What’s that green, fuzzy stuff?

 

 

Today is National Clean Out Your Refrigerator Day, and I’m taking it seriously. You see, I have an inherited tendency to stick things in the back of the fridge and forget them. My mom, God bless her, lived through the Depression as a bride and young mother. It was an experience she never forgot, and the rest of her life she saved everything—bits of aluminum foil were washed and re-used; bits of string were tied into one big ball; paper towels, used once to clean a counter, were stored in a special place to be re-used for floor spills. And every tiny leftover went into a small jar—often baby food jars she’d saved forever—in the back of the fridge.

When the sad day came that Mom could no longer live in her own home, my brother and I cleaned out her refrigerator. And found all those jars with unidentifiable things—mostly never more than a quarter of a cup. But too many had mold, fuzzy, green, ugly. It took a huge garbage sack.

Mom thought I was wasteful: with four teenagers to feed, I chose leftovers carefully—a dab of this and a spoon of that just wouldn’t do anyone any good. Mom would say sarcastically, “I know, just pitch it!” Of course, the one dish that could make me save leftovers was soup. I grew up on what we called Soup of the Week—just clean out the fridge, throw all those leftovers together, add a can of diced tomatoes or some broth, maybe a can of corn or something, and voila! There’s a cheap, frugal dinner. My kids now remember liking it, though one did say, “Why did it always turn out brown?” Jordan’s boys, husband and son, won’t eat it, so it’s been a long time since I made Soup of the Week. Christian once said “I’d have to know what’s in it,” and I told him that was an impossibility.

So today, I decided to inventory my refrigerator—all those little jars at the back of the top shelf where I can’t really reach. Here’s what I found: enough pickle products to start my own store—cornichons, dill chips, two partially used jars of dill relish, pickled jalapenos (and I don’t eat jalapenos), and the remains of the red onion I pickled myself. An unopened, out-of-date small bottle of buttermilk I undoubtedly intended to use in cooking or a terrific salad dressing. An empty used container of Sophie’s insulin, in its box (the vet told Jordan to keep it, and she’s religious about it, so I don’t question). An out-of-date tube of crescent rolls, for which I once had some intended use but I have no idea what. One half lime, dried out until it is rock hard. Three remnants of sticks of butter, scattered throughout. A jar of duck fat—I thought I would use it for lots of things, but it didn’t turn out that way. Three jars of Better than Bouillon, various flavors. Two half empty jars of sauerkraut.  And that’s not counting the things I really do use, like cottage cheese, eggs, lettuce. Oops! I forgot to tackle the cheese drawer and the vegetable crisper, though the latter gets cleaned pretty often.

I didn't tackle my freezer either, but I keep pretty good control of it. Except, like my mom, I save every end of bread, that stray piece left out of a loaf, some baguettes that have gotten old. Here's a hint: dice all that bread, toss the cubes with olive oil and garlic powder, spread out on a sheet pan, and bake for 20 minutes at 350. Commercial croutons can't hold a candle to homemade!

If you look up National Clean Your Refrigerator Day, the web will caution that you should do this to make room for the turkey and all the holiday food coming up. Some unknown authority somewhere advises that you need soap and a bucket of hot water, a sponge, and a garbage bag. You are advised to start by taking everything out of the refrigerator. I just didn’t go that far, but the next time the wonderful Zenaida comes to clean my cottage, I’ll ask her to look at the  fridge. However, unless monitored, she’s liable to throw out things I want.

My refrigerator is sadly low on leftovers, which leaves me wondering what I’ll have for lunch—I’m thinking that Braunschweiger that’s only meh, with sauerkraut. But today I expect to add something good to the fridge: I have ordered freshly made corned beef hash from a smoked meat company in Wisconsin. Yes, I fell for Facebook marketing—the picture of that has in a skillet just looked irresistible. Christian said he’d eat it with me; Jordan said she has a dinner meeting😊I’m thinking creamed corn would be good with hash.

So what’s in the way back of your fridge?

Monday all day long

 

A thoroughly unremarkable day, even with the presence of Colin. He worked remotely all day from the dining table in the main house, appearing only when he let Cricket out briefly. He even ate the sandwich—an Anthony?—that he brought in the grocery store while sitting at his computer. I have no idea what an Anthony sandwich is and can’t remember what he said, except that he thought they were only available in Houston. Turns out he bought two—so much for leftovers, including the salmon patty I saved for him.

