Want a doughnut?

 

Cobb salad, a healthy dinner, right?
How many of the ingredients have chemicals in them?
Can you guess?

This morning, while skimming I don’t know what online, I came across an ad, with picture, for a fried bacon cheeseburger doughnut. Just reading about it made my arteries scream in pain. I know the Texas State Fair is known for bizarre foods—the farther out from normal, the better—but this wasn’t State Fair food. I assume it was someone’s honest attempt to attract fat fans.

Perhaps the State Fair sets a bad example for us: I didn’t do an actual survey, but most of the new foods, sanctioned for this year’s fair, are deep fried. Right away, I’m backing away. Really, I don’t need or want a deep-fried fruity pebble pickle. Deep-fried candy pecan bacon banana bread pudding might taste magnificent, but I’ll pass thank you. Same with deep-fried Vietnamese coffee (I have no idea how they do that) or deep-fried fireball shots.

Recently I read a couple of articles meant to frighten and intimidate. Titles like “Five Things Nutritionists Never Eat,” or “Seventy-two things you should never eat.” Obviously, because food is my shtick, I read each article. My personal conclusion was that I do pretty well: yes, I eat an occasional hot dog, but not a lot—and Kosher when I do, which I think makes a difference. I will also occasionally eat sausage and yes, I love bacon. But I don’t eat it often. Yes, I eat red meat but in moderation (okay, so we had giant cheeseburgers for dinner last night). Sometimes we use bottled dressing (a no-no because of the sugar) but usually it’s homemade, and I have a great new recipe I’m waiting to try. Same with ketchup—it’s a rare treat. There are a whole lot of things on these “never eat” lists that will never pass my lips.

Basically, such lists recommend no fried foods, no white sugar, nothing from the grocery store. Wait a minute! If you can’t eat food from the grocery, what do you eat? The thing is most groceries we buy are processed and full of chemicals meant to lengthen shelf life and enhance appearance. So instead of bottled dressing you should make your own; instead of Lunchables, make your child a lunch box of goodies, but for heaven’s sake, don’t put prepared deli meats in it or American cheese slices, such as Kraft or Velveeta. No diet soda, flavored water, energy drinks, bottled coffee, etc. Drink water. Even milk is suspect because it comes from cows who have been fed hormones and antibiotics.

The list goes on and on, and I won’t bore—or scare—you with it. But the truth is that we should all become compulsive label readers as we shop in the grocery store. Watch for chemicals, hormones, vitamins, etc. When a label says, “Low fat” or “reduced sugar,” be aware that to compensate for taking those things out of a product, manufacturers have added something else. Onr person I know referred to the additives as “a shitstorm of chemicals.” I never, for instance, buy low-fat cottage cheese or sour cream. (I shouldn’t eat those things anyway because humans are the only mammal who eats dairy after childhood, but I like them. And that reminds me, another favorite, mayonnaise is on the don’t eat list because of the fat content, but I’m not trying reduced fat.)

The point of all this is that as Americans (I can’t speak for other countries), we have modified our food supply to the point that much of it is unhealthy. Tonight, in another context, Jordan said so many people seem to be developing health problems—severe ones. I think it’s no coincidence that we are seeing more cases of severe disease—several forms of cancer, including gliobastoma, the deadly brain tumor, diabetes, or autoimmune disease. Science tells us that an average of 200 synthetic chemicals are present in the systems of newborn infants. So think what is in the system of an adult in America. We are being processed and preserved to death.

Not many of us have the time or inclination—or perhaps budget—to buy only organic, to cook everything at home from scratch. And yet that’s what it would take to even begin to reverse the pollution in our bodies. So each of us must choose a pathway—how much prepared and preserved food are you willing to eat? How much work are you willing to do to purify your diet, cook from scratch, and eat healthily? Not many of us can live on the land and be self-sustaining. So somewhere there’s a compromise for each of us. Where’s your line in the sand?

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.

An ongoing and difficult lesson

Fall mums for the coffee table
Sorry about that glass
not sure how it got into the picture

A friend sent me an article on intellectual humility. I asked her if it was a gentle hint about my adamant political postings, but she denied that. Still is made me think about something that comes to the front of my mind every so often—humility, especially online.

A gentleman posted against Build Back Better, and in disagreeing with him, I said “Go ahead. Bury your head in the sand.” Snarky of me, and I knew it. His response also told me so. He said my words said all he needed to know about me as a person. I apologized, we were friends, and then I did it again. I can’t even remember what he said, but I responded, and he replied, “You just can’t let it alone, can you?” That’s the truth. When I see some of the right-wing comments—they don’t even have to be outrageous, just wrong in my opinion—I can’t help countering. I am one of those who believes so firmly that I’m right about everything from national politics to TCU ex-Coach Gary Patterson, that I leap into discussions when I don’t need to.

For some time now when scrolling through Facebook, I’ve been asking myself, when tempted to comment, “Do you really need to insert yourself into that discussion?” Posting your opinion and taking your licks is one thing; jumping on to someone else’s page is altogether another.

I’m trying to teach myself to apologize. Recently a woman posted about Massey’s Restaurant on Lake Worth (I think that’s where it was) and I of course jumped in with, “No. It was on Eighth Avenue.” She replied that it was a different restaurant, and I hastily apologized.

But then today there was a woman who said 1.7 million refugees have been flown to various cities in the dark of the night, without covid testing or vaccination. I asked her for documentation and got in reply, “You’re a fool. Read the news.” I didn’t think that was much documentation, so I asked her why Biden would allow unvaccinated immigrants when vaccination has been one of his biggest priorities. And I sent her a graph that showed the 1.7 million figure was for sixty years. No response.

