Some random thoughts on food

Big Mac Salad
What could be more American?

I’ve been thinking about food—well, when don’t I always? But I’ve come to some conclusions, and one is about the way even a brief illness changes your perspective particularly on food, but also on sleep and life in general. As you may know, I had some sort of stomach “thing” that had me down and out for about thirty-six hours. I couldn’t bear to think about food, I lay in bed but couldn’t sleep, and I had little interest in anything from writing projects to politics which is, as you know, an obsession of mine.

But when I began to come back to myself, I found I was incredibly grateful for a boiled potato with butter, for sleep, for my own imagination. It was as though I had developed a new appreciation for the things I took for granted. Oh, I well know this is a temporary feeling, a bounce-back if you will. But for now, it’s nice to see daily life through these tinted glasses.

Just before my system rebelled, Jordan, Christian, and I had a calendar conference. Result is they have a busy October ahead—isn’t fall always a busy time as we head toward the holidays? I will be eating a lot of dinners alone. At first, I was sort of disappointed, but once I was on top of things again, I began to make lists—I would invite close friends for happy hour, so I began to list appetizer ingredients to have on hand. Then I listed things I would fix myself for supper. Starting with tonight, which will be fresh spinach and scallops sauteed in butter with a squeeze of lemon and maybe half a tiny potato left from last night. I’m going to make a tuna casserole, and one night I’m going to try to do corned beef hash as good we my mom did (don’t judge—I love it, to the amusement of my children). I’ve gone from disappointed to excited. Oh, I do have some things on hand for a couple of dinners with the Burtons, and I did print a recipe for beef tips with gravy that sounded good. Jordan was not so enthusiastic about a marinated kale salad with salmon, and while I agree I dislike kale, I thought this might be good.

Maybe that planning made me realize that my culinary tastes are going in one direction while those of my usual recipe sources, like The New York Times and Bon Appetit, are headed in a totally different direction. This morning the NYT featured cumin and cashew rice and sticky harissa wings. The Bon Appetit I just leafed through had tuna carnitas—can you just imagine Christian’s face if I served that to him? There’s a recipe for pancit sotanghon—some kind of soup, I believe. Cộte de bœf au poivre or pork schnitzel would probably be delicious, but they’d take a lot of work and might be impractical in my tiny kitchen. I have no idea what butter pav bhaji is (just looked it up—street food from India consisting of vegetable curry and a soft bun).

I’m beginning to recognize three things that I unconsciously bring into play on choosing recipes. Two are fairly straightforward: time and space. Much as I love to cook and to feed people, I don’t want to spend all day cooking, nor do I want to take on such messy, complicated things as dredging chicken in egg and flour (I can buy good fried chicken). And my tiny kitchen and limited supply of pots and pans dictates that I avoid complicated recipes that dirty every pan in a normal kitchen. Been there, done that.

But the third things is that given an unfamiliar recipe from, say the African continent, and a familiar American dish, I’ll choose the latter every time. Maybe this is somehow related to the disinclination to travel widely that baffles my friends, but that’s a rabbit hole I’m not going down right now. Truth is I love chicken divan and meatloaf and tuna casserole and a good bowl of chicken soup. That’s why I’m working on a cookbook about food from the Fifties, with recipes from my mom and my contemporary adaptation of some, along with some text about the Fifties, including those ridiculous jellied salads. Southern Living is more my style.

I can hear Irene making a snide comment. Okay, Irene, I like French cooking too. Look at all those recipes in your books!

Feeling fragile

 

Not to worry. I’m fine and not feeling fragile, but I’ve had some thoughts this week about fragility and aging. My brother, who is a physician and six years older than I am, has been telling me for several years that we are both fragile. As a lifelong proponent of positive thinking (seriously, I do believe in it), I have refused to accept that thought, let alone live by it. In fact, I’ve been known to err on the far other side.

In recent years, through bouts with kidney disease, a disintegrated hip joint, and atrial fibrillation, both family and doctor have suggested, not so gently, that I should be quicker to admit that I am not feeling well. My defense goes back to my mom, who taught us over and over about the little boy who cried, “Wolf!” A doctor’s wife, Mom well knew about doctors’ attitudes toward women who whined and cried about pain. And she warned us. She was definitely of the stiff upper lip school. I was never tested by the pain of childbirth, but with the pain of my disintegrated hip joint I apparently proved that I was my mom’s daughter, because I didn’t complain a lot, earning me a reputation for a high tolerance of pain (not sure that’s true). All of this is a long way of saying, I don’t think you make a fuss about being sick.

This week, as many of you know, I’ve had a chest cold. I cannot tell you how many chest colds I’ve had in my long life, but as a child I was “subject” to them. I have memories of spending long days in bed with a huge bottle of ginger ale, my mom rubbing my throat with Ben Gay or Vick’s and tying an old sock around it, my dad, an osteopathic physician, coming home to treat me and saying, “Hush. People pay me good money to do this.” (John confesses he used to lie very still under the covers and pray that Dad would think he was asleep—it never worked). A cold was just one of those things that happened—you got over it and went your merry way.

Out of deference to my family, this past week, I emailed my doctor to ask if I needed to be tested for Covid, rsv, or some other devastating disease I haven’t yet heard of (life—and sickness—was a lot simpler when I was young). He said no, not in view of my symptoms or lack thereof. The treatment for rsv is the same as for the cold, unless it gets suddenly worse. And that was where he got me.

