Wildflowers, grandsons, and Ann Lamott

 

From my desk, I can look out at these beautiful, wonderful wildflowers in full bloom. It makes me smile just to see their yellow brightness. Across the walk is another bunch, lower and closer to the ground but every bit as bright. The yard guy didn’t remember what he planted, so I’m waiting for a friend, knowledgeable about flowers, to come tell me what they are. My view is about to be obstructed just a bit by the oak leaf hydrangeas right by my window—they are flourishing and have grown tall, covered with about-to-be blooms. After the last few years when we had frigid winters and blistering summers and nothing did well, seeing my garden in bloom is a real joy. Jordan has bought potted plants for the patio, and Christian has lined the deck with flowering plants—a bougainvillea that is trying hard to break out in blooms, a plant that had purple flowers until they opened full up and turned white, and a couple of smaller plants.

My dad was a gardener. When he bought the house I grew up in, he bought the lot next door, and that was his garden. Every weekend would find him, on his hands and knees in awful, grubby clothes, working away. It was always beautiful. In pleasant evenings, we’d sit in the garden before supper, and he’d tell us about each plant. I didn’t inherit that gene. I’ve often felt deficient that I don’t get the calm, soothing healing from working in the garden that many do. But I love to have someone else to do the work, so I can enjoy it. In my defense, maybe the cooking and writing genes were my creative inheritance.

 

My grandsons are on a roll. Jacob played in the last golf tournament of his senior year this week—and shot a 70, his career best! And as my brother said, “Pretty damn good. I know lots of seasoned golfers who’d love to shoot anywhere near that.” My youngest grandson, Kegan 

Kegan David

David, a junior in high school, made the National Honor Society. And the oldest of the boys, Sawyer, will be off to Denver this fall to study music business—he is so very excited about that, and I am excited for him. (Confession: he looked at both University of Denver and Colorado University/Denver, and I’m not sure now which he chose.) But he will be in Denver with us Uncle Jamie and his cousin Maddie. Good times coming. We have yet to hear from Ford, the next to youngest, but he is an outstanding student and will probably outshine them all.

Sawyer Hudgeons

The three girls are doing fine, thank you, but it’s the boys who shine right now.

I’ve been reading Ann Lamott’s newest book, Somehow, and I am enthralled. If you don’t have it, please rush right out and get it. She has an uncanny ability to juxtapose the sublime and the mundane and leave you laughing but also a bit wiser. She is, as my writer friend Susan Albert says, reverent and cheeky at the same time. One of the things writers worry about—or should—is finding their own unique voice. Lamott has done it in spades.

While I was in the midst of the book, I watched two interviews with her. She is not at all pretentious. In fact my impression is that she’s bit unsure, a bit self-conscious. She assured Yoda and Jenna that she was not nervous, an indication that she expected she might be. There are probably others, but she is the only Anglo woman I’ve ever seen with dreadlocks. I kind of want to ask her how she does that. Her dress is equally individual, as though she put on whatever appealed to her that morning and never looked back. She is honest about her life—her hard-won sobriety, the joy of her late-in-life marriage, the trials she went through with her son’s addiction, and most of all her rock-solid faith. This is not a woman who plays around with the concept of God, mulling the meaning. She fully believes in God, prayer, the afterlife—and she is anxious to share that with all of us. I for one am a ready recipient of her words of belief.

She also doesn’t mince words and there is profanity scattered throughout the book. I remember many years ago when a group in my church read, Bird by Bird, Lamott’s classic how-to-write book. One good church woman complained, “Could she just say it without all the profanity?” (I’m sure she meant the f-bomb.) It was hard for me to explain that no, she couldn’t. That vocabulary was part of her voice, part of who she is. IF the title, Bird by Bird, puzzles you, it came from her young brother’s assignment to write an essay on birds. He left it to the last minute and then was predictably overwhelmed. “How can I do this?” he wailed. (I’m paraphrasing—it’s been a while since I read the book.) His father said, “Just take it bird by bird, son.” You can see where Lamott gets her writing skills.

Some lines I particularly like: “Courage is fear that has said its prayers”; “I hate it when God does not agree with my particularly good ideas”; and, admitting that there are annoying people in this world, she writes, “Jesus frequently had to lie down with a cold compress on his head.” The image of Jesus taking to his bed with a compress is so hysterical—and yet so humanizing. I wish I had one-tenth of her skill, her quick mind. But meantime, I’ll keep letting her inspire me.

Oh, to be young again!

 

Jacob and his date

Kegan and his date

It’s Homecoming weekend across Texas, and two of my grandsons—one in Tomball and one in Fort Worth—got all gussied up for the dance. I did have a moment of laughter—Jordan sent me a picture of Jacob and his date, he in a sport coat and she is one of those skimpy dresses that all the girls wear now. But the first picture Colin sent me of Kegan and his date showed them in shorts and T-shirts, she holding a basketball (I think) and he holding a bunch of cut flowers. I laughed and told Colin the homecoming dances must have been very different in nature. Pretty soon he sent pictures of them wearing their traditional mums and then dressed for the dance, she in a skimpy dress and he in a suit.