And more leftovers—for some reason we had an unusual amount of leftover carnitas meat last night. We’d had a little problem with it for which I take half the blame—it just didn’t look like enough water, so I added a bit more than called for. And I should have started it earlier because it takes a long time for two cups of water or more to evaporate. That’s my part of the blame—the other goes to Jordan and Christian who tried to hurry it up by raising the heat, which brought the water to a boil. So the meat began to stick. It was tender and the flavor was great, but it didn’t have that crisp crust we all like. Lesson learned: next time I will start it earlier and not add water.

Tonight I simply put the leftover meat in a skillet with some olive oil and browned it to get the crust. So if it was good last night, it was better tonight. And I put out all the trimmings—grated Monterrey Jack, chopped red onion, chopped cilantro, guac, sour cream—a veritable feat. And then I ate too much!

The day was considerably brightened by Phil and Subie who came by to visit with Colin. We had a lively, delightful happy hour. Now, Colin is back at his computer, Jacob is at the driving range, and I am getting sleepy.

One other bright note, I guess, is the firing of Tucker Carlson by Fox News. But I view that as a blessing that might backfire. Carlson will only find another platform, probably sooner rather than later, and continue to spread his evil. The comeuppance is nice but won’t last. When Jacob came in for supper tonight, he was laughing about having heard someone say Carlson would make a great candidate for vice president. Heaven help us all. It was amazing how quickly his “parting of the ways” dominated all news sources. Which only makes me think it’s a bad indicator of where we are that someone of his ilk can command so much news space.

Which also reminds me that today when I replied to a friend’s comment online that I can’t understand why some Democrats are wishy-washy in their support of President Biden, the friend replied, “Lazy news media.” I hope that’s the answer, because I think he’s done great things and his policies are making America better. I know some are afraid of his age, but that offends me. I am eight years older than Biden, and I hope no one is betting that I’ll die in the next four years. I might, but so might any of us. Have a little faith, folks. I am pleased that the Democratic Governors Associaton has declared their wholehearted support for the president.

Yawn. On that note, I’m going to bed. Yes, it was Monday all day long.

Eating leftovers and buckling down

 

An Easter family portrait
of the Fort Worth branch of the family

Easter, holy as it is to some of us, is one of those days that leave you with a hangover the next day. Not from too much bubbly or wine, not even from too much food, but simply from the exhilaration of the day—the often grand, overwhelming Easter story and the accompanying church services (ours was, with magnificent music and a thought-provoking sermon on the resurrection), the fellowship of family and friends, even just the big break from routine. So here I am this Monday, eating leftovers and trying to get back to work.

First the leftovers: who can complain about a devilled egg for breakfast, a sandwich of sourdough bread and salmon rillettes for lunch with a bit of black bean soup, and a scrambled egg with ranchero sauce and some spinach casserole for supper. Plus a bit of matzo crack, though I have cut off small pieces and avoided being piggsh about it. My leftover meals meant little cooking but lots of dish washing—worth every minute of it.

On my writing circle listserv this morning, we all posted our plans for the week—we do that every Monday, and I find it’s a great way to keep me focused. If I commit to something in the group, then I feel honor-bound to follow through. This morning, I noticed there was a strong sense of getting back to routine, starting something new, buckling down. The renewal of Easter carries over into so many areas of our lives.

For me, I committed to work once more on all the material I’ve found about Helen Corbitt, doyenne of the kitchens at Neiman Marcus, she who made dramatic changes in Texas food and nationally. As some may remember, I’ve been struggling with this project for more than a couple of years. I finally wrote a draft of a nonfiction book but came up way short of the suggested 75 K words the editor suggested. So I backed off, wrote an Irene mystery, and then went back to it. Rewriting got me another 10K words, still not anywhere enough.

For the last two or three weeks, with the forthcoming Irene pretty much in hand, I’ve been dodging Helen simply because I am not sure what to do with her story fascinating as I find it. Today I decided I have procrastinated long enough and there’s an idea I’ll never put to rest unless I try it: turn the story into a novel. So today I’ve been trying to think about that, trying to get her voice into my mind. My latest trick is to tell myself I may write a novella instead of a novel.

So tomorrow I hope to make notes on her character, developing a personality sketch. I already know she was a fiery read-head with a temper (she claimed gazpacho calmed her in temperamental moments and always kept a jug in the fridge), she was a devoted Roman Catholic all her life, she never married but, supposedly, was engaged three times, and she sometimes showed a wicked sense of humor. I know a sketchy bit about her childhood so I will have to decide between inventing it or working around it with allusions, which would make a shorter book.