I realized that at my age, the common cold, that annoyance I was dealing with, could suddenly turn worse and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. Ginger ale, Vicks, and Ben Gay weren’t going to help. And suddenly, there for a bit, I did indeed feel fragile.

Tonight, I am much better—almost “back at myself” as a friend used to say, but with a new realization. If I am not fragile, at my age I am more vulnerable. Which leads to two things: I need to be ever so much more grateful for every day of good health, and I need to be cautious. Many of my friends, who lead much more active social lives than I do, chide me for being reclusive, for being content in the cottage. I don’t seclude myself out of fear, and yet caution is a good reason for my lifestyle. A friend whose wife I see often has just come down with Covid—it would never have occurred to me to avoid her because her husband is not feeling well. And yet that’s the truth. I should be tonight at a festive dinner with three friends, so the four of us could exchange holiday gifts and catch up on visiting. I’m home, not because I don’t feel well enough to go, but because I still have occasional coughing spells that should send you running to the next county, and I didn’t think it right to inflict that cough on my friends, let alone unknown patrons I a restaurant.

Maybe life was simpler when I was a kid or maybe there were all those diseases out there, and we just didn’t know it. But this week I realized that I am vulnerable, and I vowed to continue being cautious.

Jordan sent me this chart to compare Covid, flu, rsv, and the cold. It is a public service announcement but was published by Cook Children’s Hospital. Perhaps some of you will find it useful—and reassuring.

Whine, whine, whine

 

Our redbud tree
with a youpon getting in the way.

This has not been a good day. In fact, it’s been the kind of day when I feel I ought to make a list of everything that went wrong. Little of it had a silver lining.

Sophie has been under the weather—perhaps literally because of last night’s storms. She did not eat at all yesterday, although she did take her two treats. Even turned down a bit of Velveeta—okay I had wrapped a Benadryl in it, and maybe she sensed that. What she did eat was grass—always a bad sign in a dog. If it made her throw up, she fortunately did it outside, because I never saw it. Of course last night’s thunder terrified her, and she wandered about the cottage in the night. She slept most of the morning, perhaps recovering, but did eat this afternoon.

Electronic woes beset me. It took me at least forty-five minutes to make a payment, due no later than tomorrow, on my new dental insurance. Since I have a dental appointment next week, I wanted to make sure it was paid. The site would not take my credit card and I finally had to give my bank information, which I do not like to do. Then I once again attacked the Credit Karma site that my Colin recommends. I couldn’t do it, gave up, and emailed him. Colin ended hosting a Teams meeting so I could watch what he did. After almost an hour, he decided the problem was that a freeze was on my credit records with the three main bureaus. My assignment was to lift the freeze. One bureau had no record of me, my birthdate, my social security number, my address, etc. According to them, I don't exist. A second one immediately flashed a screen that said it couldn’t process my request and to call them. At the third I went through the process of opening a new account, required because I hadn’t used the site in too long. I got all the way to verifying my identity and was stymied. Decided I failed the test. The ball is in Colin's court, though he doesn't know it yet.

I’ve been having hearing aid problems. Thought I had them solved, but today my aids would not let me hear on my phone. Resulted in some funny calls, like me singing, “Colin, can you hear me? Colin, can  you hear me?” Finally in exasperation he texted, “I can hear you, Ma.” I couldn’t hear him at all. I have an appointment with my audiologist Monday, but that’s a long time to go without talking on the phone. I already had a difficult time trying to talk to a doctor’s office today.

To top the day off I had a stomach problem—will spare you the details, but I won’t be eating dairy for a while. So much for the pecorino I will put on baked chicken pesto tonight for the others in my family. I love cheese and live on it, probably the problem.

So I’m looking for silver linings: Sophie is back “at herself,” I got to see Colin and talk with him today (no, I don’t invent computer problems just so I can call him, but it works well), and it’s a beautiful spring day. The trees that two days ago had little tiny bits of green now have that light green fluff of two or three inches that indicates leaves are on their way. I see a bit of green in the zoysia grass, which is always late to green up, and the redbud tree is in glorious bloom. And the sun is shining brightly—surely tomorrow will be a better day!

And here’s a day brightener for all of us. Gabe Fleisher of Wake Up to Politics reports that people became kinder in 2021, according to research from the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School. The World Happiness Report released earlier this month found that “global rates of helping strangers, volunteering, and giving to charity are nearly twenty-five percent above pre-pandemic levels.” So much for William Barr’s belief that mankind is inherently evil! If you don’t know Fleisher’s daily column, check it out at Wake Up To Politics It’s fair, accurate reporting from a college sophomore with a national news reputation. Good stuff.

 

 

 

Really, it only seems like winter

 

Our new Chinese Pistache tree
They tell us the stakes must remain for a year and a half

You’d think a kid from Chicago would find temperatures in the fifties balmy. And a little rain? Pfft—nothing to bother about. But it’s not true. I’ve been a Texan for over fifty-five years, and my blood has thinned. Tonight, I’m huddled in the cottage, whining about the cold wet chill. Even Sophie didn’t want to stay outside as long as usual. And for happy hour, when Mary came to visit, we had our first fire of the evening. Okay. It was in my tabletop artificial fireplace, but it added atmosphere.