Of course I did an immediate grandmother thing and, in my mind, went back to the days when they were littles together. At one point, about fifteen years ago, I had a bunch of littles around me. Now I have all these teenagers and young adults. Kegan is the youngest (and the tallest) of my seven grandchildren, and Jacob is the third from youngest. I think I don’t mind growing old myself as much as I mind them aging out of childhood. Of course, they’re neat teens and young adults, and I love them dearly. But there’s a lot of nostalgia there.

Otherwise a quiet, pleasant day. We didn’t go to church today—Christian had projects on his mind, and it turned out I was relieved because I hear there’s a lot of Covid going around. I know that last week, half the choir was out, and we learned later it was because of Covid. They even cancelled an upcoming choir concert. I went to church virtually and did see a few people, both in the choir and in the congregation, wearing masks. I’m afraid we may be headed back to a lot of us wearing masks.

Covid still seems to loom over us, even though many have sort of brushed it off. Maybe it’s my age, but having never had it, I am still quite afraid of it. When I had that whatever stomach thing one night last week, I briefly convinced myself that it was Covid. An easy thing to do alone in the dark at three o’clock in the morning. Three o’clock seems to be the witching hour. I hate to confess how many times I am awake at the time, with a wide variety of scary thoughts. I have had to learn to tell myself, “That’s a three o’clock thought. It will be better in the morning.”

Late this afternoon, thunder teased us, rolling around the sky. We even had one good, strong clap right overhead which sent Miss Sophie to barking angrily. Despite all that, we got perhaps five scattered drops of rain. Jordan and Christian were on their way to deliver a sympathy meal to a sick friend in Arlington, and she says they were caught in such driving rain that they couldn’t see the road, and she urged Christian to pull over. I don’t need driving rain, but a bit more than five drops would be helpful.

Tonight Jordan made the iconic dish that is our family signature—and certainly my signature. Doris’ casserole has been in cookbooks, articles, and blogs; it was served once by food service at TCU and is routinely served on special occasions at our home. The Burtons made a double batch today—one to deliver and one for us. And we all agreed, we hadn’t had it in a while, and it was so good.

I first ate Doris’ at a small dinner party in the late sixties, when my then-husband was a resident in surgery. The wife of the anesthesiology resident fixed it for us. It was called Mrs. America Beef Casserole or some such, but for us, because Doris served it that night, it has always been Doris’ casserole. One friend calls it American lasagna—it has a meat layer, the noodle layer, and a grated cheese topping. I know I’ve posted it before, but it may soon be time again.

And last night I had the first of what will be many “home-alone” dinners this fall. Splurged and bought myself scallops—three nice, fat ones. Cooked a small batch of baby spinach, and then sauteed the scallops in butter—didn’t get the crust I wanted, but they were a bit browned and still soft. Squeezed a half lemon over them, plated them on the bed of spinach, and poured the lemon butter over. Felt like royalty.

May the coming week bring you health, good food, and blessed gentle rain.

Memories of an Austin Christmas

 

A Christmas photo of me with my four loves

Before we bid Christmas and 2021 goodbye, I want to share a few thoughts and pictures of a memorable trip to Austin. Jordan, Jacob and I traveled on December 21—Christian followed two days later. Both on the way there and the way back, I was pleased and surprised by how much land in Central Texas is still worked as small farms and ranches, so much open land. (Sure, I’d seen it before, as recently as July, but it really struck me this time.) A wreck outside Leander sent us on a detour and suddenly, we were smack in the city with ticky-tacky boxes all jammed together, each identical to the next. The contrast made me sad, but then I realized I was being judgmental—many people were happy to have those homes. Good lesson in taking another viewpoint. In an unfortunate coincidence, coming home we happened on a wreck between Hico and Glen Rose that had only happened minutes before. As Jordan said, if we hadn’t stopped for a potty break and to buy me some chocolate, we might have been there at just the wrong time. Makes you think—with gratitude.

In Austin we were at daughter Megan’s house—all eighteen of us during the days. The nights were cool, but the kids liked to sit on the patio, so one night I bundled up.

Colin helping me keep warm

On Wednesday, we had lunch with a writer I know from a small online group but had never met—a real treat and a highlight of the trip. Stephanie Raffelock writes about women coming into their own as they age—a message I find most encouraging. Her new book is Creatrix Rising. But we talked mostly about cooking—the turkey we planned and her duck confit. I didn’t even know how confit is pronounced—kän’fē]—but now I am determined to try roasting a duck—I’ll let the confit part wait. In the oven in the main house. I got a new toaster oven for Christmas that will give me much more flexibility and an air fryer, but I don’t think it’s up for a whole duck.