Some of the conspiracy theories are so ridiculous that it’s hard to keep your tongue—or your fingers from the keyboard. But of course, those are the very people we shouldn’t argue with, because it’s a waste of breath and in some sense reduces us to their level. So I’m trying not to spout off at the ridiculous people, but to engage politely with those I think might be open to discussion. It’s a hard line to draw and a hard lesson to learn.

A little part of my obsession traces to my faith. We are taught to testify for our faith. I feel a moral obligation to testify for social and political welfare. If the recipient is not moved, perhaps others will be. Remember the poem by Martin Niemöller, “First they came for the Communists….” It vividly makes the point about not remaining silent in the face of outrages. I’d welcome any thoughts and responses.

On a much lighter note, I had a bone density test today and, if I’m reading the results right, I passed. Whoopee! I didn’t want to have to do those nose drops. And I went to the grocery store with Jordan, driving the cart behind her. Fun—she’d pick something up, and I’d point out we have three in the fridge/freezer, or she’d tell me, “You’re out of this. You just don’t know it.” Came home with a lovely bunch of mums for the coffee table.

Tonight a fancy happy hour celebrating neighbor Prudence’s completion of her MBA degree. How she did that while parenting four children, home-schooling two or three of them, running the house for a surgeon/husband (been there, done that, and it ain’t easy) is beyond me. Kudos to her. We had roses for her and champagne for everyone.

Jordan's charcuterie for Prudence

A good day.

A topsy-turvey day

 

Not sure I saw this exact display, 
but something close.
A wonderland of fresh fruit and vegetables,
meat and seafood

This morning, for the first time since the beginning of quarantine, I went to a grocery store. I cannot tell you how much fun that was. Lots of people moan and groan about grocery shopping, but I love it. I am sorely tempted to put about half the store in my basket, and I love browsing the shelves, studying the possibilities. This morning, Mary Dulle took me—it was a belated birthday present—and we went to Whole Foods because I have never been there since the store opened in Fort Worth. Had been once to the downtown Whole Foods in Austin, but it was so big it seemed a jumble. The Fort Worth store was just right.

Because I had a gift certificate, I was determined to splurge—and I did. On a boneless, butterflied leg of lamb. Brought it home and froze it, but some Sunday night when we want to have a special family dinner, I’ll either marinate and ask Christian to grill it or stuff and roll it. Either way sounds wonderful.

Other than that, I bought chicken and pork chops for our dinners this week, vegetables—and buttermilk. Can’t remember now what I plan to cook with it, but I got a quart because I love to drink it.

Bonus was that Mary and I had fun talking groceries and food. I drove one of those handicapped carts and had a ball—been so long since I’d done that, I was afraid I’d lost me skills, but I’m still a good driver.

The downside of the day has to do with printers and computers. My printer has been printing four-color in all yellow. So I called the chat thing at Hewlett Packard and they connected me with a service technician. Obviously outsourced, heavy accent, hard for me to understand. After taking over my computer and doing a bunch of exploring (all of which I was watching most carefully), he announced my printer is fine, but the problem was with my computer. I had a trojan that took control of my computer, and I needed network security—i.e. a firewall, which this guy would install. At that point, I became really wary—I wanted him to fix my printer, not mess with my computer. And I couldn’t ever be sure what he was saying, because of his accent and my poor hearing.

I discontinued the call and called Brandon, the son-in-law who is a software consultant. He said bluntly the computer tech was either a scammer or a moron—the more I told him, the more he leaned toward the latter. I do not need a firewall; I have an active one. There is no way a computer problem would make a printer go yellow.

Big problem, the “moron” had uninstalled the printer with assurances he would re-install, which he didn’t do. So Brandon took control of my computer, and we worked an hour and a half. He finally said, re-boot the computer and see if it works. It didn’t. So tomorrow we start all over again. The printer is obviously functional, it just doesn’t talk to the computer.

By the time we called it quits, Mary and Prudence were here for our regular happy hour, and I was more than ready for a glass of wine. We had a lavish spread—I particulary enjoyed some smoky Swiss Mary brought me and some marinated goat cheese she’d done for a continuing education class on drinks and front-porch snacks.

And then I cooked chicken thighs for supper—a garlicky lime version which took longer to prepare than I thought. It was eight o’clock before we ate supper. Pardon me if I’m worn out tonight.

A good day but a difficult one. Topsy-turvey indeed. Hope yours was right-side-up all day!

Learning to adjust

It’s hard for me to believe, but I have now lived in the cottage for three and a half years. I still love it, am so glad my family made this move possible. But I’ve had to learn to make some adjustments. One of them is that I am now pretty much dependent on other people’s schedules, mostly Jordan.

Jordan doesn’t like me to go to public places—i.e., the grocery store—alone, because she’s afraid I’ll fall getting in and out of the car or that my attention will be so much on getting the walker out and set up that I won’t be aware of my surroundings—and I’ll be mugged. Add to that, the fact that I am not much liking to drive these days. It’s an old fear that I thought I had conquered but has now come back to haunt me, and it’s complicated by the fact that I know my reactions at my age are not what they were twenty years ago. That pretty much means that Jordan takes me to the grocery, although I do curbside pickup at Central Market alone.

We try to make Friday morning our grocery shopping morning, but her business as a luxury travel assistant has gotten busier, and she often has appointments that we work around. One problem, for me, with such indefinite timing is that if I know I’m going to be interrupted sometime but don’t know when, it’s hard for me to settle down to work. Before I can get serious about research or writing I need to know I have a block of time. So on “waiting” mornings, I spend way too much time on Facebook.

Today though it was a momentous occasion—she had to register Jacob for his first year of high school. High school? That kid who used to crawl into my bed to keep me safe from storms? He’s now almost as tall as I am and has this deep voice that I’m still learning to recognize. Yep, he’s going to high school.