See, by sharing this with you all, I have publicly committed to working on this, though I don’t promise that something publishable will come out of it.

And Easter the day may be over but Easter the celebration is not. My friend @Katie Sherrod points out that the Christian liturgical calendar calls the fifty days between Easter and Pentecost (May 28 this year) the Paschal period, a period of peace and hope and joy and acknowledgement that God loves each and everyone one of us. (Sometimes I think he must struggle to love a few who have turned from him, but that is  neither here nor there nor my business.) Katie reminds that we do not have to suffer, abstain or sacrifice to earn God’s love—it is all encompassing.

May you have dreams of joy tonight, and may I dream something significant about Helen Corbitt.

With the Easter boys, Christian and Lee Manzke, at brunch
See the corner of Jordans pretty place setting

A food day—and the State of the Union

 

My leftovers lunch

As a mystery reader and author, I loved July Hyzy’s White House Chef Mysteries One title in the series is particularly appropriate tonight: The State of the Onion. The title mixes food and politics, and that’s exactly how my day went.

The food part began at noon. Last night I served friend Kathie a dish of roasted sweet potato and spinach, seasoned with a bit of jalapeño juice and garnished with sliced scallions, crumbled feta, and more jalapenos if you wanted (I didn’t). But for lunch today, I had a bit of leftover herb-y chicken and potatoes from a sheet pan dinner, so I made a cup of bouillon, added the leftovers, and then added a good serving of the sweet potato and spinach dish. Best lunch I’ve had in forever. And I was proud of my use of leftovers.

Somewhere in the morning, I found out Christian had spent the night at his mom’s hospital beside in Grapevine, sitting—and trying to sleep—in a chair. And he’d spent half the night before in the same place. So I ask for prayers, please, for him, his mom, and his family. She is not critical but has several aging problems. He came home, showered, and went to work—no rest for the wicked.

Jordan and I went back and forth about what would best comfort him for supper. She wanted beef, because he’s a beef-and-potato man, but all I had on hand was ground beef (Jacob doesn’t like meatloaf or ground beef dishes and Christian is the one who does hamburgers for us, so that was out). I also had cube steaks, but they sounded like a lot of work in an uncertain evening. Jordan suggested tacos, but I nixed that, and suggested instead German potato salad with hot dogs—one of Christians’ favorite meals. So I rushed to make that, and of course, Christian was too tired to eat. I am not at all surprised that he fell asleep almost the minute he came home. Jordan, Jacob, and I had supper, and they took him a plate. I have no idea if he ate it or not, but Jordan came out about nine to say that he had to go back to the hospital because his sister couldn’t make it tonight. So my thoughts and prayers go with him.

The highlight of the day, for me, was President Biden’s State of the Union speech. I have not yet listened to any commentators about it, so this is just my opinion: I found it incredibly strong, energic, and full of optimism. That man has a vision of America moving forward. I did listen to about two minutes of Sarah Huckabee’s rebuttal before I turned it off, but the difference to me was that Biden is talking about the future while Huckabee—and others of her political ilk—are looking backward, trying to recapture an idyllic way of life that never was reality. But whites were in power, there were no gays (at least not talked about out loud), and kids were safe, happily playing in the streets. If you grew up in Chicago, as I did, you know that is the land that never was. I much prefer Biden’s realistic optimism for dealing with the problems that beset us—inflation, immigration, drugs, police brutality, and an unfortunately long list. As for those who quibble about his age, I thought he was remarkably strong and vital (he is two or three years younger than I am).

A big part of the fun of watching this annual address is seeing the individuals in the chambers when the camera pans on them. I suppose it’s de rigueur for the Republican leader to look bored and, sometimes, slightly amused. If that’s what the job requires, Kevin McCarthy did a great job. But he did more often than I expected rise to his feet. And the Republicans in the audience also rose more often than I remember from other speeches. Most Democrats of course cheered wildly at almost every sentence, but their obvious enthusiasm was happy medicine for me.

Occasional shots showed Republicans like Ted Cruz shaking their heads in pretend-obvious dismay, and a stone-faced Mitch McConnell—wish I could remember what the subject was that turned him to ice. Another time Marjorie Taylor Greene, with a remarkable display of bad taste, rose to her feet to shout at the president, contradicting the image she presented wrapped in something with a wide, white fur collar. And Lauren Boebbert, with too much makeup (okay, that’s catty of me), shook her head.