Lunch with author Stephanie Raffelock

One night we all piled into cars and drove the Trail of Lights, an Austin phenomenon once sponsored by the city but now presented by individual sponsors. It is fantastic, best I’ve ever seen. I was particularly impressed by the tunnels of light. This picture hardly does it justice.

Christmas morning was pandemonium, but what can you expect with eighteen people? The old controversy about when to open presents was neatly solved—on Christmas Eve, Jordan gave each of the girls matching pajamas. I posted a picture Christmas night. Christmas morning the gift opening vs. breakfast dilemma was equally well solved—the guests sleeping in an Airbnb and a hotel were so slow to get there, we were all starving. So we had breakfast and opened gifts afterward.

Me and Jordan in our Christmas pajamas

Our Christmas dinner was traditional and delicious. I keep hearing of people who have prime rib and duck confit and even enchiladas, but not my family. Megan, with Melanie’s expert stirring, made the best gravy I think I’ve ever had—a combination of my mom’s technique (shake flour and cold water in a jar really hard) and the addition of Central Market gravy. So flavorful—and plenty of it. I always worry about running out of gravy—probably selfish because I really want it all over everything.

I posted the other night about my grandsons but can’t resist sharing this picture of them. The youngest is the tallest, and the oldest is the shortest. Each so very different and individual, but when together they seem a bonded unit. I alluded to the Beatles before, but that really only applies to Sawyer, the oldest, who is a skilled guitar player. The other three are more into individual sports.

My grandsons--how did they get this big and old?

Hope each and every one of you enjoyed Christmas, whether you celebrate the day or eat Chinese. It’s a special time. And now, into the new year.

Celebrating a couple of grandsons – and bemoaning my allergies

 

Here’s my oldest grandson, Sawyer, just turned seventeen, with his new car. Pretty fancy wheels for a kid, but not at all what he wanted at first. A chance encounter led to a great bargain on the car. The previous owner wanted to trade for Sawyer’s dad’s Jeep. Dad was not interested—they were standing in a take-out line at a restaurant—but the guy really wanted to sell or trade this Mercedes. So, they investigated, found it a real bargain compared to what they thought they’d spend on a car for Sawyer, and now he has a Mercedes. I haven’t had a chance to ask him, but I suspect he thought of it at first as a stodgy old-man’s car. Now, he apparently likes it, and his mom, my Megan, says she loves having him driving because he’ll willingly go on errands for her.

I’m really proud of Sawyer this summer anyway. He’s our music kid—studies with Austin School of Rock (guitar and vocals) and plays in a garage band that does well. When this kid found guitar, he really found himself. Now he’s taking an online course in music production and hopes to intern with an Austin producer for part of the summer. I love it when kids find their focus.

And here’s a grinning Jacob, in the car after being picked up from a ten-day camping experience. Jordan and Jacob picked him up in Van in East Texas, but he actually camped in Colorado—a long bus ride away. (Jacob is the one who described it as long and other, less happy terms). He thoroughly enjoyed it, he says, met new friends, played poker (this is what he went to a church camp for?), etc. But no golf, and Jacob is the golfer in the family. He got home last night and spent most of today on a golf course so he could get the “feel” of it—he plays in a tournament in Dallas tomorrow. Another kid whose found his focus.

I wouldn’t want my other two grandsons to feel slighted—Ford, in Austin, and Kegan, in Tomball, are both sports minded and exceedingly good at their chosen sports, but more about them another time. The Tomball Alters are in New York City right now, and the Austin folks will go to Belize to scuba dive next week. Love my family’s travel adventures, as long as I can enjoy them vicariously.

Meanwhile I’m sitting at home nursing allergies—at least that’s what I think it is. I never was allergic to anything until I was in my fifties. One day I felt so awful I dragged myself to the doctor, who cheerfully announced I was suffering from allergies. I was indignant and demanded, “What am I allergic to?” His reply? “Texas.”

Well I guess there’s something in our Texas air the last couple of days because it sure has gotten me in the late afternoon and early evening. My nose runs like the proverbial faucet, my throat is dry, I cough a lot, and I am so sleepy I can’t stand it—and a bit sick to my stomach. Yuck. But by 9:30 or 10:00 I’m back to normal and all is well. I hope this is something fleeting.

I attended a Zoom neighborhood meeting tonight and learned a lesson: when you cough, the camera focuses on you because it apparently doesn’t distinguish between a cough and speech. I quickly muted the audio, but I’m sure my neighbors loved the picture of me with my ever-present Kleenex.

I’m at loose ends, never a good place for me to be. Waiting on a couple of editors to respond to a proposal; waiting on someone else to come back from vacation so I can get access to a file; waiting on a new book to come out in September; waiting to figure out how to edit my new Wikipedia page (more about that another time). I need a new project and am weighing several ideas—a collection of significant blogs, with some gourmet blogs thrown in--do I flatter myself that any are significant?; a new cookbook, though I need a theme—maybe plagiarized recipes (no, I don’t really mean that); reviewing a couple of false starts on mysteries. I recently, inadvertently did some editing and realized how much I like that—shades of my former life. But I have no clients.