As I expected, the process took longer than anticipated. So I waited patiently, knowing she’d come get me when she was through. Oops—she went out to eat, where I thought we’d go  to Local Foods and get tuna for our lunch. (If my kids are smart, they will disable “Find your friends” on my phone—for me, it’s “Find your kids.”) I ate cottage cheese.

We went to Local Foods about 12:30, height of  the lunch rush. Got something for dinner tonight and headed to Central Market, where she realized she had forgotten to get chicken for Jacob’s supper. Got my groceries from curbside pickup and came home.

I have a bit of an ordering problem with Central Market. The website says, for instance, lemons are two for $1, so I thought hitting “Add to cart” put two in my basket. Not so—more than once I’ve gotten one lemon. So today, ordering four chicken thighs for a family dinner, I hit it four times. And ended up with four four-packs of chicken thighs—sixteen thighs is a bit much for an elderly woman who lives alone! Guess what Jacob is getting for dinner tonight while we have turkey burgers with pesto. Central Market was gracious when I called, handled it to my complete satisfaction, and gave me a hint about using the notes section to specify quantity.

Tonight we had a festive Valentine’s supper in the house with a proper table setting, as opposed to eating off the coffee table in the cottage. Jordan used red chargers and water goblets and added a bouquet of red, white, and pink daisies that Christian had brought her. Lots of chocolate for each of us, and Christian and Jacob had a great time guessing what was in various pieces. We found out Jordan does not like coconut!

I’m learning to adjust, and in the long run it was a good Valentines day. And, hey, the sun was shining today. Pretty cold, but it’s sunny.

A Day of Disappointments, or win some, lose some

            After my lovely day with Jamie, I was looking forward to a half day of girl time with Jordan today. We planned to do our grocery shopping early, which meant leaving at 8:45 to go with her to take Jacob to school and then on to the store.  We figured we’d have plenty of time to bring the groceries home and unpack, freshen up a bit, and head for lunch at Rise. It seems that grown child has never had a souffle, so I promised her lunch at Rise where they special in savory and sweet souffles. My mom fixed souffles frequently (my favorite was a spinach/cheese) but it is not a talent I picked up, and I do believe it would stretch the capabilities of my toaster oven.

With this schedule in mind, I pulled myself out of bed much earlier than usual, washed my hair, put on my make-up, got out the clothes I would wear, and only then fixed my tea and turned on my computer. And there it was—a message sent long before I was up saying she hated to do it, but she had to cancel. Work matters called, and she had to spend the morning preparing for a two o’clock appointment.

So there I was—all dressed up and no place to go. Often, in the face of disappointment and empty time, I turn to food—not necessarily to eat it but to cook it. I decided I would work this morning and pick up groceries at five o’clock from Central Market. And a splurge—I would fix myself Dover sole and an artichoke for supper. Even asked on the New York Times Cooking Community page for hints about sautéing sole without it breaking apart. That resulted in an order for a special fish spatula.

I went about my day, had a nap, and began to watch for a notice from Central Market that my order was ready. Nada. Usually I get that notice at least a half hour before the time I specified, but today it didn’t come. The time came and went, and I called. They had no record of the order. So instead of a sophisticated meal of Dover sole and artichoke, I will be having scrambled eggs for supper. I’ll pick up the groceries tomorrow around lunch time. Fingers crossed that the severe storms are, as predicted, all in the morning. Fingers crossed also because I’ve been invited to an al fresco dinner party tomorrow night.

I’ve just dipped my toe into a book titled Women Rowing North, by Carolyn Pipher. It’s for women transitioning from middle to old age, though she makes an interesting distinction between young-old-age and old-old age. She points to health crises as often marking that transition point. But the gist of her argument, I think, is that we make our own happiness, and with age instead of mourning what’s lost we should embrace what we have and find new definitions of joy. I’ve always believed that life is what you make of it, so I have no quarrel with this philosophy. But it strikes me as particularly relevant today.

The old me would have been distraught at the change in today’s plans and might not have handled it gracefully. But I know when I had hip surgery and then a series of illnesses that I feel were mostly an outgrowth of that event, I moved into old-old age, though I still like to think I look and act younger than my age (ah, vanity!). But the new me, this older me, is more able to roll with the punches, to take life as I find it and be happy with what I have. So I swallowed my disappointment and got on with the day.

I’ll keep reading, but so far—and I’m not far into it—Pipher’s book is not breaking any new ground for me. And Jordan? I know she feels bad and she thanked me a couple of times for understanding. All is good.

Chicken Fried Steak and Lessons in Grocery Shopping

You wouldn’t think after all these years I’d need a lesson in grocery shopping, but what I got today was at least a reminder. Last week I didn’t get to what I call a “regular” grocery store. I did curbside pickup at Central Market, but you don’t buy toilet paper or paper towels or the like there. So I had a long list of “household goods,” including some over-the-counter medications, such as a probiotic—darned expensive. The bill was, to my still-in-the-sixties mind, astronomical.

But Jordan and I had a good time, figuring what we needed for the holidays, planning dishes. Of course, there are a lot of things I want to make but time is running too short and who would eat them. On my list: taco salad, using the Chuy’s lime/cilantro dressing I made as a dip last week (we’ll probably have that for supper Monday night); Mac’s Salad, since we stopped at Michael’s today and bought containers of the dressing (Jordan got in the car and said one word: “Expensive!”). But then today I saw a recipe for sausage/gruyere balls—a twist on the ones I’ve always made with cheddar. Sounds delicious.

It’s amazing how much money and how many things one person living alone has on a grocery list. I tell myself it’s because I cook a lot—it’s a rare recipe that I can resist—and I cook once or twice a week for the family.

Even leaving Tom Thumb and Michael’s, we weren’t through. Went to Local Foods Kitchen for take-out for our lunch. A shrimp salad for Jordan (I am so frustrated that somewhere in life I developed a shrimp allergy, probably because I gorged on them). Tuna and a beet/orange  salad for my lunch, and shepherd’s pie for supper. It’s one place where the shepherd’s pie truly tastes homemade—not of preservatives, not of mass production. And the tuna was good—I’ve been off tuna for a while, but I liked this a lot.

