs to be cut way back and should be pulled—you know it was hot if it killed honeysuckle. The lantana might make it. And so it goes. Of course, in this uncertain world, the weather is one of the most uncertain—he said if we have an early killer frost, as we did last year, it will be a double whammy some plants might not survive. But our new grass is strong and good—a bright spot.

This focus on change came on a day when I read two blogs about aging and change. The first, “More Than a Shoe Part” by John Clark on the Maine Crime Writers blog, talked about “lasts.” When was the last time you did something that you know you will never do again in your lifetime—rode a rollercoaster, went fishing on slippery rocks, climbed a mountain or hiked ten miles. He had a friend who went hunting and had to use his rifle as a cane to get home—you know that was a last.

Susan Witting Albert, writing Senior Chronicle #2 in her Place and Thyme column on Substack, also talked of the things she no longer does, though she suggested that we now have more power with the things we do. On her list of lasts were a brisk two-mile hike every morning, foreign travel, driving around the country on book tours, intense gardening. But Susan points out that technology now enables us to do much of that virtually—an author may not tour bookstores but through social media can stay in touch with readers, we may not travel but we can visit far-off lands virtually (I love videos about Scotland). We need not be confined by age; it’s simply different.

On my list of lasts, things I know I won’t do again are another trip to Scotland, probably another trip home to Chicago where I grew up (my urge to go these places is overridden by my dislike of flying these days). Sitting on a dune in the Indiana Dunes watching the sun set over Chicago and Lake Michigan. Giving a big old party for sixty of my nearest and dearest. Briskly walking my neighborhood and studying the ever-present changes—a walker makes that difficult. Driving a car, though I must say I don’t miss that so much. I adore my little VW convertible Bug, but I don’t want to drive her again.

But there are so many things I do daily that bring me joy—keeping in touch with children and grands, reading and writing, visiting with friends, cooking for my family, studying recipes, keeping up with the news and voicing my opinion. My days are full and happy and, I’ve said this a hundred times before, what I can no longer do is balanced by my wonderful memories of doing so much of it.

Some of you reading this are too young to think about lasts, but I know others my age or close to it read my blog. So what’s on your list of lasts and how do you feel about that? I used to think ahead to retirement and worry about what I would do all day, how I would feel about the things that slipped away from my life. What I’ve found is that’s not a problem at all—it’s lovely to look back at the memories, but it’s also lovely to be in the present, to enjoy the now.

How does your garden grow?

 

My herb garden at a funny angle

In the spring at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.—Margaret Atwood

 

My dad was a hobby gardener. Weekdays, he was an osteopathic physician, president of the Chicago College of Osteopathic Medicine, and administrator of the associated hospital. But weekends found him in grubby clothes on his knees in the garden. Mom always worried that students would come by and find him in those dirty, torn clothes with the ridiculous knee pads, but he didn’t care. When he bought the house in Chicago (1937, I think) he also bought the vacant lot next door, and it became his garden—a vast expanse, to my childish eyes, of green grass and flower beds, with a tiny, struggling vegetable garden.

I did not inherit that gene, though I envy those who find renewal digging in the earth. A friend recently wrote that he would not be grounded if he did not have his hands literally in dirt every day. Oh, I’ve gardened over the years, mostly pot plants. I used to have a flourishing short-lived lettuce bed in a long planter on the front porch, and I nursed the same pot of chives for years until snowmageddon did it in. But a dedicated gardener I am not. I love having beautiful flower beds, but I want someone else to do the work, especially now that I am somewhat mobility challenged.

We have a division of gardening labor at the Alter/Burton compound. Christian is an avid pot gardener (he is also an amazing cook—how lucky are we?). By early summer, he has the front porch alive with all kind of blooming plants, clustered everywhere. He also takes responsibility for the front yard where, this year, we have had a great loss. For almost thirty years, I had two huge rosemary bushes on either side of the steps to the porch. Age, plus snowmageddon plus a hard freeze early this past winter did them in, and they are no more. Christian says it looks pretty bare. I want to replace them, but not with small five-gallon plants. As I explained to him this morning, at my age I’m not enthusiastic about something that will look great in ten years. That’s not pessimism, just reality. Big rosemary bushes, however, are expensive, so I am thinking.