Tomorrow I plan to do one of those pro and con list of my options—and to do some serious meal planning for the family, somehow fitting family meals into increasingly busy schedules—Christian’s work is busy, Jordan’s business is rapidly picking up as people begin to travel again, and Jacob has all those golf commitments. I was spoiled during quarantine—they were here every night for supper.

I think I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop—it will, and it will be the right thing. I just don’t know when or what.

Sweet dream, everyone!

 

Topsy-turvy and out of kilter

 

That’s how things have been at my cottage the last few days, but mostly in a good way. Jordan is off in Fort Davis, with a group of girls, staying at the family home of one. While she’s away, Austin daughter Megan has come to visit, bringing along her youngest son, Ford. He and Jacob are only four months apart in age and are close buddies, so that’s a treat for both of them.

We’re a working group. Megan has her computer, though much of her work is by phone. She’s alternated between working in the main house and at my coffee table. Jacob of course has virtual school all day, while Ford, best as I know, is preparing for those standardized tests he will take next week. I have been trying to put together the June issue of the Poobah, our neighborhood newspaper, but my wifi connection has been slow to nonexistent. I’ve had a good lesson in how dependent I am on the internet—even editing articles when I want to look for illustrations, etc. Several of the information sites I rely on, including cooking sites, are so slow to load that I confess I lost patience. A frustrating day.

Last night Megan’s longtime friend, Amy, came for happy hour. The girls went to kindergarten together and then all through elementary, high school, and college. In law school, they were roommates. So they had lots of catching up to do. I visited with them for a bit and then came inside. By 8:30 I realized that I was really hungry, and we should feed two teen-age boys. I had fixed my current favorite casserole, Queso Chicken, and we ate a one-dish meal late at night and sat and talked until way too late.

Tonight, we took the boys to Pacific Table, one of Megan’s favorite restaurants. Lovely to sit on the patio with just enough breeze. Who cares about the noisy trains? Both boys ate sushi, an incredible amount for Ford and a chopsticks lesson for Jacob. We dined early, were home by seven o’clock and Megan asked, “What will we do now?” She cleaned and organized my freezer. Visiting daughters are so wonderful. And she gave my computer at least a temporary fix, so I am back in business and was able to clean up a lot of details from this morning.

The pictures I’m posting are from Jordan’s trip to West Texas. Such beautiful country. Makes me want to be there. I hope you enjoy them.

A wintry afternoon—and a big little thing

 

Jordan's basket of lap robes.

Ah, Texas! It’s 71 degrees out, but the late afternoon sun has a definite wintry glow to it. Golden and lovely, but it speaks to me of colder temperatures. And the trees which last week still had lots of leaves are tonight almost bare. Tonight the low is 56 and tomorrow a cold front, with cold to continue through the weekend and a storm predicted for Christmas Eve. Tonight, we’ll take advantage of the sort-of-balmy weather and have a fire on the patio. It’s Tuesday night and our regular Tuesday-night neighbors are coming for wine by the fire. Jordan now has a colorful basket of blankets that she brings out to cover chilly laps. It may be 71 now, but it cools so rapidly once the sun goes down.

The big news around here today is that the free-standing basketball hoop and the tetherball, both of which Jacob has outgrown, are gone from the driveway. The tetherball went to a neighbor with young kids, and I think he just walked it home. But loading the heavy and awkward hoop on a pickup was a major production. I watched from my window as Jordan, Jacob, and the gentleman who came for it struggled to situate it in the truck so it would stay. From what I could see, the guy ultimately decided that bungee cords would be superfluous, so they worked hard to balance it. I hope he drove slowly and carefully to wherever he was going.

It’s not so much that Jacob has outgrown the hoop but that his focus now is so totally on golf. I would guess he manages some golf four or five days a week. His Austin cousin, Ford, on the other hand, is totally focused on basketball and has just made a city-wide team. So nice to see these boys find activities at which they can excel and which hold their interest. Ford’s older brother, Sawyer, has chosen bike riding (the gymnastic kind where he shattered an elbow) but his main love is really his guitar. And Kegan in Tomball is an extraordinary soccer player—he now has a kick coach.

I’m glad to have the driveway free and clear once again. With the basketball hoop lying on its side, it always looked slightly like a disaster area to me. Now a car picking me up can drive much closer to the cottage, and I don’t have to struggle with the holes and dips in our ancient driveway. We are notorious for having the worst driveway in town—built for skinny 1920s cars. Those of us who drive it daily (or did) can do it automatically, knowing just where to cut the wheel, but I have friends who refuse to try it and a couple who have given up in the middle of backing out and asked Jordan to do it for them.

