Sunday evening supper and tears near the surface

 

One of my favorite pictures. 
John and I enjoying a happy time at his ranch.

Renee came for Sunday supper tonight, and we had a high old time talking about everything from Jacob’s upcoming prom to osteopathic medicine. Sunday supper is a longstanding tradition in my family, the sense that it should be just a little bit better, a little bit different from ordinary supper. When I was living at home and my brother gone to college or the Navy, Mom rolled her tea cart into the living room, in front of the fireplace, and we had a casual, light supper—a souffle or cheese strata. Today, Sunday supper is still special—we try to have everyone home and the menu is carefully chosen. Tonight Christian cooked an Asian beef and green bean stir fry, and, mixing cultures a bit, I fixed a Lebanese potato salad. Christian didn’t think the two would go together but admitted tonight they did complement each other

But tonight it was the Sunday suppers of my children’s high school years that were much on my mind. My big brother, the patriarch of our family, died yesterday morning at the age of ninety-two. He was my last surviving blood relative and the man I knew all my life would protect me. Everyone asks how I am, and the answer is “fine, but teary.” John and I have lived in close proximity probably more than not—as children, of course. He went to boarding school as a high school junior and was never home again, but in 1961, he declared I needed to get out on my own and took me off to Kirksville, Missouri where he was studying osteopathic medicine and his wife was working on a master’s in English. I too worked on that master’s. That move set the course for my life, including marriage to an osteopathic student and a doctorate in English. I moved to Texas in 1965, and he to Colorado in 1966. In 1980, he moved to Fort Worth to join the faculty of the Texas College of Osteopathic Medicine.

In the early 1980s, John and I found ourselves both single with six teen-agers between us. Sunday suppers became an institution. We gathered at my house each week, inviting stray people we thought needed to join us—the parents of my goddaughter often, a good friend recently divorced several times, the kids’ friends. I fed anywhere from ten to fifteen those nights. Presence was required for the kids unless they had a job obligation, which some did. John presided over the table, led us in grace, and ceremoniously served the meal. Table manners were strictly monitored,  mostly by John, and I’m proud to say today all six of those kids have great table manners.

I loved cooking those dinners. Mostly they were a success, though sometimes not. I remember a turkey Wellington recipe which I have long since lost to my regret, and I distinctly remember one night I did a marinated butterflied leg of lamb (I must have thought I was a rich woman). Sometimes we had a turkey or a casserole or whatever I chose. One night, when my office was working on a regional cookbook, I fixed a cornbread/hamburger casserole I’d found the recipe for. John took one bite, looked at me, and asked, “Sis, is the budget the problem?”

Probably though the kids most remember the conversation. John went around the table, asking each person perhaps what they were grateful for or what they had done that week. No one was allowed to shrug it off—you had to have a cogent, intelligent answer. The classic that everyone laughs about to this day is the time we were asked what we were grateful for. Megan had brought a new beau to dinner (in retrospect quite brave of her) and the young man stood (his first mistake—none of the rest of us stood) and said, “I am grateful for Megan and her beauty.” The adults managed straight faces, but the teens couldn’t handle it. To this day, everyone laughs about this.

Today, Sunday dinner is served around the coffee table in my cottage, a far cry from that crowded, formal dining room on Winslow Avenue. But John will always be at my dinner table—and in my heart. We had our differences, particularly political—how he grew up in a staunch FDR/Mayon Richard Daley household and turned out a conservative is beyond me. But we learned, especially in our golden years, to put those aside in favor of our strong bond. We loved to talk, for instance, about the Indiana Dunes where our family had a cottage or Chicago, about which these days I am more nostalgic than he was.

John was sick, mostly bedridden for over a year, and our togetherness, such as it was, was always by phone—he lived south of Granbury on his ranch. We talked every few days, and I always ended the conversation with, “I love you.” It was hard for him, and he’d say, “Back at ya.” So here’s back at you John!

Counting my blessings on Easter Sunday

 

Jacob and Eva today

For complicated reasons, I did not go to church this morning but watched online. The rest of the family went to the nine o’clock service and sat in the very front row with two couples who are their good friends and to whom I feel close. And one couple had their daughter, Eva, with them. Jacob and Eva have known each other all their lives—born two months apart—but
rarely see each other these days. For several years, we had an Easter tradition of brunch at the house following the nine o’clock service (a couple of years it was the sunrise service!). Covid called a two-year halt to that, so it was fun to see the two of them together again. And to

Jacob and Eva
2014

be with the adults.