And I still have a curbside pick-up order for Central Market tomorrow. Please tell me it’s the holidays.

I frequently check a Facebook page called Fort Worth Memories and History (please don’t sign up—you have to apply) because I enjoy some of the reminiscences, like do you remember the old Cross Keys Restaurant. Today I even asked if anyone remembers Papa John’s on 28^th Street? But someone asked for recommendations for chicken-fried steak, and I wanted to scream, “No, don’t do that again!” This morning when I turned on my computer there were 113 recommendations, and they’ve kept coming all day. And we just did this a couple of months ago. Pay attention people and don’t repeat the queries! I wish the moderator would not sanction such an inquiry again for a year.

I haven’t counted but I’d say West Side Café on Camp Bowie is the winner, but there have been some odd choices—a Cajun café, a bistro, places you’d never go for CFS. I remain firm in my conviction that the Star Café on West Exchange has the best ever. I may be prejudiced—friends of mine own it, and I spent a lot of Saturday nights running the cash register.  But the CFS is great—good tender meat, lots of crisp crust, and delicious gravy. And the atmosphere is great—Cowtown kitsch. I love the place. It’s on my bucket list for after the holidays, and we have several friends who want to go, so we may descend on them with a large party.

Meantime have a happy holiday weekend.  We dodged the high winds and just got a bit of rain, and I think it’s to be fair weather this weekend. Can you believe how fast December is flying by?

Pearl Harbor Day, a grocery list, and a dog

   

Roosevelt called it “a day of infamy” that will live in history. And yet today I saw relatively few mentions of Pearl Harbor Day, some seventy-seven years ago. I was too young to remember, but I was told the story more than once. I was playing on the kitchen floor while my mom cooked dinner, and my dad came home, stuck his head in the kitchen door, and announced solemnly, “The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor. We are at war.” For a veteran of WWI, as he was, the news was devastating. While others slowly grasped the consequences of war, those who’d been in the trenches in France and England knew immediately the horror that would follow. And yet, WWII would be a different war, with more efficient ways of killing men. Each of the two world wars were horrific in their own ways. We must never forget.

Rainy dull day today and chilly. I was glad to stay home and at my desk, putting off my run to Central Market for curbside pickup until tomorrow. I have been a holdout about grocery shopping, loudly proclaiming that I want to pick my own tomatoes. Megan uses a shopping service that lets her order as much as she wants, as often as she wants, for a minimal fee. I’m not there yet, but Jordan doesn’t want me to get in and out of the car with my walker unless someone is watching me—works fine when I meet friends for lunch or when I go to a doctor’s office where they send someone out to make sure I neither fall nor get mugged. But the grocery store has been a problem. I can hardly call Central Market or Tom Thumb and ask them to send someone to help me in. Still, Jordan has more demands on her time than taking me to the grocery.

Reluctantly I tried the new curbside pick-up at Central Market, and now I’m a fan. I’ve had no quarrels with the groceries I’ve gotten, and I find the people at curbside uniformly pleasant and helpful. Too often I call and add something at the last minute, and they willingly add it to my order.

But the big thing is that I am a much more cost-efficient shopper when I have the choice of items before me on the screen. Tonight, I realized that the brand of honey I usually get is two dollars higher than a comparable product. I compare cheeses, crackers, all sorts of things. Duke’s Mayonnaise, which I prefer because it’s not part of ConAgra, is less expensive than Hellman’s. And those good fresh spices—I can order an ounce and not pay eight dollars for a little jar of ginger that will go stale in my cupboard. There are some things the store doesn’t carry, and it’s not practical (or possible) to buy paper products there, so I keep an auxiliary list. But it’s much shorter.

The rain is not helping Sophie’s allergies, and the poor dear wants to be right by me when she doesn’t feel well. So I am treated periodically to coughing, throat clearing, and other less pleasant sounds. She’s psychic and considerate about my sleep and waits till I wake from a nap to jump up on the bed and thrust her face into mine. She paws at my hand until I scratch her head. I am always leery of one of her coughing spells—don’t want her spitting up on my bed. But nothing dampens the bond between us—she stares at me so intently, I know she’s telling me she loves me, and I assure her I love her.

Life is good with a dog.

There ain’t no free lunch—but groceries? Maybe.

Yesterday a friend and I went grocery shopping. Whereas many people dislike grocery shopping, I'm one that loves it. It's one of those things I could manage by myself but it’s easier with someone helping. I can’t handle bags of groceries from a walker. As we checked out, we were each given a long-stemmed rose (really long). Betty said it was because they like and appreciate us as good customers. I rarely shop there, but I didn’t turn down the rose. Gave it to a friend I had lunch with.

Betty and I went to the store in her car, transferred the groceries to my car at her house, and I came home. I had specifically asked for refrigerator things to be put in plastic (I usually eschew using plastic) so I could loop my fingers into the handles and get it into the house. Jacob brought the other groceries in when he came home last night.

I had wondered about the blue fabric bag—looked like more groceries than I bought, but I didn’t really pay attention. Gosh know, Idon’t need another fabric bag.. When I unpacked it, I saw things I had not bought, including a 1.5 liter bottle of soft drink which I would never buy. This morning called the store ad explained I got someone else’s groceries and would be glad to bring them back. The manager with whom I spoke said she’d come out to the car to get them.

But then Betty called, and I thought she said she should have left that bag in her car. So, bingo! They were Betty’s groceries. Wrong. She said she already had her bag. I was getting mixed up between the bag and the contents, and I’m not usually that thick in the brain, but she had a hard time getting me to realize the bag and its contents were a gift from the store. So I cancelled the grocery run. Surprised the manager didn’t mention that, but when I called her back, she said “Oh yes. Did you get a rose too?” I considered going back to bed and starting the day over.