Sophie misbehaved this morning, and that’s putting it mildly. The minute she was out the door, at seven-thirty, I knew we were in trouble. She exited barking. Apparently the squirrel network sent out word she was in the yard, and they gathered to taunt her. She runs frantically, yipping all the while, and she gets so excited her bark turns into a squeak. I’m fairly useless at going after her when she’s so excited, so there I was sitting in the doorway with a piece of cheese in my hand, futilely calling out “Cheese!” every time she came anywhere close to me. She didn’t care. She was in another zone. So Jordan came out and announced, “If I was you neighbor, I’d shoot your dog.” She got her in, and when Sophie, having not learned the lesson of the morning, wanted to go out again, I yelled. Yes I did. And then Sophie and I had to make up. And Jordan and I had to start the day over again. And I kept thinking that love conquers all—sometimes not at seven-thirty in the morning.

Barbecue tonight for supper, from Railhead. But from now on, we’re eating slim. Getting read for big feasts on Thursday and Friday. If you can’t celebrate with family, eating well is the next best revenge. Doesn’t exactly sound like one of Jesus’ teachings, but for this year it must do.

A terrific weekend

           

Megan, the queen of stirring

What a terrific weekend. Daughter Megan came up from Austin with her two sons, Sawyer and Ford, for the rodeo. I got a quick visit Friday night before they left for Dickies Arena, but my rodeo days are long over. I don’t feel too sad about that. When I had young children and again when I had young grandchildren, the Fort Worth Stock Show (I know that’s not the proper name) and Rodeo were annual highlights. But I don’t think these days I could bear to see man or beast injured—despite the arguments that the men (and women) are there by choice. The beasts, of course, are not. And the bleachers are beyond me. I stayed home, took a nap, and got another visit when they came home.

Saturday morning the three young boys (one fifteen and two thirteen) went to the TCU basketball game, and my daughters and I had a ladies’ lunch at Lili’s—treated ourselves to lunchtime wine. So decadent.

I came home—another nap—and the girls took their sons to the midway. Another annual trip I’m glad to give up. I think I now appreciate rodeo mostly because it brings my family to town.

Saturday night we had a mini-family reunion—younger son Jamie and Mel came for supper; Megan’s law school roommate dropped in for an overdue visit, and some neighbors joined us. We had snacks aplenty, barbecue for supper, and a good time. I excused myself about nine, and Jamie came out to the cottage with me. So I had a good thirty-minute visit with him. Although he lives close, he’s so busy I don’t see him often. I had intended to take a quick nap, but never did. (I know—it sounds like I take a lot of naps, but Sophie lately has been getting me up in the night and again early in the morning, though I explain to her that I need my sleep!). The girls came out for a quick glass wine and a rehash of the evening.

Lazy day today. After Sophie got me up at eight, I put together my supper for company tonight—a casserole and chocolate mousse for dessert. The mousse was an experiment out of the New York Times—just melted bittersweet chocolate with water that you beat by hand until it forms mousse consistency. My daughters were both skeptics, so they came to “watch,” but it ended up with Megan making it. Since she was a little kid, she has liked to stir things. She used to drive me wild when I’d put rice on with a lid to steam, and she’d take the lid off and stir. Today she admitted she still does that and then said, “I’m not very good at cooking rice.”

So this recipe was right up her alley. She stirred as the chocolate melted into the water, and then when we whisked it to a ice water bath, she stirred vigorously—for a long time. Her bulletins went from “It’s not working” to “It’s beginning to thicken” to “It’s mousse.” But she admitted her arm was tired, and I’m not sure I have the arm strength to do it. Anyway, it was good, though it hardened when refrigerated and might have been better served at room temperature.

Otherwise, my dinner was good—almost. A chicken/artichoke heart/mushroom casserole that had too much liquid, though I think I know how to fix it another time; a salad, a good loaf of artisan bread; herbed goat cheese and crackers for appetizer. My guests were one of the ministers from my church with whom I’ve formed a friendship and her mother who was in town. Really interesting and lively company and I thought it a lovely evening. Now, at a little after eight, the dishes are done, and I am sleepy.

And tomorrow I face a desk piled high. Life is good, and I am blessed.

A brag—and some thoughts on writing

You know what a bad thing it is when a bridesmaid outshines the bride? Well, I think these two ushers outshone the groom last night (with apologies to Gavin Hudgeons). My Austin grandsons, Sawyer (curly hair) and Ford, were ushers at their uncle’s wedding and, according to reports, did a great job. No, they’re not twins—just real close in age.

Do you ever get a phrase or saying stuck in your mind like an earworm? The one that’s stuck in my mind is so silly I almost hesitate to admit it. “Writing floats my boat.” Of course, there’s a story behind it. I’ve been sort of hibernating while my face heals, and, frankly, I’m getting cabin fever and feeling a bit sorry for myself. And there’s another factor in this mix—I can now see the end of the project I’m working on. Whereas before I knew where it had to go each day, I’ve now gotten to the end and am fitting in odd bits of information where they’ll work best. There’s no way finishing this—even with a photo search—will take until the May deadline. For years my big fear as I finish a project has been, “What will I do next?” And that’s where I am now.