My fireplace

And just before the rain hit this morning, we finally got our new tree, a Chinese Pistache, planted. I expected a professional crew; we got one man who worked alone but was most knowledgeable about trees and trimmed out all the dead on one in our back yard in addition to planting the new one. Yesterday’s confusion was due to one digit off on a phone number. When I called, polite but firm, I was told they’d tried to call me all weekend and couldn’t leave a message because my mailbox was full. I held firm, told them I had no record of attempted calls and my mailbox is never full. Turned out to be the mistaken phone number.

At happy hour Mary and Jordan both vented about their bad days—Mary with plumbing problems and Jordan who spent well over an hour looking for her lost keys. Tonight, she stood by my desk, talking about those keys, when she suddenly said, “I think they’re under your toaster oven.” And they were. When we came home this morning, she unlocked the door and threw the keys on the counter where they slid under the oven.

In contrast, I had a good day despite having to go for blood work, a trip I had come to dread after I was in the hospital and had to go every other week. Now, it’s been three months and didn’t seem so arduous. I am also fortunate and suffering no after-effects from my booster shot yesterday. Even the injection site is barely tender, and only twinges me occasionally.

Leftovers are so good!

Tonight, Jordan and I had girls’ dinner in the cottage. Christian was feeling punk from the booster, and Jacob was asleep, so we got the leftovers of last night’s Norwegian hamburgers and a salad. Such a good meal.

Rainy days are generally unremarkable. Life seems to go on at a quieter pace, with nothing interesting to report. I am still seeing praise for Gary Patterson who apparently showed up for work Monday morning because he had promised to help with the transition and he had the plans he had made for Saturday’s game against Baylor (I am not sure at this point how the Baylor fan in our house feels about that game). But, to me, that attitude speaks volumes: Patterson is a class act. I’ve also read reports about how he put his players’ education first—standing outside a classroom door at eight o’clock to make sure one or the other was in class, and calling to wake them if they overslept. I think what he taught those kids, beyond football, was integrity.

Voting reports trickling in are not making me jump for joy There are some Democratic victories—mayors of good-sized cities—but the turnout in Virginia is low, and that’s always a bad sign for Democrats. With the revelations that have come out in recent days about the organized effort, led by trump, to overthrow our government, I cannot fathom why anyone votes for any of his appointed candidates. But then, there is apparently a crowd in Dealey Plaza in Dallas waiting for the return of John F Kennedy, Jr.—yep, he who died in 1998—because they believe he is not dead, will return, will serve as vice-president under trump after the 2024 election, and then will be president. No one has apparently reminded them that Kennedys are Democrats. The number of people who believe such outlandish things is frightening, as is the number who still believe Biden stole the election. MY belief? Trump is certifiably mentally unbalanced and should be in an institution, though I’d love to see him serve the prison time he deserves for treason. Back in the day, I think we shot or hung traitors. He’s walking a thin line.

Supposed to stop raining mid-day tomorrow, so maybe the world will brighten up. Sweet dreams, y’all.

 

Mostly a good day

 

If you’ve lived in Texas long at all, you know the weather cannot make up its mind. Today was one of those days, supposed to be sunny and dry, a nice contrast to all the soggy days we’ve had. But then, about nine, Dan the PT man was here, and we were both riveted by the TV which showed a great green glob to the west of us—headed straight for Fort Worth and predicted to be here about 9:45.

Sure enough, the sky, which had been bright blue, darkened, and I waited. But other than a few drops, nothing happened. I think the storms were all to the south of us. I did warn happy hour guests that the patio might not be inviting, but by five o’clock, it was sunny and pleasant. There is no figuring out Texas weather. Right now, the sky to the northwest, which I can barely see over the housetop, is a wonderful warm peach.

But with gratitude for the sunny weather, I got to thinking what a good day it was. I had some encouraging medical reports—at least to my laymen’s eye they were encouraging. I’ll talk to the doctor tomorrow, but the indicators of my kidney health seemed in line. And clinically, my legs and feet are less swollen—still puffy, but not so much so that I am aware of them all the time. The PT nurse said she thought they were markedly improved since she first saw me a couple of weeks ago. And I felt good all day, something that hasn’t always been true of late.

But the big news is that today was launch day for the reprints of two of my 1990s historical novels—Libbie (Elizabeth Bacon Custer) and Jessie (Jessie Benton Frémont). They have been available in digital forms, but now they appear, from a new publisher, with new covers, in trade paper, mass market paper, and digital formats. To me, it’s a great compliment that the publisher (TwoDot, a division of Globe Pequot, which is a division or Rowman and Littlefield, or the other way around) thought them worthy of reprint after twenty-five years or so. It’s like welcoming back two old friends, whose life stories I know well. And to my further joy, the publisher is putting some marketing behind them, as am I.

The other nice news is that cowboy poet/singer/entertainer Red Steagall gave me a wonderful blurb for my book due in September, The Most Land, The Best Cattle: The Waggoners of Texas. The publisher, TwoDot again, wanted a second blurb, so today I asked Deborah Liles, history professor at Tarleton State University with a special interest in Texas ranches, and she readily agreed to blurb the book. I’ve become aware lately that she’s someone I’d like to know—we have a lot of interests and friends in common.

Good friends Phil and Subie came for happy hour tonight, and for some reason I turned cranky. So mad at myself now. I could feel it happening, but I seemed unable to stop it. We talked local politics, and while we are mostly on the same page, we disagreed about whether or not something was dirty campaigning.