Meanwhile, Jordan and I have responsibility for the back yard, although Christian puts blooming plants on the deck. Every year we hold our breath to see if the bougainvillea will be as magnificent as the last year. This spring, he has successfully grown a pot of yellow Gerber daisies—I never could get them to grow for me.

The back yard is the scene I look out on every day from my desk, the patio where I entertain, the view from my cottage. Last week, I went to TJ’s Greenery, a backyard nursery in Haltom City and got lovely plants, still small but strong, and plenty of herbs for my moveable herb garden. Jordan has now planted them, but we still have a list of things to get—sweet potato vine to put around the basil, fountain grass for the big planters, a couple of planters that didn’t make my first list.

But for the heavy stuff for both yards, I have for several years now used a landscaping company owned by a local “boy.” Okay, John Filarowicz is probably not ten years younger than my youngest child, but he grew up in the neighborhood, as did his wife, and he will probably always be a boy to many of us. He has, however, a horticulture degree from Texas A&M and a thriving business, with at least two crews. He will take care of things like replacing the lantana that died by the front sidewalk (I didn’t know you could kill the stuff, but we’ve had two awful winters and an extreme drought in between). He will replace the back yard grass--we try something new every year, none of it works well, and we’ll go back to Bermuda this year. And John and his crew have put in a small native plant garden for me, which I find exciting.

For the past few years we’ve had pentas in a bed in front of the deck, but last year they were

Pitiful pentas

pitiful, so bad that John said he felt like an oncologist delivering bad news. So this year I’ve talked to him about filling that space with yellow native plants—coreopsis, gallardia, black-eyed Susan. We have yellow going in the marigolds I bought for pots by my kitchen door and in the new native plant garden. I’m a fan of yellow plants so that idea appeals to me.

Jordan is convinced the marigolds by the kitchen door are too small, and I am having to remind her it’s early April. They will grow and fill out as summer comes on. Then I have to convince myself of the same thing about the new beds.

Even though I don’t garden, I find spring, the season of new growth, incredibly exciting. How about you? How does your garden grow/

Gardening and cooking

 

    

Picking seed pods off the
hyacinth bean vine.
Wish the blooms showed better.
Note the newly planted herb garden.

Used to be, when I was a kid, that gardening and cooking were womanly chores (except that my dad was a fantastic hobby gardener). In general, though, those were things that kept the little woman busy. Today, that attitude has done a complete turnabout, and women, lots of them, write and blog and talk about the sense of renewal they get from gardening and cooking. I’m probably guilty on the cooking part of that equation. But the gardening? Not so much.

As I hinted above, I grew up with a lush, beautiful garden. My dad bought the empty lot next to our Chicago house (a small feat in itself) and turned it into a garden. Every weekend found him, a college president and a physician, in the rattiest clothes you can imagine, on his hands and knees digging in the dirt. He wore those embarrassingly ugly knee pads that hitched his pants up to an unbecoming angle. Mom was always embarrassed if students came by and saw him that way, but it didn’t bother him. I thought every family had a dad that created a beautiful garden.

Grown and married, I found that wasn’t true. I also found that I love looking at the finished product, but I don’t get that spiritual energy, that sense of renewal, that whatever from gardening. I want someone else to do it, and I’ll enjoy it. But today I did the one bit of gardening I enjoy—planting herbs. My herb garden had cratered during the summer heat, except for a few stubborn onions. When I tried to pull them today, the bulbs refused to come out of the dirt, so I expect they’ll sprout again and eventually have to be dug out. But I planted the herbs Mary and I bought Saturday. If they only last a month or so until a frost wipes them out, that’s okay. I was really tired of looking at that bare earth in the wooden garden container. And just for good measure, Jordan and I picked a lot of seed pods off the driveway side of the hyacinth bean vine. It has been blooming profusely, but now its leaves are turning yellow. Tis the season, I guess.