I find myself procrastinating, fiddling the day away without any substantial work—there is still work to be done. But I read or I spend too long on email and Facebook or I cook (my great distraction). And then I’m not happy with myself and don’t feel good. (Didn’t know you were going to get armchair psychanalysis, did you?)

Anyway that’s how I felt the other night when I suddenly sat down and wrote a blog that I think was one of my better ones. The words came fast, and I was pleased with what I produced—and all of a sudden, I felt much better about myself. And that’s when the phrase came to me: Writing floats my boat. I am a much better, happier person when I have a project I can dig into. If I didn't write, I'd wake every morning wondering what I was going to do with the day. 

So I’ll pay attention to business, finish this book and send it off to be edited, and move on to a new project. I have a couple of ideas.

Happy start of a new week, everyone!

Cold nights and warm suppers

Today was a day to stay inside—cold and rainy. I had to get out to do a quick drop-off errand first thing in the morning and then came gratefully home. But the cottage seems chilly to me tonight, and I have on several layers. And I’m longing for a fireplace. Sophie is undaunted by the cold and has chosen to spend much of the day outside, which aggravates the chilliness in the cottage since I leave the door slightly ajar, so she can come in. My rationale is it saves me from getting up but that’s not true—she pushes it open more widely when she comes in, and I have to get up to close it. But then, if that’s the worst problem in my life, I’m pretty lucky.

Ford with Sophie

Just learned that grandson Ford was the Sixth Grade Student of the Week last week at his school in Austin. Go Ford! I couldn't crop the picture, which was grabbed from a school publication, but I do want to report that Ford was wearing a TCU sweatshirt. He's my TCU kid!

Last night I made a big pot of sloppy Joe, because Jacob loves it and his eyes lit up when I said I would make it. Mine is a bit different. It’s actually a recipe for a wine casserole that I got from an old cookbook called, “A Jug of Wine.” My kids grew up on it, and I’m sure you’ve heard me tell about the time Megan made it for her family. Brandon tasted and said, “It’s good, but it’s not sloppy Joe.” She wrote me sarcastically that she guessed she was the only one who thought red wine was an essential ingredient of sloppy Joe.

The “girls”—June Bug and Cricket—certainly thought they’d like some sloppy Joe last night.

How sad. I’m watching a news clip on teaching high school students to save lives in case of a mass shooting by staunching the blood. Makes me want to put my grandchildren in a bubble—or maybe move all of us to Scotland.

I spent much of the day reading about Clara Driscoll, so-called Savior of the Alamo. Actually, I think Adina De Zavala was the real savior, but she had the passion while Driscoll had the money—and got the credit. The way of the world. But I keep learning fascinating bits as I research this book. I knew that Clara built a hotel, among her countless projects, and just assumed it was the Driskill in Austin (didn’t even think about the different spelling of the name). It seemed possible. After all, she and her husband built a magnificent mansion, Laguna Gloria, in Austin and lived there for some years. Today it is the Austin Museum of Art.

But of course, the different spellings finally got through to me. It seems Austin’s Driskill Hotel was conceived and built in1886 by Jesse Driskill, a cattleman. Clara’s hotel is the Robert Driscoll Hotel in Corpus Christi, overlooking the bay, and built in tribute to her brother after his death. Fascinating history and I’m enjoying it..

Now for a quiet evening, eating leftovers and reading a juvenile novel.

Dinners Large and Small

I’m of mixed feelings about Michelle Wolf’s controversial performance at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner. Trump and his followers who are outraged and filled with moral indignation, are on the shakiest of ground. Trump showed again that he can dish it out but can’t take it. He has set the lowest standard for moral behavior, language, and responsibility of any public figure I have ever heard of, contemporary or historical. No need to rehash a list of his outrages. But I hate to see the country sink to his level.

Michelle Wolf told the truth and exposed our society for what it has become, but she met vulgarity with vulgarity. To me that’s no laughing matter. It is a demonstration of cultural decline. I’m not sure of the history, but I bet this annual dinner started out with lightrt humor, light jobs at politicians, and over the years became increasingly vitriolic, as our politics and our country became increasingly polarized.. Without criticizing Wolf or defending Trump and his blind followers, it’s time to rethink the event. Not to spare them, but to elevate our country in the eyes of the world—and in our own eyes.

The dinner was a large and public show of the lack of manners, courtesy, and consideration that infects our country today. I had a minor version of it last night when my three tween grandsons sat to my left at the dinner table. They slid into the chairs and lunged at their hamburgers. I stopped them with a reminder we didn’t eat until everybody was at the table. They looked astounded. Then they fidgeted. They tried to sneak tiny bites. Finally, everyone was seated, and they lunged again. I said, “You know, you shouldn’t eat until the hostess raises her fork.” Jordan made an elaborate show of raising her fork, and they tore into their food as though they’d not been fed for three days. I didn’t even mention a blessing.