Actually turned out to be a good day—I got a lot of work done. It amazes me the small details and chores that crop up and keep me from my writing, but I knocked them out and spent a lot of time reading background material. I now have a fair handle on the life of Clara Driscoll, “Savior of the Alamo.”

And tonight, dinner with three close friends at a renowned enchilada place that was new to me. It was good to catch up on everyone’s doings. Lots of political talk. If we thought it would end after the election, we were wrong. Of course, some returns are still being counted and recounted, but I have a feeling the level of citizen involvement—and outrage—will continue. And that’s a good thing.

Cold weather coming to Texas. Bundle up, everyone.

Tidbits from a day gone mostly right

March 23, 2018

I’m here to testify weather does make a difference in your disposition. Up earlier than usual this morning, partly because I couldn’t sleep and mostly because I suspected Jordan would want to leave early for our Friday morning shopping trip. She did, and while I wouldn’t say we were either one grumpy, we weren’t exactly happy and chatty. We dropped Jacob at school at went on our way.

By ten o’clock, I was back home, having been to the grocery and the nursery and checked out a site that worried me—found out the latter will be a piece of cake. More about that another time. Grocery shopping was fine, but the nursery was a joy, if expensive. We got two large ferns to put by the “front” door to the cottage, a geranium and two pots of fountain grass for the patio. Tomorrow is planting day Jordan tells me. It’s a joy to know that spring is settled in enough that we can put these plants out, clean the patio, and move into the “summer living room.” Got to do something about mosquito control this year! Next: coreopsis for the bed under my office window--it's the first thing you see when you drive in the driveway.

The rest of the morning I put off a call that I thought would result in hours of computer research for me, checking on ISBN numbers for my books. Every book has a unique number (International Standard Book Number), one for digital, one for print, one for audio. One company that I was dealing with told me I could neither correct one nor post a new book because the number was already in use. A ten-minute phone call solved three problems—they retrieved the information from their stored files, posted my books, and all is well. So a shout-out to Draft2Digital, a company that posts books on various digital platforms for indie authros, doesn’t charge their authors but takes a cut of the sales. It’s such a pleasure to do business with a company where you are not put on hold, shifted from one tech to another, and they solve your problem quickly—and, oh yes, the tech spoke clear English. I love dealing with them.

And I placed my first order for curbside pick-up from Central Market. It was an adventure. List in hand, I called, prepared to discuss my specific preferences etc.—did I want my bananas green or ripe, my avocadoes soft or hard (actually neither were on my list). Turns out you can only order online. So I checked into the site and proceeded. Like any new site, it was a bit confusing, and it took me two phone calls, but I got it done and next time will be easy. I ordered two cheeses, some ground lamb, cottage cheese, and dried thyme. The latter was my biggest problem—I didn’t know how much an ounce is so I ordered two. I now have enough leaf thyme to last a lifetime. But still a lot cheaper than buying dried out thyme in a jar at the regular grocery. I put my generous bag in the fridge to keep it fresh.

I learned as I went. For instance, I started out browsing dairy, but I really didn’t need to browse all the many dairy items to find cottage cheese. So I figured out you can go to product and type in the specific item you want. Cheese, for instance, is offered in blocks of a specific weight—need more? Order two. There is even a place for you to add a note for your personal shopper—about those hard avocadoes, for instance. I opened a new account which earned me four pickups free of the $4.95 service fee.

I’m not a grocery snob, but there are simply some things I can get at Central Market that I can’t get at Tom Thumb, Kroger’s, or Albertson’s, like ground lamb, pecorino, and the bulk spices. You pay through credit card when you order, so the order was easy for Christian to pick up on his way home from work. Warning: order at least four hours or the day before you want to pick it up—or better the day before.

So it was a good day of groceries and work and learning lessons—and spring, glorious springs. Turning my attention to a menu for Easter brunch.

Haste makes waste

Remember the most famous line from the prose poem, Desiderata: “Go placidly amidst the noise and the haste . . .” Most days, now that I’m retired and only semi-mobile, that’s what I feel I do. I see others, even my retired contemporaries, who are always behind, always worrying about being overloaded, always stressed. I set my own deadlines, so the only pressure is self-imposed, and I’m good at avoiding that. Usually.

Not today. To begin, my day started much earlier than usual, well before seven in the morning. I was to be ready to leave at 8:30 for the school run to drop Jacob off, then a hurried grocery trip to Central Market, all in time to make a 10:15 doctor appointment. It started off badly because, though I was ready, we didn’t leave until 8:50. Jordan’s missing wallet caused the delay, but it was finally located. Then we hit every red light, every snarl of school traffic.

Got to Central Market and Jordan started to pull a motorized cart out where it would be easier for me to get into. It was a new model, and she couldn’t make it work. Frustrated, she tried one of the older models, but it dragged the newer one with it. Conquered that, headed for the vegetables, and I almost ran down the same lady twice. Somehow that lady and Jordan reached for new potatoes simultaneously or something. Next thing I knew, I was watching the two of them picking up tiny potatoes from everywhere. While I sat.

At this point, Jordan turned to me and said, “I believe the Lord is telling us to slow down.”

Our frantic shopping came to a grinding halt when my motorized cart ran out of juice. There I was, stranded in the cheese department. The cheese monger called for a new cart, but I sat there in solitary splendor for a while. Central Market profited just a bit, because I impulse-bought some salami and cheese that was handy to where I was. A new cart arrived, and we finished our shopping.

The doctor appointment was one of those where you wait for the doctor to ask what’s bothering you, you say nothing, and he says everything’s fine and he’ll see you in three months. And you’ve spent an hour and a half waiting to hear that.