The cooking part does renew me, as you well know if you read this blog often. Tonight I did pork chops and zucchini/feta salad, a recipe I found I don’t know where but thought sounded good. Christian does not eat zucchini or any squash, but I cooked this in chunks, not slices, until just lightly browned and crisp-tender. When he walked in, Jordan asked if he wanted zucchini, and he said “No, thank you.” I considered kicking her. I didn’t mean for her to ask but simply to serve it to him. I asked him to taste, and he said it was not one of his favorites, but this was the best he’d had. Of course it was—seasoned with oregano, lemon, garlic, shallot, salt and pepper. What could go wrong? The pork chops I ordered turned out to be thin cutlets, but I seasoned them with salt and pepper and lemon zest and quick-seared them. They were tasty and, best of all, not tough as pork chops can be. For an experiment, I thought it was a good meal. Didn’t ask Jacob, but we did discuss tonight what meals he likes, and I have a list.

Spent too much time with corporate America today, this time ADT protection systems. Since I haven’t found my keys (and yes, I called the two places we went one more time today), I’ve lost my key fob that operates the house locks, and I need a new one. Did the “chat” function, but when I keyed in my address, the gentleman told me it was not in their system. Neither was the account number. He kept asking for “the correct address” as though I was deliberately giving him a fake, which makes no sense. I was beginning to lose my cool—all this took half an hour, and it was lunchtime, and I was hungry. Finally he asked if I am a Protection One customer, and I said yes (ADT bought up Protection One several years ago, and when you google Protection One you get ADT). Then he told me they have a separate service number. That should have been the first question he asked me. I was too worn out with it then to call the new number, so it’s on my list for tomorrow.

So is my covid booster shot.

And we’re off into a new week. I hope it’s a good one for everyone.

 

This Old House

 

Scooby with baby Sophie

Saturday night when Jamie was here, we talked about curbside ordering from Central Market, and Jordan remarked that I had ordered cube steaks for the four of us and got eight steaks, which prompted a bit of nostalgia on Jame’s part. He remembered he liked the way I used to do them in steak fingers, floured and fried, and then douse them with lemon. So that’s what we had tonight, along with another old favorite: wilted lettuce.

My lettuce crop was a failure. Jordan and Christian think we waited too long to harvest; I think seeds were planted too close together and needed thinning some time ago. What we really needed was a much bigger place to plant, but my portable herb garden was full of green onions—still is, and I suppose we need to eat them. Last time I tried, yhey were still too tiny. There is, I’ve decided, a perfect time to harvest vegetables, too early or too late spell unsatisfactory, if not disaster. This frustrates me because when I lived in the house and was not hampered by mobility problems, I used to have good harvests every spring.

The salad tonight was good, made with store-bought leaf lettuce, which is a whole different thing from home grown. But it was better than nothing, and I was grateful for the variety in our salad menu. Want to do it? Fry some bacon, remove from pan. Pour some vinegar into the grease (remember: 2/3 oil to 1/3 acid) and pour over cut greens in salad bowl. Crumble bacon on top. Makes me think of my mom.

Jordan found out today that the new back door for the house is in and will be installed Saturday. This may not seem like a big deal, but it is. The door has suffered from dog abuse. I think my Aussie, Scooby, was the first to paw at it to get in. Poor Scoob had been an abused backyard dog, turned out with several other dogs, food thrown at them, given no human companionship. He was confiscated, I guess by the Humane Society, and was three years old when I got him. He never got over some skittish traits, like flinching in you reached for his collar. But he was maybe the sweetest dog I’ve ever owned (Shh! Don’t tell Sophie, who is a bit more wrapped up in her own concerns!). Scoob spent his days lying by my desk (you can see where he wore the finish off the wood floor in the main house at the spot where my desk used to be). He spent his evenings sleeping right by my bedside—on the side of the bed where I slept. I absolutely adored him—he was beautiful besides—and grieved when he left us. I still miss him.

Back to the back door. When the man who helps us around the house comes to install it, he will also install the new flexible screen door on my French doors. The screens get a hard beating from dogs and people going in and out. Today they have huge rips, only partially covered by repair tape, and I notice fruit flies and even some bigger flies, so I am anxious to have the new screen up. I figure it has a life span of about a year, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay for being able to have the door open most of the year and for Sophie to come and go. I’m not so happy about June Bug, the Burton dog who is not sure of her house manners—oh, heck, she doesn’t care.

This year, 2022, marks the hundredth anniversary of our house, and Jordan is anxious to get it in shape so we can celebrate. I bought this house in 1992 (I think), lived in it until 2017 when I moved to the cottage, and Jordan, Christian, and Jacob moved into the house. It’s the longest I’ve ever lived in a house, even the one of my childhood.

