Cooking on a sad weekend

 

Life has revolved around Sophie this weekend. She was her bright sunny self Friday night, soaking up love and affection from Jordan’s friends Chandry and Marj, who said they came to see me, but I think they really came to check on Soph. Saturday morning, Sophie enjoyed the activity around the cottage—Zenaida was cleaning, and Climmy Reynolds hung a new flexible screen door on my patio door. But Saturday evening, Sophie was again lethargic and disinterested in food. We gave her the “I didn’t eat my supper” dose of insulin which seemed to perk her up. We fed her, including bits of hamburger and some canned green beans, which she loves. Turned out that was not such a good idea.

During the night, she wanted out at three but went into a far corner of the yar and ignored my pleas to come in. So I woke poor Christian. When she wanted to go out again at five, I held firm and crated her. This morning when I went to let her out, she was almost catatonic and had thrown up in her crate. She has gone downhill a bit all day—wandering with no idea where she’s going or what she wants, collapsing into the grass in the yard (I can only think it’s soft and comfortable for her). We’ve had great debates about what to do—I called the emergency clinic but when they said they might hospitalize her overnight, I decided she’d be more comfortable at home. She hates the clinic. I will call the vet first thing, but I suspect we’ll help her over the Rainbow Bridge tomorrow. The best thing we have done today is to surround her with love. We talk to her frequently, love on her, but it’s hard to tell what she understands.

House made
corned beef hash

As usual, despite the trauma with Sophie, a weekend means cooking. I posted before about my cooking fail—the St. Patrick’s Day corned beef that was tough, good flavor but tough. Christian minced the meat and brough me about half a cup. I diced a medium Yukon Gold potato and boiled it until tender, sauteed onion, and made my own hash. Having grown up on canned hash, I recently found a version from Nueske’s Applewood Smoked Meat in Wisconsin and realized how superior it is to canned. But it’s pricey. So, however, is good corned beef—I had splurged on our St. Pat’s piece because it was uncured (I had to look that up but it means no artificial preservatives—just natural herbs and salts as opposed to chemical). My house made hash was, however, delicious, and I’ll do it again.

Aunt Amy's 
giant hamburger

Saturday night Renee came for supper. I was rather proud of the meal—Aunt Amy’s Giant hamburger, Louella’s rice, and house-made refried beans (okay, they were canned but it was a new technique, and we thought it worked well). Jordan, Christian, Renee, and I laughed and talked until after ten-thirty, but we always had one eye on Soph. That was when she seemed to rally, but I knew deep down she was off a bit. Still, we had a lovely evening, trading stories and talking about everything and nothing.

Tonight, I had prepped a roasting hen—Christian spatchcocked it for me, and I spread herb butter under the skin and set it in the fridge to dry a bit. I roasted it on a bed of potato, carrot, and onion. The vegetables were sweet and wonderful, the chicken tender and flavorful. At one point I questioned whether or not I should cook the chicken, but Christian said, “We have to eat.” And we three ate heartily—Jacob was off practicing his golf, with a tournament tomorrow. Christian is like me—very few things can deter us from thinking we have to have breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I like an orderly day.

Tomorrow will be a difficult day, but I think Sophie has given us a sign. I’m at peace, though awfully sad. I feel she has gone to a place where I can’t reach her, though she does respond to her name. And for a bit on the patio with us tonight, she looked around with interest, reminding me of all the evenings she has been so excited for happy hour on the patio, particularly if there were guests. She has been the funniest, silliest, smartest dog I ever had (and that’s a long list of dogs). She’s been stubborn, demanding, difficult, affectionate, and absolutely adorable. And she’s had a good dog’s life, almost her every wish fulfilled. An easy traveler and ready to adjust to almost any situation. I will miss her terribly and will be flooded with memories. But what I’ve said before holds true here—I am blessed with happy memories. There will be tears at first, but they will mellow into remembering all the fun and loyalty.

Pray for us, please. The whole family is devastated, and Jordan and Christian have once again been wonderful.

The joy of being compulsive

 

My first cookbook.
Now I'm part of a larger project.

I’m writing the foreword to a recipe collection from Story Circle Network. It’s going to be a neat book—each recipe is accompanied by a backstory from the writer who submitted it, and most of the stories are fascinating. Plus many recipes seemed to call my name. The collection will be called Kitchen Table Stories II and will be available in November.

I had roughed out a foreword and was waiting for the text of the stories and recipes. Yesterday I received an email with all that, and last night I read through it with a a great deal of enjoyment. But the manuscript came with a request to have the finished essay in by the end of the week. Nothing I like better than a deadline-not. I made notes as I read and by the time I went to bed (midnight) I pretty much knew what I wanted to say.