Believe me I was glad to get back to my cottage, away from the noise and haste.

Tonight, a peaceful, relaxing dinner with an old friend, both of us ex-wives of osteopathic physicians, both of us mothers of kids who grew up together. But these days we don’t talk old times much. Our talks are blessedly forward looking, and I am grateful for that. A pleasant evening. And, oops, I forgot all about the lemon juice when I served the lentil soup. It was still good. I put a dollop of sour cream in mine.

Peace, my friends.

Good food, good friends, despite the rain

This is getting monotonous. More rain, more cold, more gloom. Today, for the first time since last Sunday, I got out of the cottage and went—wait for it!—to the grocery store. Actually, a trip to the grocery is one of the highlights of my week. I like to pick out the items I want. My kids have wonderful intentions, but they come home too often with the wrong things—wrong brand, etc. I guess I’m picky. These days, the fun of driving that motorized cart adds to my shopping experience. A checkout clerk looked at me today and said, wistfully, “I could never drive one of those.” I assured her she could and would come to love it.

Today, I was doubly grateful for the scooter. We parked just a tad farther from the door than usual, and as is our habit, I walked in on Jordan’s arm. I guess it was the rain, but my hip began to hurt, and by the time we got to the vestibule of the store I was sure I couldn’t make it any farther. I stopped by a door, held on to the frame, and said, “I’m going to stay right here.” Jordan got a grocery cart and, holding on to it, I was able to walk to the scooters. But the incident upset me and stayed with me all day. I’m not sure yet if my hip failed me or my will power.

We did our shopping and went to Eatsy’s. For those who don’t know, it’s a marvelous take-out grocery. Pastries and bread in one section, “designer” sandwiches in another, a small cabinet of sushi, a long refrigerated cabinet of cheeses and snacks, lots of wine everywhere, a take-out dinner station featuring catfish as the Friday special, a coffee and tea bar. My favorite is the counter in the middle with prepared a la carte items—I got a crab cake (the saleslady, asked to choose between salmon and crab, said, “The crab is awfully good”), a goat cheese/potato croquette, a couple of slices of Mediterranean rare roast beef (at $36/lb. but I figured two small slices weren’t that much), and a mustard potato salad. Salivated at the oversize cookies at the checkout counter and now wish I’d gotten one. Jordan got wine, cheese, the same potato croquette, some shrimp. We feasted for lunch, but I have the crab and the potato cake for supper tomorrow.

This evening Jay, my handsome neighbor, brought his sister over for happy hour. Enjoyed meeting her. They come from a large family—seven children I think—but all seem extraordinarily close, which delights me. I made a salmon dip, but no one ate much, and I put it on toast and topped it with a slice of smoked salmon for my supper after they left.

Tonight I’m going to be lazy but tomorrow I must tackle my tax preparation for the accountant. I’ve done some of it, but it still looms as a big job. It’s supposed to storm again tomorrow, and I suppose whether or not I got to the funeral of a close friend’s sister-in-law depends on the weather. Jordan doesn’t like me out in slippery weather, and today’s outing discouraged me a bit

Hurry on, sunshine, where are you?

Gratitude for a sunny day, grocery stores, and dogs

Funny what a difference the sun can make. I slept soundly and woke in a much more cheerful mood than the previous two dull, cloudy and wet mornings. Carried that mood with me all day.

This morning, out of necessity, Jordan and I traded church for the grocery. Habit is sometimes a terrible thing. For years, I’ve shopped for groceries on Fridays—that to me was the way of the world. By today, without groceries, I was feeling a little pressure, though I had the three things Jordan once said our house couldn’t run without—wine, cottage cheese, and Paul Newman’s Own Vinaigrette.

We shopped at the fairly new Tom Thumb near downtown where the aisles are wide enough that I can steer the motorized cart with ease. Because I’ve shopped at another store for years, my list is never suited to the arrangement at Tom Thumb, but I like the store, feel their meat is fresh—holding out for Central Market for hamburger. Shopping is always fun for me, and I am adamant about choosing my own groceries. I like certain brands, etc., and never quite get what I want when others shop for me. My oldest daughter urges me to subscribe to a shopping service, but the idea holds no appeal. Guess I’m old-fashioned. My Canadian daughter last night kept urging me to use Uber, so as not to be dependent on Jordan. I’ve used Uber with my kids but don’t quite have the chutzpah to do it on my own.

I’ve taken a two-day vacation from writing to do odds and ends at my desk and read. Such a staycation doesn’t do much for the word count, but for me it often results in new ideas, and I’ll get back to the manuscript tomorrow with new scenes in mind.

I know I promised not to talk about every sermon, but gosh—they’re so spot on. Having missed church this morning, I watched the livestreaming version in the early afternoon.. The sermon was on gratitude, and the line that stuck with me is that gratitude changes the way you see the world around you. I’ve often thought some of the most bitter and unhappy people I know don’t see the glorious happy world that I do. Dr. Russ Peterman suggested that we do a little spiritual exercise at the end of our day—thanking God for what we’re most grateful for in the day and then thinking of what we’re least grateful for. I hadn’t ever thought of talking to God about what I wasn’t grateful for. Sound like complaining to me, but oh boy, do I have a list..

Tonight, we had family dinner, always a chance to feel the blessings of being together.  Christian fixed a crockpot dish of Mexican-marinated chicken, black beans, and rice, and I contributed a salad. Somehow, we rehashed old family stories and secrets. Sort of interesting but disquieting. Sophie got terribly upset and kept pawing at me. I said I thought it was the tension in the conversation, particularly when we talked about my eye surgery scheduled for this week. Jordan and Christian both have engagements outside the home the night of surgery, and I jokingly accused them of planning to go off and leave me. But our voices got loud, not in anger, but I still think it upset my dog. We can never know what goes on in their minds, but I know that she’s very protective of me in her own way. And, of course, very spoiled.