The best picture of the house that is not
in a blizzard or Halloween.
Two years ago, for Jacob's birthday

Once a visiting author and her husband came to lunch. When I remarked that the house was built in 1922, she asked, “Have you lived in it ever since?” Before I could gather my wits to reply, her husband said, “She’s an author. She’s not good at math.”

Sweet dreams, y’all.

Another family day

 

Jacob and his mom

Totally out of my routine today—no church, no work, no cooking. Usually, the weekend finds me deep in a new recipe to try for an unsuspecting guest. Not so today, and, truly, it was nice to take a break.

After a leisurely cup of tea and a scroll through emails, my daughters both came out with coffee cups. We visited for a while, they picked out “go to brunch” clothes for me (sure way to forestall wardrobe criticisms), and we finished planting herbs in the raised garden—mostly

Gardening with Megan

I shook them out of their little containers, and Megan dug the holes for them But it looked pretty good when we were through. Jordan supervised. She will get the chore of keeping them watered.

Poor Meg. When she’s here, she’s kind of torn between being in the house with her sister or in the cottage with me, but she does an admirable job of balancing, so I had her company for much of the morning. But by noon we were dressed and ready to go to brunch. Jacob even went with us, which was a treat. We went to Pacific Table, sat in that way-back, hidden table they have.

Christian, who is careful about what he eats, finally confessed that he had tried an artichoke and liked it, after years of scorning them. So nothing would do but we had the charred artichokes! So good but so greasy and messy to eat. At one point, Christian seemed puzzled about what to do about the heart, so Jordan reached over to cut it for him. I couldn’t resist taking a picture. I’m in a rut at Pacific Table and had the Caesar again, though this time with scallops instead of oysters. Megan and Jordan had sea bass, and Jacob had sushi and French fries—an odd combination to me. Christian stuck to his hamburger.

Christian's artichoke

After brunch/lunch we split—the girls to Trader Joe’s and who know where else, Jacob and Christian to shop for jeans for Jacob, and me to spend some computer time and then nap.

But today was a big deal (shh! Don’t say I put it that way) in the Burton family. Jacob had been invited to a Canwick dance by a girl he went through grade school with—Canwick is a girls’ dance/social club. I don’t remember as much about it as I do Cotillion, which I think my kids attended. Anyway, since this was a girl-invite-boy affair I asked if it was Daisy Mae and Jacob said blankly, “I don’t know what that is.” Of course, I got Lil Abner mixed up—I meant a Sadie Hawkins dance. Jacob still wouldn’t have known. Anyway, it was apparently as big a deal in other households as well because an army of boys and girls gathered on the lawn of Colonial Country Club for a photo shoot. Of course, Jordan, Christian, and Megan had to be there to watch and take photos. Then the kids were off to dinner and the dance.

Jacob and his buddies
ready to dance
my, how times have changed

The weary adults in my family went to get take-out at Joe T.’s and brought it home. By the time they got here—after 7:00 p.m.—everyone was tired. We sort of sat around looking at each other, until I was reminded of that old joke, “Must be twenty minutes after.” (Did I just give my age away?)

Now it’s nine, and they’ve all gone to bed, except Jordan who will sit up and wait for Jacob to come home. The first, I’m sure, of many such nights. I remember them well. I laughed to myself because tonight it seemed such a big deal that the boy-child had a date with a  girl, but in a year it will be routine. And gradually he’ll be out later, and eventually Jordan will stop waiting up, though if she’s like me, she'll never sleep soundly until he comes in.

And so another week begins, for me a busy one with something planned every evening. All good stuff. And work to do during the day. Life is good. I hope for you too.

A wrap on the birthday—with heartfelt thanks

 

Celebrating my birthday with Jacob

I want to cast a wide net with my thanks for birthday wishes, because I was flattered, pleased, delighted to hear from so many folks—childhood friends, professional friends and acquaintances, neighbors from the past and present, people I barely know and people I know well (I think). Lots of Facebook friends, which reinforces my belief that for all its algorithms and idiosyncrasies, it’s a good place to be.