Then on to a discussion of my need to renew my handicap tag and get an official I.D. since I no longer have a driver’s license—and I think I’m the one who brought it up. But it didn’t go well. After they left, I double checked to be sure what I had learned was true—I can take care of both pieces of business at the Southwest subcouthouse. But those errands have become a sensitive subject, as had my forthcoming dental appointment, and I would so love to have it all behind me. I don’t think Jordan would want me to do any of those things alone, because of the difficulty of getting in and out of the car and her conviction that someone will mug me while I’m dealing with my walker. But scheduling them cuts into her work time, now that the world is open again, so it’s a frustrating matter for both of us.

But I am truly sorry I let all that get to me with guests, no matter that they are friends of some fifty years and no doubt love us in spite of our warts and ill-tempered moments.

As I wrote this, the sky went from peach to gray, and night is upon us. I’m sure tomorrow will bring a brighter outlook on the world. After all, even in my funk, I realize I have so much to be thankful for.

Welcome rains and the power of imagination

No sign of rain this evening, although “pop-up thunderstorms” are possible, according to the TV weathermen. Yesterday I had no idea it might rain—first brief shower came while I was napping. But then, when Jordan and I prepared to sit on the patio with wine, the world darkened, and the gods began their bowling. Didn’t see lightning, but the thunder was fierce. It scares Sophie, and she takes it out with sudden, ferocious barking. We had two good, heavy rains.

I just had new grass put down in the backyard—it’s not a large lawn, because much of it is in ground cover and patio, but it was more than enough to challenge my pocketbook. The lawn care crew put down zoysia sod Thursday, with directions to water daily, twice daily if needed. So the heavy rain was a blessing.

I have a bit under the weather, and that’s frightening in this time of COVID. Mostly stomach issues, which led me to believe that it was a virus of some sort. But at three o’clock in the morning, it’s so easy to imagine yourself into all the symptoms of COVID. I did have a rash on my leg and other symptoms that could have been it but weren’t—no sore throat, no unusual cough (I always cough a bit from blood pressure medication), no fever. Still I felt I had to ask my doctor, even though I felt a little foolish. He was kind and gentle, assured me it was a transitory virus, unrelated, and since I was a little better each day, I am not communicable. I love being able to “talk” with my doctor via email—one of the great perks of modern medicine.

So tonight with my stomach feeling better, I’m going to test it. Jordan has gone for a weekend with her high school girl friends to a rental house in Blanco, so I am alone with Christian and Jacob. I will give them hot dogs, baked beans, and the potato salad I made a couple of days ago. A real Fourth of July picnic meal, only eaten inside. It’s pretty steamy outside, and we have a bad fly problem on the patio. Christian is enthusiastic tonight about some non-toxic fly traps that are found on Amazon.

Back to that problem of imagination. I am capable of all kinds of wild thoughts at three in the morning. When we first went into this corona virus quarantine, I would wake convinced that we were all going to die. I’ve since modified that opinion. My brother says he has three o’clock thoughts of, “Wish I hadn’t done that one.” I too have regrets—sometimes I fix on a lost love or a book not written and feel great regret. Why is it that three o’clock thoughts are always disturbing?

On the other hand, I can wake at six, go back to a deep sleep filled with dreams, and wake at eight with happy feelings. Sometimes I quickly forget what I dreamt, but other mornings I carry the memory around with me all day. When I worked in the TCU Press office, I used to recount my dreams. One was that a possum made its way into our office, and our production manager picked it up to carry it outside—when it peed on her. Ever after, she would say, “I sure hated being peed on by that possum!”

I am blessed that for the most part I am a sound sleeper and almost never bothered by nightmares or night terrors. Sometimes I dream that dream-within-a-dream where you know what you’re experiencing is a dream, but you can’t wake. I do have tenacious dreams—I’ll wake from a dream I don’t like, go to the bathroom or something to kind of divert my brain, and go right back into that dream. It’s like I can’t get rid of it.

Sometimes I write great fiction in my dreams, but in the morning, I either can’t remember it or realize that it was an impossible fantasy that would never translate into good writing. Still, I am blessed not to be an insomniac!                                                                                                                                                                                 

Dogs, diets, and an alarming start to the day

Before: Shaggy Sophie. After: slim and trim

Well, I got my day off to an exciting start today. I let the dog out before disabling the alarm; then I made it worse by leaving the door ajar so she could come back in. The alarm’s “voice from nowhere” was issuing me stern warnings while I stumbled around to find the remote control. Then the siren went off. Sophie howled and came barreling inside to pick up her chew toy from last night—I suspect her thought was if there was an intruder, he was darn well not going to get her treat. Finally, things got beyond the abilities of the remote, and I had to deal with the actual control panel. But I did get it all stopped, so I could make myself a soothing cup of tea.

I’ve been lax about posting on the blog for a couple of evenings, but I have had such a good excuse. Jordan has been out here talking to me most of the evening. We’ve talked about family and friends, people who make us joyful and friends who disappoint, birthdays and celebrations, dogs and kids—and of course food and menus. We laughed and got teary-eyed. And yes, we drank a bit of wine.

One big topic of discussion was Colin’s upcoming fiftieth birthday—a great jolt for me. But we just got word yesterday that the children’s half-sister from California will come for the celebration, and we’ve known for some time that Uncle Mark, Aunt Amy, and cousin Emily from the Bronx will join us. A wonderful, rousing family affair. I anticipate a lot of high jinx and laughter.