When I was going into the house for dinner, Jordan went ahead with an armload of stuff to carry. I came along behind more slowly, getting my walker out of the cottage, etc. Poor Soph sat on the patio outside the door, torn—she wanted desperately to go in the house, but she wasn’t about to leave me. Such unquestioning loyalty is beyond price. I don’t think I could live without a dog to greet me, to listen to me chatter, to look at me with those adoring eyes that say, “Please love me.”

Scary Moments and Placid Gardens

Scary moments this morning. McLean Middle School, where Jacob is in sixth grade, was locked down. Although we were late for a doctor’s appointment, Jordan insisted we’d drive by the school (it was on the way). About three blocks away, we saw a cluster of police cars, an ambulance, and a TV van, along with a group of people held back by barricades. A helicopter circled overhead. But at the school all seemed quiet. Still, a police car was stationed at every intersection nearby.

Jacob texted and was, understandably, scared. The morning dissolved into an onslaught of texts and emails. While waiting for Jordan to come back and pick me up, I got an email from TCU: two people had been shot, one survived. The shooter was on the loose. He’d been sighted near the middle school and then near Albertson’s Grocery—right where we were headed. Apparently, the incident was a disagreement between three adult roommates, none of them connected to TCU.

We got the grocery to find business as usual and one lone officer standing in the parking lot. Jordan speculated on whether the shooter could be hiding in the back of the store. Unlikely. She finally decided we should live on the edge and shop. We did, uneventfully, and on the way home got word that the lockdown was lifted.

Still haven’t heard tonight if the shooter was found, taken into custody, whatever. It didn’t seem to be on the local news I watched. I did hear they didn’t believe he was still in the area, a “belief” that is not much comfort.

Came home to my yard, where ground cover has been installed in a large portion of the yard. It looks great, and Christian, who is enthusiastic about the whole thing, says the biggest plus is that they carted off all the rocks which were in the yard—we live in an area of extremely rocky soil. 

Shout out to John Filarowicz and his Five Star Landscape Company.They did an excellent job, left a clean site behind them, were polite when they were here. With a nice neighborhood twist, both John and his wife, Sara, grew up in our Berkeley neighborhood and Sara was Jacob’s first-grade teacher at Lily B. Clayton Elementary, across the street from our house. I couldn’t remember her first name this morning, and Jordan said that was because we always heard Jacob call her, “Mrs. Filarowicz.” Keeping it in the neighborhood is sort of like keeping it in the family.

Sophie of course could not resist this morning. She did not tiptoe through the tulips—she romped and ran through the ground cover, merrily chasing squirrels. Both the squirrels and the dog were energized by the cold weather.

I am delighted by the ground cover, which is protected with a heavy layer of mulch, because when it takes hold we won’t have a mudhole in the half of the yard where it’s too shady for grass. Sophie has been bringing in mud, too often depositing it in my bed. I suppose now I’ll get mulch in the bed, but it seems less objectionable.

Tonight, the Christmas lights blaze, the yard is peaceful, and I suppose the shooter no longer lurks in local streets. We’re locked in, just in case. Stay safe and warm, folks. It’s another nice wintry night.

Groceries and other excitement

Big outing of the day was to the grocery store. We’ve found a new one—literally a new Tom Thumb, close to downtown where so many urban dwellers live these days. Its aisles are wide, and it’s rarely crowded. Perfect for my motorized cart adventures. Having been out of town most of the past week, I didn’t shop much last weekend, so my list was long today and my basket ended up full. Jordan and I separated, with the result that we bought two of some things, but that was easily straightened out.

I know a lot of people dread shopping, but for me it’s fun. I envision all the things I can cook with what I buy, and I have to restrain myself from buying—oh, say, eggplant. Nobody eats it but me. But I bought blackberries, which I intend to pickle. I never heard of pickled blackberries but in the last week I’ve found two recipes for them—one called for fish sauce. I’ll used the other recipe. I think I’ll put them in a salad.

Tonight, we had a dinner specially for Jacob, because tomorrow he goes to camp for two weeks: asparagus, which he just discovered he liked, to my great surprise and delight. And breaded and baked chicken fingers. His Aunt Lisa fixed both the last night we were in Tomball, and he anxiously added items to our grocery list so we could duplicate the meal. Hats off to Aunt Lisa for cooking success. And, since he told me he still likes it, we had sparkling cider, known around here as kid wine. Dessert? Drumsticks, which I bought specially because Jacob liked them. Tonight, he decided he wouldn’t eat them because he doesn’t like them. Then he seemed to change his mind and say later, but not now. By glory, I’m going to have mine now.

My political thought for the day: several senators are up at arms about the way President Trumpf is treating AG Jeff Sessions, and I’ve seen Facebook posts expressing sympathy for him, praise for his hanging tough. I abhor the way Trumpf is treating him, as I would that treatment of any person. It may be political—I’ve seen suggestions Trumpf is waiting until Congress recesses so he can fire Sessions and name a replacement without Congressional approval. I’m inclined to think though that this obvious daily humiliation is more the cowardly expression of a small man’s petty anger.

But I cannot summon up sympathy for Jeff Sessions. He is a holdover from the sixties, at least, a man who believes in the supremacy of straight white men, the degradation of minorities, and the second-class citizenship of women. His stance on immigration, police search and seizure and other things appalls me. He would take us back in time and undo the progress this nation has made, painfully and slowly, over fifty or so years. He must have known what kind of man he was signing on to support, though I will say the depths to which Trumpf has sunk have surprised most of us. But, no, no sympathy for Jeff Sessions.

Besides, he really does look like Granny from “The Beverly Hillbillies.”

Let the celebration begin!