Later Jacob defended them to me. “It was just hamburgers, not a fancy dinner.” I replied that manners are manners, and the nature of the food doesn’t matter. “Well, it was just family.” I repeated what my father drilled into me: you use your best manners on the ones you love best. I’m sure my words that manners are all about making others at the table comfortable and giving them a pleasant dining experience fell on deaf ears. I did get to point out that laughing hysterically at an outrageous belch from one of them, slapping each other’s hands, and banging on the table did not make for pleasant dining for the adults present. Ah, Grandma Juju, the wicked witch. But I’m not giving up my crusade—with my family and with the larger world.

We as people and as a country can be a lot nicer. Someone suggested recently that the point should not be to list the outrages of Trump and company but to wonder why we as a nation we continue to put up with this morally bankrupt leadership.

As for those three little boys, don’t get me wrong. I love them desperately. I hope to see them grow into wonderful young men—and gentlemen.

Cooking up a storm

Natchitoches meat pies and tabbouleh

            A friend wrote me today that she spent Sunday morning planting. She knew, she said, she should have been in church, but she wanted to get these plants in and mulched before she left town. I told her she planted, I cooked, and we both worshipped in our own ways. And cook I up a storm I did.

I was cooking for a celebration dinner—oldest daughter, Megan, and her youngest son, Ford, arrived tonight for a week. When I said to Ford we were expecting special company, he asked who, and I said, “You?” Earned me a big grin.

Ford and Jacob will go to TCU baseball camp for four days, the girls and I will work during the day, each of us at our own jobs (Megan is a lawyer and Jordan a travel agent—me? I write!) but we’re looking forward to a lot of good meals and visiting time. Tonight’s menu was homemade hummus for appetizer, cheeses and vegetables.

Notes from the gourmet on a hot plate: I spent the whole morning making the hummus and tabbouleh, both better than what we buy in the store. Hummus was a problem until Jordan discovered I have a large pot that will work on my hot plate. I soaked the garbanzos overnight, refrigerated them for a day, and cooked them for forty-five minutes this morning. The hummus is really easy—you put everything in the food processor with a saved half cup or more of cooking water (I say more because the hummus was a bit stiff). Put spices, oil, and all in and blend. You could easily do this with canned garbanzos—I don’t know if it would be better or not.

homemade hummus

Tabbouleh was more work. You soak bulgur wheat in boiling water. Add spices and let it sit, while you make a lemon/oil dressing, whisking the oil into the lemon. Separately chop four cups parsley, a cup mint, a large tomato. Fluff wheat with a fork, add to dressing, and fold in veggie mix. Chill. Really good—six of us ate the whole thing tonight, and I promise I’m not doing all that chopping again soon.

I asked Ford if he eats tabbouleh, and he said, “I don’t know what it is, but I’ll eat it.” He loved it, had two or three helpings. Such a delight to have a child be such an enthusiastic eater.

Assembly line: me rolling out biscuits, Megan filling them

Main dish: Natchitoches meat pies, a recipe I remember from years ago when I taught a creative writing class that really bonded, to use a trendy, trite word. For the last session, I invited them to my house for a pot-luck supper, and one man brought these pies. I thought I’d lost the recipe during the great downsize, but it surfaced. They are, quite frankly, a pain to make, but we cheated and used refrigerator biscuits that I split in half and rolled out into thin larger circles. The girls filled each circle with meat, folded and crimped the edges. The recipe said deep-fat fry, but we brushed them with an egg wash and put them in the oven. We ate thirteen of them.

Tonight I am tired but happy. Love having more of my “chickens” under my roof.

Home Again, Home Again, Thank God I'm Home Again

(With apologies to Martin Luther King, Jr.)

Got home about noon today, thanks to dedicated efforts of Colin, Jordan and Kegan (a nurse asked if my boy-boy grandson with long hair was my granddaughter). In a way, it seems like I’ve never been away, but in most ways I feel that I’ve been on a long journey. It will take me a while to process the emotional and spiritual effects of that journey. The physical effects I know—lots of limitations. And I have a lot of therapy to do to regain strength. Would rather not regain the 20 lbs. I lost on this journey.

Meantime, not much has changed. I spent the afternoon at my desk, sorting accumulated mail, etc., and had a long nap. Grateful for my sleep numbers bed that raises and lowers head and feet, just like a hospital bed. We’ve had had my favorite foods—lox and cream cheese for lunch, Railhead BBQ for supper. Jordan did a grocery run for me, and I’m looking forward to yogurt, LeCroix, all kinds of things I haven’t had in a while.

Sophie seems glad to have me home and pays more attention to me than she did at Garden Terrace. She likes having all the people in the cottage.

Yesterday Brandon took three young boys to the stock show and, feeding them, spent $100 in less than two hours. Today was Christian’s turn for boy excursions—he took Kegan and Jacob to Flight Deck. Not quite as expensive but not cheap either.