Perhaps the most memorable comment came from a Texas author of some repute, who posted, “She wrote me the kindest rejection letter I ever received. I’ve never forgotten it.” It’s nice to know as you grow old that you have made friends and maybe even shown some kindnesses to people along the way

And I talked to all my distant children and had birthday texts from three of the distant grands. Can’t beat that.

It was also a memorable day, as I told Jordan last night, from quiche for breakfast and tuna for lunch to really good fried chicken for dinner. Last night, longtime friends took me and another friend to dinner—Carol, whose birthday comes just a few days before mine, chose the place, with my ready agreement. It’s a restaurant we both like for its authentic, old-fashioned fried chicken—the kind with skin on and bone in (as opposed to that imposter, chicken fried chicken). It comes with seasoned mashed potatoes and green beans cooked the southern way—mushy, as they should be with  fried chicken.

Four friends and birthday celebrants

We four have a long birthday tradition, but of course last year we missed all our birthdays and our non-celebratory dinners, so it was lovely to get together and catch up. We have similar but not identical interests and many years of common friends and activities.

After dinner, Jordan had a cake party, with my favorite chocolate mousse cake from Central Market. Neighbors came over, bringing gorgeous flowers, and we laughed and joked a lot—rehashing Christian’s early career as a child star on TV, opening gifts, and posing for photos—a must in the Burton household.

Highlight of the evening—Jordan and her sister and their families went together to get me the garden cart I’d been wanting. It will allow me to stand while I weed or water or whatever. Made of wood, it’s on wheels, so we can keep it in the driveway which gets full sun on this shady property. and yet move it as needed to accommodate cars and golf practice. It comes unassembled and apparently Jordan and Christian took it was far as they could and are now waiting for tomorrow’s appearance of the handyman. When complete, it is lined, has drainage holes. It now holds two basil plants and two thyme. I’m ready to be in business. Must add chives, but I’m looking forward to a fall crop of green onions and leaf lettuce.

My herb garden to be

I went to bed tired and happy and had fried chicken and chocolate cake for lunch today. It was back to work and routine today—one friend told me not to suffer letdown, but I didn’t. Too many good memories. Took me most of the morning to proof that fat newsletter, and I’m not sure what else I did

But tonight, Jordan put on an amazing spread for a neighbor across the street and her son—dips and cheeses and sausage and veggies. No need for supper.

And here's the immediate, local family who makes all this possible, with grace and smiles and love.

Old friends, good times

I love these ladies! We have been friends for at least forty years, probably more. Three of us are the divorced ex-wives of osteopathic physicians. In one of life’s little ironies, two of those men are deceased, while we party merrily on. The fourth woman is the widow of a physician all of us loved. We have gone our separate ways, sometimes for long periods of time, but then one or two at a time, we come back together again. For the last year or two all four of us have come together for dinner every couple of months. When one of them thanked me for once again organizing a get-together, I repeated what I often say: Friendships are like gardens. You have to tend to them and cultivate them.

We caught up on children and grandchildren. We rejoiced with one who has just had a major surgery and reassured another who faces surgery soon—signs of aging, I guess. We oohed and aahed over one whose son was moving back close to her and lamented other children far away. We talked of people we knew and missed. When one name came up of someone who’d dropped from our radar due to personal and health problems, someone said, “She should know that we still care about her.” Most names brought us happy memories, though there were a few snarky comments about some of the people in our shared past. All in all it was a joyful, happy evening.

We met at Ellerbe’s, where the service and the food are both fine. When they started to seat us on their second level, I suggested as politely as I could that their ramp was a bit steep for my walker. It took a little fiddling, but they found us a table downstairs. Our waiter was charming, took this picture of us, and let us linger over three courses of dinner—I never ever eat an appetizer, an entrée, and a dessert, but I did tonight. Actually I had two appetizers—one when others had their salad and one as an entrée. And  brownie as dessert. Result is that I am almost uncomfortable tonight—too rich, too good. One of those lovely evenings that leaves me happy with my life.