My birthday is in another week, but celebrating began today, when Jamie and my second oldest grandchild, Eden, came over from Frisco for the afternoon and dinner. It's not a major birthday, so I didn't expect much of a celebration, but Jamie will be out of town next weekend. Mel and Eden will come over for family birthday.

But first Jordan and I went grocery shopping, which has become a real adventure for me. I drove a motorized cart again. The first time, when I moved but did not destroy a display, the woman who fixed it was grumpy, never looked at me nor acknowledged my profuse apologies. Today we went to a different store, and an employee brought the cart out to the car. After she saw me settled in it, she said, “If you knock something down, don’t worry about it. Happens all the time. Just holler.” I had a great time driving around this store which had wider aisles and fewer dump displays. I didn’t bump into anything stationery nor any customers, and the same woman came to collect the cart at the car. She told me I should have backed up to the car door (I explained I’m not yet good at backing); she scolded me about keeping hydrated in the heat, and when I turned in my seat and reached to close the car door, she said, “Get back in there You don’t need to be doing that!”

Jamie and Eden arrived about one-thirty. They intended to leave Frisco at eleven, but some things came up. Jamie is always later than his original plan and will be the proverbial man who’s late to his own funeral. They were on target for twelve-thirty but didn’t like my lunch options and went to the Mexican Inn on their way in. He had said they’d shop in the afternoon, but he really didn’t know where, Edie wasn’t much interested in Tyler’s, and I’m not much of a shopper, especially now that I’d be using the walker. We pretty much hung out at home, which was better anyway. Swapped “Remember when” stories and had a good time. Jamie wanted to take a Black Forest cake home with him and went to pick up the only one they had—serves 20 and cost a fortune. We had a nice dessert after our dinner.

We had supper at the Tokyo Café—Edie, my favorite vegetarian, loves sushi. I thoroughly enjoyed lobster roll and salmon sashimi, and Jamie ordered three different rolls, pronounced it a good place to go. Nice dinner, and a bit of serious philosophical talk, mostly about the place of religion in our lives. When I said I didn’t believe in hell, Edie’s eyes lit up and she said, “Neither do I, and all my friends do.” Score points for me as a grandmother.

They’ve gone back to Frisco now, and Jordan is in the house watching two little boys. I’m catching up on the odds and ends of a satisfying day and more than ready to go read in bed.

There’s nothing to say

I haven’t been a good blogger lately. My life seems humdrum, so I have nothing to say. That’s not a complaint—I enjoy a quiet life. But it seems all I’ve done is go to doctors and physical therapy, with an occasional trip to the grocery store thrown in. Not the stuff of riveting blogs. Today I went to physical therapy, and it absolutely wore me out—which I take is a good sign. Tonight I took two giggly, weird nine-year-old boys to dinner at the Old Neighborhood Grill. They elected to sit at the far end of the table, and I think the adults were most glad.

Maybe I’m just in a humdrum mood but I eagerly awaited the State of the Union address, rushed the boys through an earlier dinner than usual, and then found it less than riveting. It just didn’t live up to all the hype that had preceded it. Maybe it was because I only listened with half an ear.

Why do we think there has to be something exciting every day? Something blog worthy? Maybe it’s okay to go along quietly enjoying the days. Life can’t always be lived at the high peak. It’s just that I trapped myself into this blogging every day mode. So if I miss a day, please excuse me.

Tomorrow may be better. I have interesting lunch and dinner dates.

How's your energy level, Grandma?

This is a post for my colleagues--those beleaguered grandparents across the nation. Yesterday afternoon, eight-year-old Jacob and his classmates finished two days of the SPAAR tests. Jordan left work early to get them at school and bring five little boys here for treats. You could almost reach out and touch the energy in that room as they ate, drank bottled water, joked, screamed, laughed. Jacob got so excited he choked on who knows what. Jordan took it all in stride, laughing with them, joking, encouraging them to remember manners. There were all good boys--I've known them for four years now or most of them, and they're generally polite and well behaved. But they were on an energy high.
I stood in the doorway and watched them, admiring my daughter's patience. Okay, I raised four children, all close in age--been there, done that. But now, I don't know I have the energy or patience for it. Jordan loaded them all into her car and took them to Central Market where there's a wonderful playground, and the moms can sit and order wine. She reported they had a blast. I took a nap after they left, before I went out to dinner.
The night before I took Jacob to a happy hour. The group that regularly dines at the Old Neighborhood Grill had been invited to one couple's new condo for wine before dinner. It just so happens that Jacob really really likes the guy with the new condo, so he was excited about going, cancelled baseball for himself, and brought his favorite new shirt to wear. He was charming during the happy hour and afterward at the Grill--talkative but not too much, fairly informed on what he was talking about--school testing, etc. Quiet, well-behaved, the perfect gentleman.
I on the other hand was out of sorts--long story--but when we got home, all of Jacob's pent-up energy burst loose. He sang, he shouted, he danced, all while he was supposed to be doing a bit of homework and getting ready for bed early. His joy was not a good combination with my irritability--I didn't have the energy for patience. But we got it together, and he went to bed at nine. Earlier than I can ever get him down. Then at 9:20 he was back--the neighbors' party was keeping him awake. So he danced around, doing silly imitations of the people at the party. By then, he made me laugh. Finally both the party and the child quieted down, and when I went to bed he was sound asleep.
This afternoon I mentioned to Jordan that I was tired--I had been to physical therapy, which tires not only your muscles but your brain and emotions as it challenges you to ever more difficult tasks. That was close to an hour and a half. Then I did a huge grocery shopping--we had apparently run out of every cleaning product we use--and I hauled it all in and unpacked it. And you know what my daughter said when I mentioned I was tired? "We have to work on getting your energy level up."
So, come on grandparents, speak up! How's your energy with grandkids under ten? Not what it was forty years ago when you were raising their parents? I'm sort of proud at my energy level at my age, and I took offense. I think I'm doing pretty darn good. How about you?