On the whole, Republicans did not come off looking well, and I sensed that Biden was carrying most of the crowd with him as he looked to the future of a stronger America. It may be that’s a standard reaction to the State of the Union, no matter who delivers it, but I don’t remember trump’s speeches that way. And of course, who can forget Nancy Pelosi’s sarcastic clap for trump and her ripping up his speech. Nothing that dramatic tonight, but, as a firm believer that for now Joe Biden is the best man for America, I was left with a strong sense of optimism.

You used to hear him called Uncle Joe, and to me that fits. He’s like a comforting uncle who tells you everything will be okay, if you just play along. I like that.

 

Gas stove and bare arms

 

 

 

Jordan, ready for a girls night at the rodeo.
Her elegant fur vest doesn't show well in the photo, 
but trust me, she's well dressed for the occasion.

Honestly, conservatives can be such fun. It’s so easy to punch their buttons and set them off in a twitter. Remember when there was that big flap about Jade Helm, a 2015 government military exercise that took place in several states? Conservatives (read Republicans if you want) went bonkers and claimed that the government was coming to confiscate civilian guns. Governor Abbott, in his infinite wisdom, designated an operation to monitor what Jade Helm participants were doing. Of course, it all came to nothing—except a special forces training exercise—and everybody had their guns.

Well now they’re all riled up over confiscation of gas stoves. Let me back up and say that for years I hungered for a gas stove. I was sure it would improve my cooking a hundredfold, and I argued to my contractor that the gas hot water heater was only feet from the stove, and it would be easy to run a gas line under the house—it’s an old pier-and-beam house with a crawl space. Each time, he patiently explained that the gas company would inspect all the lines on the property and might easily find infinitesimal leaks due to age Ultimately my gas stove could cost me upwards of $10,000.

Lately I’ve been reading that gas stoves are not in favor because they omit fumes, even when turned off. These fumes are expected of aggravating childhood asthma, other respiratory conditions, and contributing to the pollution of our air, with ultimate damage to the ozone layer. And suddenly in the last week or two that has become a conservative cause. If I had a gas stove and an asthmatic child, I know what my choice would be, but I saw a post from a woman saying they would only take her stove over her dead body.

Conservative anger-mongers have stirred the base until, apparently, they envision uniformed men invading households, ripping out gas stoves, and leaving gaping holes. Not so. Whatever government agency is investigating this is considering restrictions and safeguards on new installations. Calm down, everyone. And investigate induction cooktops, which seem to be the coming thing. I cook on an induction hot plate and like it a lot, but I understand a whole cooktop is a vast improvement.

On a similar foolish note, conservatives in the Missouri legislature have passed a rule requiring women to wear long sleeves. I guess they feel those bare arms will be so titillating as to render men incapable of governing (note my restraint in not commenting further on that). It’s hysterically funny if it weren’t so scary, harking back to the sixties and beyond when women weren’t allowed in legislatures—except maybe as clerks. It also echoes the Taliban to a frightening degree—if men can pass rules about what women wear, who’s to say face coverings or even full burkas aren’t next. Fear of sex and women is a powerful thing. Men have already dictated what we can do with our bodies, and now they want to tell us how to dress.

Aside from my angry amazement at the issues above, this was a pleasant, slow day. I finished a manuscript and sent it off to beta readers. And I played in the kitchen, using up leftovers which pleases my Scottish soul. The other night I served eggplant sauté over polenta, so for the last two days I’ve had grits with butter and cheese for breakfast—this morning I even skipped grating cheese and added a spoonful from the crock of pub cheese. And for lunch? Sauteed eggplant. So good.

Cut salmon en croute
showing the layers

Salmon en croute
Not real pretty but so good

But the pièce de resistance was salmon en croute, made from things I had on hand. I had puff pastry in the freezer, though I feared it was old and freezer burnt. No such thing, but I forgot to defrost it which delayed dinner a bit. But I spread a sheet out and pressed a round flat circle of baked goat cheese spread, left from a couple of nights ago, in the center of the pastry sheet. Then I topped it with small chunks of the good canned Alaskan salmon I keep on hand, and I topped that with thoroughly drained canned spinach—yes, fresh would have been better, but remember I was using what I had. It made enough for four people, but Christian, who is also home alone tonight, declined—he doesn’t eat cooked spinach. I thought it was so delicious I had two helpings and am now overfed. A thoroughly satisfying food day.