Speaking of tending friendships like gardens, there was gardening going on at our place this morning. Our neighbor had a mountain of mulch dumped in his driveway. After he had, as he said, mulched everything on his property twice, he asked what we wanted. The picture below is the best I

could do through my office window of the neighbor and Jordan mulching the bed under my window, under Jacob’s supervision (sorry about the green lamp in the foreground). Jacob did work harder at other times—I saw him spreading mulch and shoveling it into the wheelbarrow. That stuff smells so good—like the best parts of a barnyard. Far as I can tell, there’s still a mountain of mulch in the driveway next door—and the wife’s car is in the back yard, hemmed in by the mulch. Which I guess is all right because she is staying home with a two-week-old beautiful baby girl.

Menu items that recently struck me: last night on the menu at the Italian place where we dined, chocolate salami was on the menu. And today I saw an ad for kale candy canes—I don’t even like kale in salads, but I love salami. Not chocolate though. Two food adventures I’ll be skipping.

Blessed Sunday ahead, everyone.

One man’s happiness

Father’s Day, and I’m sitting at my desk, worrying about all the dads who wanted to spend their day on the golf course. It’s almost as dark as night, and the thunder and rain have been constant all afternoon. When I napped, I had an anxious dog snuggled up next to me.

We went to early church—no wonder I’m sleepy—and afterwards had a delightful brunch, apparently Christian’s favorite meal. Now they have gone to Coppell to see his parents and pick up Jacob who spent the weekend there.

The internet is full of memories of fathers today, and most of them are being described as fun and crazy. Makes me think about my dad. He was never crazy but one of the most disciplined men I ever met. Fun? Only when you were old enough to appreciate his droll humor. Dad was Canadian and very much an Anglophile at heart. He liked order and routine, and Mom gave it to him.

I was his only child (a sister died at six months), though he raised my half-brother. Theirs was not always a meeting of the minds until John was old enough to appreciate Dad’s virtues and approach him as an adult. Dad was, among other things, a stickler for respect and table manners (the British version—I still want to switch my fork from the left, for cutting, to the right for eating—it drove him crazy, as did buttering your bread in the air. And elbows on the table? Never! No hats at the table either—perish the thought.).

But I got to thinking today, as I read about all these joyful fathers, whether or not my father was a happy man, and I concluded he was. Without boasting, I’ll say I know that I made him happy (except for the few major times I disappointed him). He was proud of me, as I was proud of him.

My mom made him happy. She ran what to his mind was the perfect household—meat and potatoes for dinner at six every night, served at a table covered with a white linen tablecloth and linen napkins at every place. Anyone remember napkin rings? And she was a perfect intellectual match for him, being equally as well read. She acceded to his belief that women should not work outside the home, though I think she sometimes longed to. She compensated with volunteer activities.

I think of three happy places for my dad. He, an osteopathic physician, president of an osteopathic college, and administrator of the associated hospital, liked nothing better than to put on old, disreputable clothes and work in his garden. When I was growing up in Chicago, we had a beautiful garden in the empty lot which was part of our property. Dad was equally happy on our annual vacation to the Indiana Dunes, where we had a primitive cottage—no electricity, no indoor plumbing. You had to walk a mile to get to it, carrying your clothes and groceries. But with woods to the back of the cabin and a sweeping view of Lake Michigan to the front, it was a little bit of heaven. Food tasted better, you slept better, and a swim in the lake was the highlight of the day.

Mom and Dad retired to North Carolina, the foothills of the Smokies where they had honeymooned, and Dad once again had a glorious garden. Mom had fresh roses on her dining table every day (the linen cloth had gone the way of all good things). Dad would come in from the garden, shower and put on a fresh shirt, and they’d have a proper British tea, with milk of course, never cream, and always some kind of biscuit.

Today it sounds like an old-fashioned life and maybe even by the sixties and seventies, it was. But looking back, I would say my dad was a happy man. He had professional success, a family he loved, and life that just suited him. Not many of us can say that.

Flowers, food, and happiness

Jordan, Christian, and even Jacob did yard work this past weekend, getting us ready for spring. Jacob would rather have been fishing, thank you very much, but this morning he was elated that he caught (and released) six bass last night. Back to the garden=-they even swept the cobwebs off my house, something I was afraid to try for fear of losing my balance—I had a graphic vision of one hand wielding the broom and the other desperately clutching the walker—and the whole thing dumping over, me included. So thanks to Christian for that chore. And to Jordan for planting all those wonderful things we bought. And to Jacob for emptying my overflowing garbage.