On one of these evenings, Jordan looked at me and said, “I’m really upset with you.” My heart sank. How had I overstepped the bounds of the mother-daughter relationship? But I burst out laughing when she said, “It’s the biscuits. The whole cottage smells like fresh-baked biscuits, and I can’t eat one.” I had baked a tube of Pillsbury biscuits to stash in the freezer for my breakfasts. Jordan is on a self-imposed “Whole 30” diet, so no carbs. I guess all is well in our relationship, biscuits aside.

I dislike this dieting that pops into our lives occasionally – Christian is on it too, and it severely limits the things I can cook for Sunday dinner, rules out a lot of things I’d like to cook. For this week, I gave them a list of possibles, hoping they would choose trout or a lamb stew; Jordan chose one of two chicken dishes. Christian hasn’t voted yet, but he did give everyone a good laugh when Jordan caught him in the kitchen complaining, “I’m so hungry! I’m so weak!”

I’m just old-fashioned enough to believe in a regular diet of three balanced and modest meals, and I harbor a lingering suspicion that alternating dieting and splurging is not good for the body. Of course, I was this fall in the enviable position of needing to gain weight, and while I no longer have that excuse, my doctor still says, “Your sodium is low. Eat all the salt you want.” Jordan and Christian came they are in recovery from the excesses of the holidays and the rodeo season.

A former neighbor was here for happy hour last night and kept saying how good I look, slim and with a sparkle in my eye and a sharp new haircut. I wanted to urge her to continue, but then she’d say, “You really look so much better. You didn’t look so good the last time I saw you.” I’m sure my voice was weak when I asked, “How long ago was that?” I don’t like to be reminded of my down periods.

For several weeks now, friends coming into the cottage have exclaimed about the weight Sophie has gained—I discarded the idea of putting her on the Whole 30 but did cut down on the size of her supper. Today, she’s back to being slim and trim, all due to a haircut. Bobo who grooms her said it was her winter coat, and he took it back a little more than usual this time. She seems to know and prances around here as if proud of herself.

A moment I wish I’d had my phone to take a picture: when I went to brush my teeth last night, Sophie lay between me and the commode, keeping guard. You must be protective when your human is brushing her teeth! I love life with a dog.

Dancing with my walker

A neighbor, sending an email about another matter, asked that question I hear too often: Are you walking yet? It was well intentioned, and I’m afraid my reply was a rant. Two years ago this month I had a rather bizarre surgery on my hip—the damage to the hip was such that the surgeon had to invent a new technique to repair it. And I’ll sing his praise loud and long, because  I have been walking, with a walker, since a month or two after the surgery, though full recovery took a lot longer.

But today I can dance with my walker—you should see my sidestep! (I have actually seen dance classes for people on walkers,though I don't' know of any around here.) The thing is, “Are you walking yet” is the wrong question. Yes, I’m walking. Is the walker going away? No, It’s a lifetime companion, and for a good reason. My balance was never a strong point all my life, and it’s shakier than ever now. And I have a semi-phobic fear of open spaces (and heights), so I’m a candidate for a fall. And before the surgery, I fell a lot.

Once before the surgery I fell in the parking lot at Central Market, and a man rushed to help, asking, “Are you all right.” I replied, “Oh, yes, I’ve fallen so often I’m used to it.” A bit taken aback, he said, “I guess, you’re a pro at it.”

The thing is that my surgeon has told me that another fall could render me bedridden, so he’s a big advocate for the walker. And so am I. It’s my security, my best friends. And it doesn’t keep me from doing much that I really want to do—I drive, I go out to eat, I shop, I run other errands. My life is full. So, “Ae you walking yet?” is the wrong question. I’m grateful for the interest, but the last thing I want is to be thought of as the “little old lady on a walker.” Think about hearing aids (yeah, I've got those too)--they don't change how you feel about a person, so why should a walker?

While I’m at it, the other questions I get is “How are you feeling?” Think about it. That’s not how you greet a friend who’s in good health. You may say, as my son did yesterday, “How’s it going?” or “What’s going on?” or, the question I like: “What are you writing?” Asking me how I feel implies that my health defines me, and I don’t want that to be the case. Yes, I’ve had some blips on my health screen—but I am over them, And to tell the truth, I’ve probably never felt better in my life.

I don’t mean to diss on those who ask, with genuine concern, about my health and well-being. I am grateful for the concern. But I am almost desperate to ensure that people not treat me like an invalid—or think of me that way. It’s an easy trap to fall into.

Crab cakes, a bet, and a chameleon

October 2, 2018

Remember those crab cakes I whined about not getting at Central Market? Sue and Teddy brought me some, and I had one tonight, cooked another for lunch tomorrow. The smoked salmon definitely adds a different taste, but it was so good. Sue, my Canadian sort-of-daughter, came for happy hour tonight, and I insisted on paying her for the crab cakes, over her objection. So then we bet—I don’t think Kavanaugh will be confirmed; she thinks he will be. We bet the $16 I paid her for crab cakes—she said she’ll set it aside and hope she has to return it to me.

I no longer have an excuse, I don’t think, for not eating what I don’t want, going to bed early, etc. Saw a nephrologist (kidneys) today, and she thinks I’m on the mend, especially since I’m feeling so much better and eating more. She had no firm answers to why I felt so awful during the summer and worse in August, but she made some educated guesses, and they pretty much confirmed what I thought. I still think digoxin, the cardiac medication, was at the root of all my problems. More blood work on Thursday to confirm that I’m getting better.