Here's the compulsive part: I was awake from four to six-thirty in the morning, writing and rewriting that essay in my head. I’d try to focus on something else, but my mind would go right back to kuchen and pierogi and wartime rarebit, radish sandwiches and Hungarian baked cauliflower. Finally just before six-thirty, Sophie woke up. Letting her out and feeding her broke the cycle, and I went back to bed and slept soundly for another two hours.

Those early morning hours are my witching hours. That’s when my brain gets stuck in a cycle, and I rethink and rethink the same problem or idea. Sort of good for writing—I was able to write the foreword easily this morning—but not good for peace of mind or sleep. Someone sent me a link to the National Geographic special on 9/11, and I want to watch it tonight, but does that mean I’ll re-live that day over and over in the early hours of tomorrow?

Mary V. came for supper tonight, and we had a good catch-up visit, talking about everything from food and restaurants to the Queen’s death and politics from national to state. Mary being a political scientist, she always gives me new information and new insight. I’m able to update her on restaurant news, but I don’t think she’s much on cooking, so I don’t offer to share recipes. She’s getting ready to go on a National Geographic trip to the Galapagos, and her travel consultant—that would be Jordan—just happened to be here, so that was fortuitous. Mary had some kind of problem (I tuned out) that Jordan promised to take care of it tomorrow.

I fixed a chicken casserole. It’s always nice when company likes your cooking, so I hope Mary won’t mind if I say that she had three helpings. She really liked it, and so did I though I contented myself with two servings. Served with small green salads as a side on the plate. Mary doesn’t do sweets and always turns down desserts, but I surprised her with fortune cookies tonight. Her fortune was better than mine, which was something to the effect that adversity is good for you. I guess that helps now because I feel I have plenty of adversity. Good to know that it’s working to some good end.

The saturation of all things royal continues on TV, and I have gotten so I only keep one eye on the set. I was glad though to see Harry and William walk out at Balmoral with their wives—not reconciliation but maybe a first step. I am still upset by criticism of the Queen. One woman wrote that the Queen had lived off the spoils of colonialism, even if she hadn’t fostered it. Since Elizabeth was the only royal ever to volunteer for military service, I thought that specious—she repaired military vehicles during WWII. And running the monarchy is not exactly eating bon bons and reading Silver Screen all day, but I shall give up that argument. Most people are genuinely mourning Her Majesty and praising all things good about her. To the critics, I repeat: separate the Queen from the 400-year-history of the Monarchy and see her as an individual.

King Charles is off to a good start, according to an article I read today. He has already been much more public—and touchable (literally)—than his “beloved Mama.” He is expected to travel between now and the state funeral—I didn’t quite understand if he will visit former colonies or what, but I have read several times that several colonies, tied to the empire by loyalty to the Queen, are now considering status as republics. I wonder if that isn’t part of what Charles had in mind when he talked of a slimmed down monarchy. We certainly live in interesting times.

And if I’m going to mention interesting times, I cannot omit the Ukrainian victories on the battlefield. It’s like David and Goliath, except that the Ukrainians have paid an awful price in human lives and destruction of the infrastructure for these victories . God love their spirit and determination.

My ideal outcome: Donald J. Trump in prison for life for treason (okay, no firing squads anymore) and Vladmir Putin tried in the Hague for crimes against humanity.

Not problems we have to solve tonight. Sweet dreams, everyone.

A day of off timing

 

Ever have days when it seems you’re either early or late for everything you do? That was me today. Yesterday Jordan raised a glass and toasted, “Happy Friday.” I replied, curmudgeon-like, that Friday didn’t seem any different than any other day to me, and she replied, “It should. I’m a different person on Friday than I am on Monday.” So I took that lesson to heart and vowed Saturday would be a lazy, slow day\

It wasn’t. Sophie got me up before seven. She came right back in after taking care of business, and I harbored a hope that she’s learning she’ll get a treat if she comes right back. But she got me up again a bit after eight, and I reluctantly gave up and put aside thoughts of going back to bed. Still, I lazed through the morning, waiting for an 11:30 Zoom meeting. But about eleven several things landed on my desk at once—choose the newsletter issues to submit for competition, finish the half-written guest post on the food wars in Irene in Danger, and deal with the frozen spanakopita Jordan fetched from Mary who had brought it from the Greek Festival for me.

I connected to the Zoom session. Sponsored by the Grand Canyon Writers chapter of Sisters in Crime, it featured Delia Pitts talking about the importance of setting in mysteries. Delia, who has an interesting background as a journalist, a diplomat with the U.S. Foreign Service, and an educational administrator, is a former colleague. She served at TCU for several years, and we were friends, so it was fun a while back to discover she is now writing mysteries. We also have Hyde Park in Chicago in common—Delia also grew up there, and earned degrees at the University of Chicago, ending with a doctorate in African history. Check her out at http://www.deliapitts.com.