The back yard (my domain) is beginning to look good. Much of the day I sit at my desk, with a big window to my right and French doors dead ahead, so spring beauty is important to me. Christian has put his big bougainvillea out on the deck railing, where I have a clear view of it, and I’m just waiting for it to bloom. I can’t see the hydrangeas in the bed directly under my office window, but I when they bloom I will see them as I come in the driveway. The patio is alive with purple phlox (we’ll replace with plumbago when the phlox dies out), daisies, and bright red geraniums. Patio weather coming up!

I am thoroughly enjoying the NYT Cooking Community page on Facebook. On a lengthy thread the other day, someone posted that they fried polenta in butter and served it with maple syrup for breakfast. I immediately replied that we had that when I was a kid, but my mom called it fried mush. Nothing would do but that I get some polenta, and this morning I had fried mush with maple syrup. So good.

Yesterday was fried chicken day—lunch at Button’s with a friend (they have the best fried chicken in town—hold out for the old-fashioned bone-in, none of this chicken-fried chicken stuff). Ate one piece, with mashed potatoes and green beans, and brought the other piece home. With a salad and fresh raspberries (an indulgence on my part), it made a great meal. Unlike a lot of leftovers, it didn’t lose its flavor.

Then this morning I got hooked on one of those internet sites that gives you the iconic meal for each state. You know what Texas’ is—no, not barbecue, but chicken-fried steak. There were a couple of Polish and Russian dishes that I was surprised to see, but the New Jersey dish is a ham roll sandwich for breakfast—thinly sliced Taylor’s pork roll (It’s pork, not ham) with cheddar cheese and a fried egg. Yum.

I’ve been thinking about happiness and what dour, unhappy people most Republican politicians seem to be. I read that the trump administration is considering tracking the disabled on social media to see if they’re “too happy” and therefore not qualified for disability benefits. How miserable you must be yourself to decide others are too happy. It seems they want to do everything they can to make us unhappy—cutting benefits from food, health, and education, cutting veteran benefits, polluting our world. I pity them for their antagonistic view of life.

As for me, I choose to be happy. How about you?

A big day for Jacob

Today was Jacob’s public confession of faith, along with fourteen others in the Discipleship class at our church. Looking solemn, these kids stood in front of the congregation and assured our senior minister, Russ Peterman, that they believed in Jesus Christ as the Savior. Jacob did well. Although I know he was nervous, he looked composed, and he maintained eye contact with Dr. Peterman. This was a prelude to his baptism, which will take place on April 28.

Of course, we were the last to leave the church. The Burtons took lots of pictures and then explored the balcony to figure out where they could best see the baptism. I will not be sitting in the balcony with them, thank you very much. All those stairs! And I’m not sure I have to see it. Just knowing and being there is enough for me. Unless the minister drops him.

This baptism business sort of snuck up on me. I was baptized as an infant in the Methodist Church; my children were welcomed into the community of faith in the Unitarian Church. We do not come from this dunking tradition, but Christian, raised a Baptist, is invested in it, and has passed the significance along to Jacob. The day of the baptism will be a big deal, with many friends present.

To celebrate today, we went out for Mexican food for lunch. Fun and good. Then Jordan and Christian worked in the back yard putting potted plants in place, putting down mulch. Jacob went fishing, and I took a nap. When I woke up, the back yard looked like spring. Pray for no storms for a bit so that the new plants have a chance to strengthen.

Jordan has gone to a performance at Bass Hall with a neighbor, so I fixed Sloppy Joe for the boys and me. I’ve told the story so often about my Sloppy Joe recipe that I won’t repeat it here. Suffice it to say it’s the only recipe I know that calls for red wine. I wanted to check something and looked it up on an old cookbook file—wrong move. It had an error that has since been corrected—no, the recipe doesn’t need 1-1/3 c. ketchup; only ¼. For a moment I panicked, but in the new cookbook, it’s correct. At Jacob’s request, I cut down on the onion and diced what I did use very fine. As it simmered, it looked dry. Easy solution—sprinkle more red wine and ketchup on it. It was really good.

Busy week coming up, and I’m glad. Hope you all have a good week.