Panic moment of the day: I somehow saved a short file over the long one I’d assembled on the Alamo book I’m working on. Instead of a file of almost 10,000 words I had a file of barely 2,000. Calmed myself and reconstructed the long file under a new name—thank goodness I’d kept individual chapters before combining them. I figure in total I lost about 500 words, and I can reconstruct them. I remember where they were going.

Calm moment of the day: watching a lovely, bright green chameleon (may have been a gecko but looked a little large for that) climb up and down on the flexible screen on my patio door. Sophie didn’t discover this one—they drive her nuts when she tries to chase them—so I sat and admired him for a while.

Trivia recipe of the day: Fellow enthusiast of all things Scottish Ellen Kurtzman put me on to a three-ingredient fruitcake recipe. It calls for dried fruit, chocolate milk, and flour. I am intrigued by the use of chocolate milk. You make it in an 8-inch pan and it serves 30? Come on—Ellen says it’s rich and the servings are small, but how small? It’s a moot question—everyone in my house hates the dried fruit.

And on that note, good night all.

Pollyanna Dances On

Third night in a row out on the town. I’m dizzy with the excitement of it all. Well, not really, but it’s been fun. It’s Wednesday night, dinner with Betty night, but tonight we had a special treat. My longtime (at least forty years) friend Linda came in from Granbury, and the three of us went to the Wine Haus, had good wine, food from Chadra, and lots of catching up. Such fun. Glad to see Linda, who flits here and there about the world—from Dubai to Angel Fire to South Padre—and doesn’t make it to Fort Worth often enough. Betty and Linda both had pizza, but I indulged in lamb chops and mashed potatoes and ordered stuffed dates for the table. Too full to eat all the dates, but they were so good. Nice evening.

Comments on last nights blog made me realize I needed to clarify impressions of my life, lest I sound like Pollyanna dancing my way through life in bright red shoes, turning everything I touch to gold, every minute to joy. As I said last night, I’ve had my hard knocks: the deaths of my parents and several people close to me; a difficult divorce; a lifelong battle with anxiety (the doctor says I’m just not wired like other people—I don’t know how helpful that is). My heart has been broken by a couple of good men and bruised by a few not so good. I am neither a best-selling mystery writer nor a well-respected literary author—I’m just a yeoman writer. In the last three years or so I’ve had several difficult health crises, with the result that I can no longer walk without assistance and my vision is slightly impaired, my heart slightly off-kilter. I cannot hop in the car and go to the grocery or out for lunch. My outings have to be carefully planned, and I necessarily rely on others. Despite my joy in my cottage, I miss many things about life in the house that was home to me for twenty-five years, and despite what sounds like a gay social life, I spend long hours alone in the cottage. Some days loom long and empty.

But I choose not to write about those things. I choose, for instance, not to write about the heartbreak of a dissolving marriage but to focus on the joy I found in raising four children as a single parent—they taught me more than I could ever hope to teach them. I choose to be happy and to write about happiness. Like self-pity, happiness feeds on itself.

The best thing my ex-mother-in-law could say to others was, “I wish you a lotta luck.” I always wanted to scream, “I don’t believe in luck. We make our own luck…and our own happiness.”

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.

 

Meeting life with joy, or why do we blame ourselves?

Did you see the video of the 106-year-old woman dancing at the White House with the president and first lady? She was gleeful and so spry, said she’d always wanted to come to the White House and more recently to meet the Obamas. Now she was there in honor of Black History Month. Obviously, both the president and first lady delighted in her company, and one thing I must say to all his critics, from videos we see of him with the beyond-elderly and the very young, he is a man of compassion, grace, and love for humanity.

I on the other hand spent too much of the day having a pity party. It is now four days since I had the stomach virus, and the music lingers on. Saturday I felt great, last night with eight people for supper, I lost my starch—my neighbor came over to pull the barbecue, and Jordan, Susan, and Subie did the dishes. I ate but not much. This morning I woke feeling awful, got myself together once I got up and had a good and productive morning. But this afternoon and evening, my starch has gone again. One thing I know about a virus—it can linger and make you very tired.

But I also spent the day beating myself up mentally for giving in. I should, I thought, find the joy in life. It was all my fault for letting stomach issues get in my way. I should rise above. I also thought at times it was a sign of aging. I decided irrationally that my blog chronicle of the year would be of the year I aged—when in truth I’ve done so much else and really had a good year (I’m counting the year from my July birthday to the next, so it’s more than half over). Yes, I’ve had some health problems, and yes, I’ve probably lost some mobility but I’m working on improving it. And I don’t think my brain or my attitude have aged, so I’m going to ride out this pesky pestilence and stop blaming myself. I think it’s a trap we all fall into—blaming ourselves for things beyond our control.

Don’t mean to give the idea that I have the TV on all day, but sometimes I do most of the day with the sound muted, and tonight The Biggest Loser is on. I may not be in good shape, but I’m closer than some of the contestants. They are an inspiration to make me work harder at staying healthy and active. My resolve: back to Yoga. And stop feeling guilty.

Tomorrow is a new day.