A lifelong reader who dabbled in writing since second grade, she has taken up the mystery genre and made it her own. Her 90-minutes presentation today was spot on—knowledgeable, lively, fun. She made me see some things about my writing—I too write short and always have to go back and add words, and I tend to write long dialogue scenes that float in space without trying the participants to a time and place. So now I’ll go back to the few words I have on Irene Keeps a Secret and read them again with Delia’s advice in mind.

I had tried to call Colin all day because he was to help me with a computer problem. I have that secure new password storage system, 1Password, so secure that it locked me out of paying my ATT bill and retweeting on Twitter. The latter not serious, but the former forced me to change the password on our joint account which always frustrates Jordan. So, when Sophie woke me early from my nap, I called Colin—no answer, so I gratefully called back into bed. Colin called about ten minutes later, and then I was glued to my computer. The fix took longer than I thought, and I began to look at the clock. I had company coming at five-thirty, and I was still in my pajamas.

‘Finally, I told Colin I’d have to leave him to the computer but would take my phone to the bedroom while I changed clothes. He had access to my computer, but he’d still ask me questions and I’d have to say, “I can’t look right now I don’t have any pants on.” I was sure Mary Volcansek was going to arrive while I was half-dressed.

She didn’t, put it was close. Colin got the computer fixed just before she walked up the driveway. I had made pan bagnat sandwiches (fancy French tuna sandwiches that you put in the fridge and weight down overnight) so fixing dinner was simply a matter of unwrapping the foil and serving the delicious salad Mary bought. We had a good visit, and she was on her way by seven-thirty. I felt like it was midnight and I had to go to bed.

I think there’s a sleep virus in the air, because I have been so ready to go back to bed all day. And I am again. Sweet dreams, everyone.

Growing pangs, dogs, and an anticipated guest

          

dogs in motion

  Last night as we sat on the patio, we had four dogs racing around the yard—well, Cricket didn’t race. She sat on whatever lap would accommodate her. But Sophie had a high old time running. She couldn’t quite figure out why Merry Berry was so fixated on chasing that scruffy old tennis ball, but she was glad to run along next to her and never did try to get the ball. I was doubly glad we’d put in the ground cover, because they can tromp through it and do no damage.

We also had two teenagers—well, if you fudge a bit for Jacob who will be thirteen in June—and it was a lesson in the different growth rate of boys and girls. Eva is two months older than he but at least a head taller. They played together back in the days when both were in cribs but have pretty much gone their separate ways these days, though they will always be good friends.

Today, as we worry under the threat of unpredictable and possibly severe storms this afternoon, we are preparing for the arrival of Dylan, my children’s half-sister. Her plane is scheduled to touch down right at 5:30—in the midst of not only those dire storm predictions but also rush hour. Jordan and Christian will pick her up, and Jordan is worrying ahead about being on the highway during a storm, while I’m worrying about Dylan and a rough landing or a diverted flight.

I do hope she makes it because I spent the morning fixing dinner. We’ll have my old standby and family favorite—Doris’ casserole. (Shhh! Don’t tell Colin! This is what he requests whenever he comes to visit.)

Probably over fifty years ago, my ex- and I were invited to a small dinner party—several residents in training at the hospital and their wives. The hostess, whose name was Doris, fixed a beef casserole that she got from the Mrs. America contest. It’s sort of like American lasagna—in fact, I have another friend whose family calls it that. It’s basically a meat layer, a noodle layer, and grated cheddar. It quickly became a standard for my family, its original boring name replaced by casual references to Doris. Once years later when I told Doris how much we like it, she didn’t even remember the recipe. Or the dinner party.

The casserole is a bit of a pain to put together, so I have come to think of it as cooking two separate meals. I fix the meat sauce layer and clean up my dishes; then I fix the noddle layer and clean up those dishes. It can be refrigerated, but I wait until just before popping it in the oven to grate the cheese and spread it. But today I’ve done it, cleaned all the dishes and my tiny kitchen sparkles, and I also cooked two artichokes (per Jacob’s request). We feast tonight.

Doris’ casserole has been featured in articles, blogs, a cookbook. It’s been shared with friends, including the late Bobbi Simms who tried so hard to convince me the noodle layer belongs on the bottom; no, Bobbi, it doesn’t. The casserole was even served at a luncheon at TCU once. If I am famous for any dish that’s it.

Watch for the recipe in tomorrow’s blog, http://www.gourmetonahotplate.blogspot.com

Keep an eye out on the weather and be prepared to take shelter. Stay safe.