Twas the Night before Easter...or the second night of Passover

The night before Easter at my house is sort of like Christmas Eve. Shhh, don't tell Jacob but the Easter Bunny visited just after he left following supper. The house is decorated, and now the problem is to make sure Sophie doesn't think the eggs are for her. The table is set for breakfast, and Christian brought a potato casserole--so rich with sour cream and butter and cheese that I will only allow myself one bite. Everything is laid out and ready, and Jordan left me with great warnings to go to bed early because we're going to sunrise service at 6:45.
She and I were enjoying an after-dinner glass of wine when I startled and said I thought I saw a bolt of lightning. And then we both heard it--thunder. She was out the door and headed home in a flash. I wish our much-needed rain would come Monday instead of Sunday, but I guess we have to believe the Lord knows what he's doing. Sunrise service will be inside, which is a disappointment because I love to see the daylight come while we worship. But the rain will be so significant as part of spring's new start.
Texas has two good seasons--spring and fall, and spring is by far my personal favorite. I love the light green of new leaves, the brightness of my redbud tree, the flowering trees all over town. When my children were young we went to North Carolina for the spring bloom, where redbud and dogwood abound. Redbud does well here, but only a few hardy dogwoods survive to bloom.
Greg, my gardening neighbor, and I are full of plans for my yard, including ferns which I have always loved, oak leaf hydrangeas, which he assures me will disguise the hurricane fence in the back, and coral honeysuckle to brighten the fence between my dog yard and driveway. I don't garden--used to but was never one who felt renewed by mucking in the dirt. These days my back won't let me garden--or sweep or mop floors or any of those things I don't want to do.
I've been fighting back pain and balance issues recently, and I decided tonight I might better quit fighting and go with the flow. Part of it has to do with faith in the physical therapy program, but I think part of it also has to do with my spiritual faith. Perhaps fighting--which means tightening up--actually increases the problems. It may not sound like a big deal, but I walked down to get the newspaper in the middle of the sidewalk today. Then Jordan and I went for a short (very short) walk.
So like trees budding out, I'm going to loosen up, go with the time of renewal, and let the good Lord help me heal.
And so, my friends, I wish you all Happy Easter, Blessed Passover, or if it suits you joy in the new start that springtime brings. Peace.

Spring is here

My gardeners at work

It wasn't cold this morning for the first time, and tonight Elizabeth and I had the first dinner of the year on the front porch, so I'm sure spring is here. But the biggest sign: Greg, the neighbor who cares for my lawn and garden, took Jacob and me to the nursery shopping today. We got herbs, a hanging basket, another lantana--that on one side of the front steps is looking sad, fountain grass, sweet potato vines, parsley, a flowering blue plant whose name I can't remember, and a dusty miller. Jacob pointed to the dusty miller, and Greg said, "No, we're not getting that." Jacob asked why not, and Greg said, "Cause it's an ugly plant." But Jacob liked it, so we bought one for him and put it in a pot where it can't do much damage. We forgot sage (mine died) and a cherry tomato plant, which I really want. Jacob piped up and said he loves them, so I'll go back, maybe next weekend.
Then Greg put him to work planting, loosening old soil in pots, etc. Jacob loved it--so much better than an out-of-school morning spent watching TV. And my porch is beginning to look like spring again.
Elizabeth is gradually sprucing up the back yard, which I've pretty much left a dog yard all these years. She's added statues, including a Buddha, and bird feeders (she now fills the one I had too) and plans pots and hanging baskets. Let's hope Sophie behaves. We've also put a table (on extended loan from Jordan) and four chairs (from my storeroom) out there. Greg griped and moaned but admitted he can move them ever week to mow. I'm seriously considering a small deck at the back door.
Earlier in the day, Jacob and I went to get my hair cut. Out of the blue he asked, "Juju, when are you going to get married again?" Me: "I don't think I'm going to." Jacob: "Why not?" My first reply was inappropriate: "Well, I tried it once and it wasn't much fun." When he said "What?" I amended it to, "Don't you think I'm kind of old?" Matter-of-factly he said, "Yeah, you are old." Thanks, Jacob. Then later he picked up the stylus I used with my iPhone if I want to send a wordy text and said, "Can I take this home?" I said no, and he asked, "Can I have it when you die?" Little ghoul!
But it was a good day.