Let the good times roll

Watch for it in print on Amazon soon--I hope

 For a lot of people I know, 2015 has not been a good year. Everything from deaths in the family, job problems to health and financial worries. For me, it’s been a year of poor health, principally problems with my low back and left leg and, of course, my balance. I began to think it was the year in which I suddenly become an old lady. With physical problems and the associated pain—believe me I did hurt some of the time—came depression, and I felt like I was becoming an old lady with a sour disposition. I had no energy and no ambition to do laundry, household chores, things around the house. In addition, my publisher went out of business, and all my mysteries disappeared from Amazon and other sources. So on both a professional and personal level, I’m glad to put 2015 behind me.

2016 is going to be a much better year. My neighbor, who has just started a new job, and I agree on that. I felt my depression lifting about a month ago, and now feel I’m back to being cheerful which is my normal state. A dear friend from out of town visited in early December and said, “Well, you seem just fine.” Jay, the neighbor, said, “You should have been around here the last four months!” But to me it’s like a whole new world.

I don’t hurt, and I’m going back to physical therapy next week, to restore my self-confidence and balance. I’m working on getting my last book on Amazon in print—proofing is taking me an extraordinary amount of time but the holidays do bring distractions. Then I plan to put the rest of the mysteries up as e-books, one every month so I’ll have something to crow about in publicity. And I will publish my historical novel about the Gilded Age in Chicago in the spring. It’s a heavy work load, but I can do it. Watch for news about The Gilded Cage—it’s a departure for me and a book I’m really excited about.

This year will also bring major changes in housing—the merging of the Burtons household with mine. So Jordan and I will spend many afternoons downsizing my belongings, and then I’ll live through construction.

Busy hands make happy hearts, and I expect to be busy and happy in 2016. In fact, I think something wonderful will happen, and I will live in anticipation.

I hope 2016 brings each of you magical good things.

 

Wow! What a day!

 I had almost back to back appointments with a physical therapist and my doctor. I, who am given to anxiety attacks, was off the wall about this. At the PT clinic, I called and asked the receptionist/girl-of-many-jobs to come help me in. She did willingly but said, “Wow. This isn’t a good sign.” I agreed. Actually the appointment went well; the therapist thinks he can help me with loosening my back, pain control (I don’t have that much pain any more), strengthening my legs, decreasing the swelling in my ankle which may help with the dropfoot, and best of all getting my self-confidence back. He did some heat treatment and ultrasound and had me do some stretches, after which he worked on my back. All gentle and reassuring, and I felt better.

Then I made a speed run to Jordan’s office to get her key to my house because I’d locked myself out.

Then back to my doctor’s office, which is just around the corner from the physical therapist. He is an astute observer—said my tremor was worse, so was my gait, and he saw a slight tremor in my face (oh, please no!). Sending me to a neurologist for a consultation but has no objection to my continuing osteopathic manipulative treatment plus physical therapy and for now not getting steroid injections. As for surgery, which the physiatrist mentioned, he said to my great relief that he’d want a lot more studies before that. And I said, “No back surgery.” I did learn at least one lesson from being married to a surgeon: surgery begets surgery. And I’ve noticed that’s particularly true for back surgery.

So I’m a bit relieved tonight. And if they find some organic cause for my tremors and lack of balance, I’ll be relieved to know that it’s not all anxiety, which I always thought it was and considered a weakness on my part. You know the old joke about the hypochondriac who died and had on his tombstone, “I told you I was sick!”

Happy hour, as usual, at the house—this time from four to almost seven. It cheers me to have people of all ages here winding down the day.

Enough about my health woes. No more until I have something positive to report. There’s a lot of work ahead of me.

Family weekend

With Megan, my oldest daughter

Where to begin? Two nights without blogging, and I’m rusty and out of practice. But my excuse for my silence is that I was having a wonderful weekend with most but not all of my family. My two oldest—Colin and Megan—arrived from Tomball and Austin within minutes of each other Friday night, without their spouses or children who stayed behind for soccer (rain cancel) and other activities.

Hayes, left, and Jacob
School rivalry starts early
 

We went to a Chadra Mezza down the street for supper. Took along a friend of Jacob’s so he’d have company. Dinner was slow in coming but delicious when it did arrive, and I just tonight finished the last of my spaghetti. We talked, laughed, and generally had a good time. Home for late night wine and talk and far too late to bed.

Next morning, farm-fresh eggs from sister-in-law Cindy. Everyone else had theirs scrambled but Colin poached one for me, and I had it on sharp cheese, buttered rye toast—nothing better! There’s such a difference in the taste of farm-fresh free-range no-antibiotics chicken eggs!

Purpose of the weekend was to make sure kids know all about my affairs, so Colin, Megan and I spent two hours in the early morning going over everything from insurance to income to I don’t know what. Colin is sending me a list of documentation he needs.

A little before noon the Frisco Alters arrived—Jamie and Mel and two girls—and we split: some of us went to Carshon’s, others to Ernesto’s, Jamie’s favorite taqueria. In the afternoon, TCU game—ugh, don’t mention it again—while I napped. And then supper from Railhead BBQ—as you can tell, we were well fed.

Along the way there were serious discussions, too many (for my taste) about my balance and my tendency to fall. I have a long list of doctor appointments to make tomorrow, and I have promised not to try and show off and walk without a cane. So a cane it is, all the time. I hope to get back to physical therapy and have made arrangements with a neighbor to run errands with me—not for me, since I want to flex my get-out-in-the-world muscles. I am optimistic about regaining both my balance and my self-confidence.