Some year in between

I admit I got a little teary, the good kind of tears, seeing them all sitting in the front row. The Burtons have not been back to church in person since pandemic, so it was an occasion. They had worried about getting seats—the Easter services are always overflowing—so I laughed that they were in the front row. Hope our minister friend noticed. Even online, the service was lovely, the sermon good (“the worst is never the last” which sounds like a more intellectual way of saying what a physical therapist said to me not too long ago: “God’s got you!”).

The music was glorious (and would have been more so had I been sitting in church in person). The melody and words to so many old hymns are firmly fixed in my mind from childhood. I was never much of a singer (neither my dad nor I could carry a tune, but we sang heartily, making up for melody with volume) and now, with age, my singing voice is weak. But watching at home, I could sing along—and I did. They sang “Jesus Christ is Risen, Alleluia!” and another familiar one—my mind just went blank—and then the Hallelujah Chorus. I did not sing along with that but I was much impressed by a soprano in the choir who closed her music and sang from memory. She had a strong voice and pretty much carried those extremely high parts.

Everybody adjourned for brunch—a noisy, happy affair with several conversations going at once, but lots of fun. It was potluck and very good, though we repeated some of the dishes at a traditional mid-day dinner with Christian’s family. Different folks, but still lots of laughter.

There was some picture taking, and it provided, for me, the only sour note. Five or so years ago we had taken a picture of me with the girls who went to church this morning, so nothing would do but we duplicate it. Then there was a picture of me with the guys (including Jacob) and finally, one of me with one of the guys which again duplicated one from several years ago. I had taken care with my hair, fresh and clean, and I had on my new sunflower shirt (a tribute to Ukraine), so I smiled my way through the pictures. I have to say, defensively, I have never been photogenic: my grandfather used to tell my mom the only place he would hang her picture was in the barn because she took such a poor picture (parenting has changed, thank goodness). I think I inherited that mindset from my mom. For several years Bobbi Simms was half mother/half friend to me. She also as the kids said, “Told it like it is,” and she used to worry about why I never look as good in a picture as in real life.

Today’s pictures were pretty bad. I look like a pale but puffy old lady with wispy thin hair. Not at all how I feel or think of myself. I will only share one, but you’ll see the contrast between me and those vital women in the forties. Two resolves: I’m going to put on make-up more often, and I emailing my haircut person tonight.

I hope, if you celebrate, that your Easter was as full of blessings as mine. Remember, the worst is not the last. The ending is up to God.

Some Cowtown Memories

A lifetime ago, forty-one years to be exact, I sat in my house in Park Hill and heard my then-husband utter an expletive, followed by, “Sleet!  I don’t want to hear sleet!” But indeed, that was what he was hearing.

By early the next morning, Fort Worth was a world of white, streets covered with sleet, snow, and ice. Joel left home at something like 4:30 or 5:00. Not too much later, I bundled up four children, one barely three years old, and we slipped and slid in my ostentatious “doctor’s wife” Cadillac (can you believe I drove that thing?) to the North Side for the first ever Cowtown Marathon. Joel was a founder of the race, and I was part of the publicity team.

At the coliseum, I turned the children loose—to this day I can’t believe I did that or that I even made that drive, but I did. One of my children swears to this day he’s suing for negligence. Fort Worth’s North Side was then not as bad as it had been, an area of derelicts, bars, and who knows what else, but neither was it that relatively safe tourist attraction it is today. The rest of the children assure me that each year at the marathon there was a band of children who stuck together. They roamed the tunnels alongside the river under buildings on Exchange and who knows where else they went. I didn’t see them until late afternoon. I guess they got lunch. I know the older three, ranging from nine to six or seven, looked after Jordan, the baby.

Joel did not run. In fact, he did not get to run his own race until three or four years later. Somewhere I have kids’ T-shirts that celebrate that first marathon, with a caricature of Cowtown Charlie. Joel always thought he was Cowtown Charlie because the cartoon figure had a mustache similar to his. I think to this day it was Charles Ogilvie, Uncle Charles at our house, who was also TCOM faculty and ran marathons into his eighties, always winning his age group (not much competition).

Me? All these years later, I can’t exactly remember what I did all day, but I know I ran my tail off. Some years a radio station brought a big RV to the site, and I had fun going in to talk to the deejays, giving them up-to-date news about the race. Surely, I was at the finish line when the first runner came over, and I remember assisting the race chair at the awards portion that capped the day.

That was the pattern of our marathon days for four or five years, until Joel and I divorced. Determined to prove that I would not be shoved aside, I worked the race one year after the divorce, but it was no fun anymore, and I resigned from the committee. But I like knowing that I had a bit part in the race’s history, and that Joel and Charles had major parts. The organizers, all from what was then the Institute for Human Fitness, were TCOM folks, people I knew well.