A note upgrading Sophie news: she is back in the clinic. Was home one night, but clearly wasn’t doing well. When we took her back, I was quite sure it was farewell, but the doctor said no, he would let us know if he felt that was the case. Later, he called with a new possible diagnosis and a new treatment plan. He will keep her through the weekend. So please cross your fingers and say prayers for my sweet Soph.

Thanks, all. I’m off to spend the rest of the evening with a good book.

Books and cooks

 

My troublesome quiche.

I cannot figure out where these caps came from. They aren't in the preview.
But I am unable to change them. So sorry, folks. Really, I don't mean to shout.

I’m in search of the next book for my late-night reading. When I do that, I often check reader-friendly sites. One of those is Shelf Awareness, an online newsletter for booksellers. I glance at it daily, often clicking away without noting much of anything, but sometimes I find interesting tidbits. The other day two book titles, both for young audiences, caught my attention. The first was Choosing Brave: How Mamie Till-Mobley and Emmett Till Sparked the Civil Rights Movement, a picture book by Angela Joy and Janelle Washington. Who knew that Till-Mobley became an activist after her son’s death, and it was her advocacy for justice that roused national indignation over the brutal murder of a fourteen-year-old boy. She once told a reporter that young Emmett had a speech difficulty, and she taught him to whistle while he collected himself. It was that whistle that got him killed.

Attack of the Black Rectangles, by A. S. King, is the other title that intrigued me. Sixth-grader Mac opens his copy of Jane Yolen’s The Devil’s Arithmetic only to find words inked out in black rectangles. When he protests, his father cautions him not to get involved, but his mother and grandfather have taught him to call out things that are wrong. Mac gathers some friends, and they go to the principal, but she doesn’t take them seriously either. No spoilers here, but this is a book that’s seems so timely in this day of redacted government documents and a call for governmental transparency. Plus I love the title.

Last night was quiche night in the cottage. I made a Quiche Lorraine, but with little room and no enthusiasm for making my own pie dough, I asked Jordan to buy a pre-made pie shell—and learned a big lesson. The recipe I was following came from Taste of Home, a source I usually find reliable. I gradually realized that the pre-made pie shell and the pie dish Jordan brought me from her kitchen (once my pie dish) were totally different sizes. The shell I had was much smaller. So I piled crumbled bacon in—actually I find it easiest to dice raw, slightly frozen bacon rather than cook it whole and crumble it. Then I added strips of Swiss cheese. I had thought I was getting a block but when it came it was slices, so I sliced the slices.

When I poured in the egg/milk mixture, the inevitable happened. I was careful not to let the liquid go over the rim, but when I lifted the pie shell to place it on a pan (so it wouldn’t run all over my toaster oven), it ran all over the butcher block I use as a work surface. The cottage has just a slight downward tilt toward the north, and the liquid headed north, under the wooden bowl that holds fruit and is so heavy I had to have Jordan hold it up while I wiped the bottom and the space where it had sat. And it dribbled onto my clean pants. And Sophie got a lick of two. What a mess.

But the quiche was a success—browned, beautiful, and delicious.

I relish leftovers. My neighbor, who grew up in a family of seven and said he ate enough leftovers to last a lifetime, won’t touch them. But I was ecstatic to have chicken casserole for lunch yesterday and quiche today. Guess what? Neither was as good as when fresh, particularly the quiche. I think that’s another argument for ether learning to make my own pie dough or hiring neighbor Mary to make it for me. Mary teaches online pie-making classes, so she’s an expert. I’m not.

But here’s a quick cooking hack that worked out well. I’m on my own for supper tonight, so I made tuna salad. I’d read a recipe that I didn’t like as well as the way I always do it, but it had two great ideas for tuna salad sandwiches. The first was to drizzle a bit of olive oil over it. I wasn’t sure that made a difference, but the tuna was really good. The other trick was to put potato chips on top of the tuna before you add the second slice of bread. And that was great. Adds a terrific crunchiness to the sandwich. Try it, you’ll like it.

Be sure to check my Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog tomorrow. I think I’ll talk about the sudden popularity of an old tradition—the charcuterie board. http://www.gourmetonahotplate.blogspot.com

 

 

  

A perfect day—or calm after a jolly night and morning

 

My new good friend, Pierre.
I was always a sucker for a sweet gentleman.