A study in contrasts, not just blonde and dark, but these cousins are so different in style--the long-haired soccer kid, and the all-around preppy boy. Yet they love each other. Pictures tell all.

No wise comments from this corner on the political situation or anything else. I’m sleepy and ready for bed and a book at eight o’clock. Can’t get past the feeling that today is Sunday. We all feel that way, and the kids will be lucky if we don’t send them to school tomorrow.

I plan to rejoin the world tomorrow-no more spending the day in my pjs with dirty hair.

Another birthday milestone--and some interesting thoughts

 

One year ago today, on my 77^th birthday, I embarked on a project of using this blog to chronicle my year. After a year I planned to review the year, reassess, and perhaps publish the blogs. I wrote that I was striding confidently into my 78^th year, in good health, with the blessings of family, home, career, wonderful dog. Little did I imagine how much would change in a year nor how I would be tested.

Notable in my mind is the fact that I can no longer claim to be in good health. I am officially disabled and taking advantage of Medicare’s home health services. Long story short: I fell in early May and ended up, through my own stubbornness, with an ankle that a trauma surgeon declared beyond surgical repair—a mixed blessing.

I have been non-weight-bearing on my right foot for five weeks, with no idea when things will change. I wear an orthopedic boot night and day. At first this threw me into a great depression, and I decided this would be the year that I aged. Pulled myself out, with the help of medication, because I knew I didn’t want to live that way.

To complicate matters, I have had troublesome stomach issues for about five weeks—far too long, and a physician’s assistant has ordered overdue tests. I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of this and correct it. I recognize that though my ankle/leg may get better, I may never walk gracefully and there may be canes, walkers, even wheelchairs in my future. That’s okay, better than a lot of alternatives.

My children have been really supportive. Jordan and her family will be moving into my house in late summer, but she has effectively moved her dogs and herself in already, my oldest son came and got me and took me to his house for a week to give Jordan a break, and this past week my oldest daughter has been here doing yeoman’s work, filling in for those chores I can’t do for myself as I scoot about the house riding on a walker. My younger son will spend a few days with me in August when Jordan goes out of town.

Some good things have happened: I published The Gilded Cage, a book that may be the pinnacle of my career. My chili book is a finalist in the cookbook category of the Will Rogers Medallion Award. Construction of a cottage for me—converting garage apartment—is nearing completion, and I hope to move in September.

Most of all I have had the loving support of a wide variety of people. Many have called me courageous, which is not a trait I’d assign to myself. I’d never, for instance, ride a roller coaster. Going down the ramp in a wheelchair is enough adventure for me. But there are different kinds of courage, and if people see my upbeat spirit as courage, good . It gives me a goal to meet.

My son-in-law said tonight I’ve been tested by my journey and come out of it a stronger person. I’d like to think that’s true.

Birthday grins from two adorable grandsons

I no longer make predictions about the coming year. Lord knows what it will bring, but I hope I’ll be ready to continue the journey in good spirits.

Publish my blogs of the past year? It looks like a lot of work. Maybe only if I can hire an assistant.

Thanks to each of you for love and support.

 

Whoopee, Saturday!

 

So proud of Kegan, my youngest grandchild, the Tomball kid. At eight, he was asked to try out for the 11-year-old soccer team and made it. His mom sent this picture, saying Kegan, on the left, doesn’t even realize he’s half the size of #6. He may be physically, but he’s twice the size in spirit.

Today was what every Saturday should be—lazy, no commitments, a genuinely nice day. Jacob is here a lot the next week, because his mom is on a business trip to Alaska—poor thing, a week on a Holland America cruise line. Have a hankering to go to Alaska? Just call Jordan—she will tell you all about it. Being a travel agent isn’t all bad.

Today Jacob and I slept late, and it was well after ten before I got myself in gear to do mundane house chores like make the bed, water plants, do a load of laundry. Jacob’s dad came to get him for lunch, and then they took a buddy to play at their house. I worked—learning to format manuscripts for print and digital production. Steep learning curve, but I’ve been keeping after it. And, yes, I had to have a good nap.

Tonight, I’m still alternating time at my desk with household chores—cutting up chicken for tomorrow night’s casserole, setting the table. I pan roasted the chicken as I usually do—sprinkle with salt, pepper and onion, cover with foil, and let it cook an hour or so.. It produces the most wonderfully flavored gelatin—at least one of my children hates “gelatinous” things. I know it’s not good for us, it’s not good for the dog (who sniffed with utmost curiosity), and I’d probably never make soup out of it. But, gosh, it hurt me to throw it away. The Scotsman in me, I guess. I once asked the owner of a Scottish B&B why they served blood pudding—which is nothing more than oatmeal with blood added and I didn’t think it was much of an addition. He shrugged, “I guess it was part of using everything about the animal.” Sometimes I wish I were that kind of cook.

Unfortunately, tomorrow probably won’t be that lazy. Maybe I got all the laziness out of my system today.