And I am so blessed to have children who care enough to take time out from their busy lives to spend a weekend devoted to my health concerns and securing my future. I cannot tell you how much I love them and how grateful I am for them. Colin called this morning on his way home to ask, “You don’t feel like yours kids are making decisions for you, do you?” and I assured him I did not.

One more blessing: my kids all love one another. Even on a weekend devoted to more serious matters, they had a wonderful time being together. And the grandkids share in that spirit. Jacob was so delighted he spent the night on the couch with Uncle Colin last night. The two Frisco girls—my oldest grandchildren—are delights and beautiful to boot. No sign of that teen-age girl rebellion I lived through with my daughters.

And me today? Walking much better but yes, using my cane! What a wonderful world!

The hip bone is connected to the knee bone…and so on

I’ve been musing on matters medical lately. For years I took a diuretic as part of a program to control my hypertension. In the last, oh, six months, it seemed the diuretic was messing up my electrolytes, so I went off it and began to take electrolyte supplements. Everything was fine until I took magnesium, which gave me embarrassing and difficult digestive problems in the extreme. It seems to me that my health problems are caused by medicines given me and not by my own physical state of well-being. My mind jumped back to the early osteopathic teachings of Andrew Taylor Still, with his insistence on looking at the whole man (holistic medicine as a concept was around long before Still pounced on it) and his firm belief that the natural state of man is health, not disease.

But there’s another side to the story. I’m not sure health is a natural state for people in our current culture, not even all those who work out religiously. We have to consider factors such as the stress of our fast-paced world, genetics, pollution, the foods we eat—even if we try to avoid them, we’re consuming preservatives, additives, too much sugar and salt.  All that may well have contributed to my hypertension which, left untreated, would most likely have killed me by now. Perhaps as modern culture has evolved (not always for the best), so has modern medicine. Makes me want to retreat to the woods with Thoreau for a life lived deliberately…and simply. Though my brother the doctor points out that in A. T. Still’s day the average life span was much shorter.

Still, recognizing all that, I cling to the idea of holistic medicine and the belief that health is the natural state of man. A friend recently went to a hip and knee clinic, fell, and broke his ankle. He was sent to the ER, had surgery by a physician who apparently knew about ankles, but when he went back to the hip and knee clinic to have his cast removed, the staff threw up their hands and said they knew nothing of ankles. How can you treat hips and knees if you know nothing of ankles? Doctors should be treating patients, whole people, not pieces or symptoms or diseases. Reminds me of jokes about physicians referring to “the gall bladder in Room 305” or “the heart attack in Room 221.” Sad but true—such conversations happen.

I recently wore an orthopedic shoe for six weeks because of a spontaneous fracture in my foot. Even before I was allowed to discard the shoe, my ankle was complaining, especially when I went down stairs. It had stiffened up and adjusted to a whole different way that I walked in that shoe. The doctor who treated me, an osteopathic physician, acknowledged that and said give it time. It’s been a week and a half and my daughter told me last night I still walk with a limp, especially when I first get started. The broken bone didn’t happen in isolation.

One of my sons-in-law thinks my medical theories are screwy (along with many of my other beliefs) and he said he wouldn’t want anyone working on his ankle who didn’t know about ankles. He missed the point that if you’re working on hips and knees you should know about ankles—seems essential to me. That same son-in-law has had a stiff neck since Christmas (when circumstances and his seven-year-old forced him to sleep on the floor). He went to our doctor and came away with an order for an x-ray and talking about a pinched nerve, which is I’m sure a term he has heard but doesn’t understand (nor do I). I think he needs an old-fashioned osteopathic or chiropractic treatment, a hands-on bit of medicine that can detect muscle spasm and the like. A. T. Still also believed the body had to be aligned correctly for health to dominate.

Good thing I’m not a doctor. I’m dangerous enough having been on the fringes of osteopathic medicine most of my life.

Lovely evening and a day of resolution

A dear friend of--what? thirty-five years or more?--came for supper tonight. We used to see each other once a week but now it has been since the holidays, so we had lots of catching up to do. And what better guest than one who brings dinner and does the dishes too? Linda brought a wonderful goat cheese/wasabi appetizer, chicken rolls stuffed with ham and wrapped in bacon, and a salad. All delicious. And we spent three hours catching up, laughing at old memories, working out current  problems. So wonderful to have such long lasting friendships.
And it was a perfect cap to the day that brought me some peace of mind. My doctor confirmed what I suspected--a transient alteration of awareness was a junk diagnosis. I had a transient ischemic accident, known to some as a mini-stroke. It left no damage, and I am back to normal. He is changing a medication, prescribing a new one, and advising an aspirin a day. Other than that, he said, "Go live your life. It may never happen again."
I am shaken by the fact that I had a TIA at an age ten years younger than my mom. I had always thought that it was a series of TIAs that sent her into senility and I dread that more than anything. But I guess I can't live my life in fear, so I'll go about my normal activities and thank the Lord for my good health. The doctor said that the fact that I take good care of myself and have had good medical care all my life probably meant that what could have been a stroke was only a TIA--my body compensated.
Jordan has been so wonderful throughout this, and she was with me at the doctor's office today. I am so very grateful to her and to my other children who have each expressed their concern in their own ways. Between children and friends, I feel surrounded by a cocoon of love, and I know I am a most fortunate person.
So tomorrow it's hit the grocery stores, get ready for Sunday supper for six, and move on with my life. Putting TIAs and health worries behind me.
I've sent thanks to many who expressed concern, but if I missed you, please know how much I appreciate it.