This morning daughter-in-law Lisa asked me what my plans were for the day, and I said, “Nothing. I don’t have a plan.” It was delightful to wake up, know fun visiting waited for me, and not a single deadline, not even one of my self-imposed ones. Yes, tomorrow is the neighborhood newsletter deadline, and I could have been proofing what articles I have, but I didn’t. I’ll worry about that tomorrow.

By eight o’clock this morning, Sophie and Pierre were chasing each other around the back yard, an activity that they pursued indoors and out all morning, usually under Gary’s watchful eye. Poor Gary spent his morning saying things like, “Pierre, get off the dining table.” Pierre is definitely a goofy teenager.

About ten Colin, Lisa, and Kegan arrived on their way home from their annual Colorado skiing trip. Jordan and Christian served fruit salad left from last night, cookies, sausage-and-cheese sandwiches in biscuits. I contributed some cranberry/orange scones I had in the freezer. We sat in the living room, munched, ate, and visited.

Just about when the Tomball Alters geared up to get on the road, Colin remembered he wanted to work on my computer, so that kept them here another thirty or forty-five minutes. But I think he fixed the WiFi connection. Of course, now my printer is offline, and efforts to reconnect have so far been unsuccessful. I am thankful for progress, and that recipe for pasta with anchovies, garlic, and tomato paste can wait—but doesn’t it sound good?

The Tomball Alters finally got off, and Jordan, Gary, and I sat on my patio in the lovely sunshine, with the dogs, now exhausted, sleeping at our feet. Jordan and Gary were drinking champagne—I was not!

About one I said goodbye to Gary, who would be heading back to Dallas, came in and did a bit of work at my desk, and then had a good nap. Sophie was so tired she did not wake me up for once.

This evening, after all the hilarity of twenty-four hours, it’s almost eerily quiet around here. Christian has gone to someone’s house to watch basketball, Jordan is asleep, and I don’t know what Jacob is doing though I saw him come home with his golf clubs. I lingered over emails and Facebook, started reading a new book, and fixed my supper such as it was.

What do you eat after a big party? Leftovers, of course. For a late lunch I had salmon spread on crackers and a half of a green deviled egg that Jean brought last night. For supper, I repeated my lunch menu as an appetizer and then made a half a corned beef and Swiss sandwich on rye and sided it with some leftover cabbage from the St. Patrick’s Day dinner. We have an abundance of leftovers, and in my book that’s good. I love gnashing on party food the next day. When I used to give huge Tree Trimming parties at Christmas, I ate caviar and cream cheese, sausage balls, cheeseball, and chocolate cake for days afterward.

I am, I fear, being a baby about my upcoming root canal—Tuesday. Buffered by an eye doctor check-up on Monday—new doctor, new experience but just a check-up. No problems. I have decided not to try to be an author until after all the dental work. I am aware that the thought of the tooth procedure hangs over my head, though I am grateful to my family physician for prescribing a bit of valium for me to take to ease through it. I’ve never taken valium in my life, never intend to again, but I know my own tolerance for anxiety is not great.

So tonight, I’m going to write a book review, read, go to sleep as early as I can get Soph to come inside. It’s really nice to be lazy.

I saw a devastating picture on the internet today. A young boy, couldn’t have been more than five or six, walking alone, bundled up, his face red from cold and crying. In one hand, he had a toy; in the other, a bag of sweets. His parents had sent him, alone, to cross the border from Ukraine into Poland. The picture broke my heart and will not leave my mind. Damn Putin! As I count my blessings—the life situation that allows me to be lazy—I pray for the people of Ukraine. I hope you will too.

 

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.

 

Not my finest day

 

When by late morning the only thing you can say you accomplished is refilling soap dispensers, you have a pretty good indication that this isn’t going to be your finest day. Actually, it did get better for a bit, but there was discouraging news too. The press that I had hoped would jump at the idea of my Helen Corbitt manuscript rejected it—kindly but firmly. The director wrote that he didn’t see a market for it since the updated cookbook is available and people are more interested in recipes than her life. I know you’re not supposed to protest, but I did gently, telling him the point was not her life but her importance in the culinary and retail history of our country. But a no is a no, and I must move on.