So each year the marathon makes me nostalgic. Those were good days, and good memories. Tomorrow it will be better weather, though not perfect—chilly enough in the morning that runners shouldn’t overheat, but it is predicted to get to sixty degrees. Hot for running, but better than sleet. Jordan will host a small cheering party on our front porch—the halfway or thirteen-miles point is just a few doors from our house, and a good friend is running. I’ll join them, and I will cheer for our friend, but I also will cheer for a lot of people who have now passed out of my life and for a time of happy memories.

Pumpkins, barbecue—it must be fall

Tonight was the annual pumpkin carving on the Burton front porch. Ideally, the idea is that everyone eats pizza and some appetizers—broccoli and cheese bites, hummus, cheese, sausage—and then the kids carve the pumpkins, while the adults sit around, drink wine, and visit. That’s not exactly how it worked out.

Jacob had the first finished pumpkin, and it was great. But he had drawn teeth into it. My explanation of how to carve the teeth didn’t work. After he had created a toothless mouth, he said, “Oh! Now I get it!”

With the younger girls—and one boy—there were lots of squeamish faces about cleaning out the insides of the pumpkins, though Jordan had gotten a marvelous scooping tool.

And you know who ended up doing most of the work. The moms.

The evening turned cool, and I didn’t last long on the porch, but it was fun.

A random email from someone named Jack Thompson asked me to mention his web site, BroBBQ. I looked at it and found a really helpful interactive diagram of a beef cow—hover over any one section and it tells you all about the cuts from that part of the animal, how they are cooked, etc. Then there is a page of recipes for various meats—beef, chicken, ribs, etc. I haven’t figured out what the site sells or how they make any money, but it’s worth a look.

Thompson says he is dedicated to all things BBQ and was once told: “Whatever you do in life, do it slow and steady like when you barbecue your beef cuts, because the best BBQ is slow cooked.” 

Check it out at http://brobbq.com.

Cooking for company

This was a cooking day, the kind I really enjoy. Oh, I got time in for some computer work and a nap but primarily I was preoccupied with this evening's meal. Jordan had invited friends of theirs, with a son Jacob's age. It both pleases and flatters me that she wants her friends to eat my cooking at my table. But she always comes an hour early to make sure the house is to her liking (I actually had straightened my desk and done a few things like that). But she lights candles, moves this here and that, and fusses. And she gets  bit uptight about it--I know the thing to do is wait quietly until she has a glass of wine. I only fussed when she turned on the a/c thinking she was just lowering the temperature.
We debated over the menu a lot--from a down-home casserole that is a family favorite to a fancy fish dish. I was told that our guests like seafood, so the final choice was sea bass cooked in parchment and seasoned with ginger, soy, sake, and green onions, rice, and stir-fried veggies. That meant a morning trip to Central Market to get fresh sea bass. It was a simple meal, but I spent much of the day putting it together--making the soy/sake sauce, cutting up veggies, making an appetizer of goat cheese and wasabi, cooking broccoli so the young boys could have plain broccoli while I mixed ours into the stir-fry. I had set the table last night, so when I finished chopping and fixing, I had a wonderful tuna sandwich and a great nap. (I'm afraid to say this aloud but I sleep so well lately!).
Our guests arrived, we had appetizers on the deck, and then I realized the husband had to leave early to catch a plane, so I rushed to make packets of sea bass, stir fry the veggies, and get Jordan to fix the boys' supper (Cane's chicken, broccoli and rice). I was worried that cooking sea bass filets for 10 minutes in a 400 oven might leave them underdone--turns out I did them for 15 minutes inadvertently and they were perfect. I think the parchment contains the moisture.  Anyway, it was a successful dinner and met with lots of raves. Dinnertime conversation was lively and entertaining--for some reason we got off on the JFK assassination and various aspects of it.
One guest left and the rest of us sat around having a great discussion about this, that, and the other thing over vanilla ice cream with chocolate/raspberry liqueur sauce. A perfectly lovely evening.
Jordan is wonderful about doing dishes--I helped on the fringes but she basically had the kitchen cleaned while I was packing up the few leftovers and putting dishes away. We make a great team--but then we've always known that.
The event of the evening: Jacob's loose tooth came out. He's been worrying it loose for days but refused to let anyone touch it, in spite of threats, promises and whatever. He and his dad were roughhousing tonight and whoop--there it came. Such a tiny tooth to cause so much fuss, but it did leave a gaping hole in his smile.
Tonight I am thankful that I have kids who value my company and want me to meet their friends and cook for them. I love my friends my own age, but it's a blessing to have friends of all ages. One of the many blessings of my life. Thanks, Jordan! Life is good.