The question is what my next project will be. Seems to me I have two options: researching presses that are interested in women’s studies and/or culinary history or writing that memoir I keep babbling about but doing little on. Today I decided it would not be a cohesive narrative but rather a series of connected essays. For a start, I labeled a section, “A Life with Dogs,” and listed all the dogs I’ve had in my life. Quite a list, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten some. And then I did a bit on the overall picture—but just a bit. Maybe I’ll work on that tomorrow, though I managed to fritter away much of today—you know, filling soap dispenser and the like.

On a more positive note, Carol, my favorite historical consultant, sent back my Sue McCafferty sketch for the Handbook of Texas with just a few suggestions—that lady knows how to ferret out long-buried facts that I never can find. As always, she improved the profile a lot, and I have now sent it off to the editors. Carol still has the profile of Charlie McCafferty, but I expect it in a few days.

We had leftovers for dinner—always welcome when they’re good, and these were—Doris’ casserole, our family favorite, and a big, tossed salad. So that was another bright spot. And so was menu planning with Jordan, a process I always enjoy. We even settled on a Mother’s Day menu, since they will host Christian’s family which means ten people of varying gastronomic tastes. Shhh! I won’t divulge the menu, lest someone object with “I don’t eat that!” But I will say I have committed to make a big potato salad. When I was a kid, cold turkey and potato salad were always my requests for my July birthday.  

The weather has not exactly brightened the day. It’s been dull and overcast all day, although so far the rain has held off. Still, we expect storms tonight, with more likelihood tomorrow. Temperature is warm, but happy hour plans are on hold. Our usual Tuesday night guests both cancelled, which led me to wonder if I had offended them.

I’ve been trying to track down my good friend Betty, who fell, broke her hip, and had surgery last Thursday. The only reports I’ve gotten are from ministers at the church, where she was music director for over forty years. Phone calls went unanswered, and then I found out I had the wrong cell phone number. No one responded to repeat messages left on the landline at their house, but I know Betty’s husband does not like to talk on the phone. Tonight, I finally learned that she was transferred yesterday from the hospital to a rehab facility, and I’ve gotten the correct (I think) phone number. So perhaps tomorrow I can talk with her. When I told a friend I’d heard Betty had considerable pain, she said, “Hips are bad things.” I couldn’t help but chuckle and say, “Tell me about it.” It has been slightly over four years now since my hip revision surgery (that’s different from replacement). So I hope I can be encouraging to Betty. And I’m glad to be past the frustration of wondering where she is, what’s going on.

I’m going to go to sleep and wake up with more ambition. One rejection won’t stop me on a story I feel needs to be told.

A fiddle what?

 

Sometimes my experiments in cooking alarm even me. Last night it was fiddlehead ferns. Central Market sent out an email advising that they are available only briefly in the spring. Get them now while you can! Well, who can resist that kind of salesmanship? Surely not me. So I included the ferns with my order, but knowing that my family would be skeptical, I thought I’d order a small amount. A half pound.

Do you know how many fiddlehead ferns are in a half pound? Or how expensive they are (we won’t even go there). Last night, my family was gone, and I was fixing dinner for Jean and me, so I decided about noon to search directions on the web. Well, I was almost sorry I did that. I rinsed them—and the first water came out muddy, though it was not dirt but moss-like stuff that was attached to the ferns. And not all of it came off. So then I hand washed each fern—that took some bending over the sink which made my back ache. Then I parboiled them for two minutes, prepared an ice bath, plunged them into that, and let them sit for an hour in ice water. Are you seeing how much work this was?

I drained them and realized there was still quite a bit of that moss-like stuff on them, so more hand cleaning. Finally, I decided that they were ready to cook—if that moss was bad for you, Central Market would have taken it off or put a warning label or something (see the faith I have in my favorite grocery store?). I told Jean I would sauté them briefly in butter, salt and pepper and then add a squirt of lemon—which I promptly forgot when I served them.

We had tuna pasties, potato salad, and fiddlehead ferns. Jean liked them better than I did. Despite all that boiling and soaking, they retained a nice crispness, and the taste was somewhere between young asparagus and fresh green beans. They were good but not remarkable. I decided on the path of least resistance, sent them home with Jean, and never mentioned them to my family. I hope she uses them in a salad because I bet they’d be really good.

Otherwise, it was a cooking weekend—Sunday’s real project, before I realized how much time and trouble the ferns would be, was to make tuna pasties. They were good, but I need to work on the proportion of filling to biscuits. But Saturday night—ah, that was a triumph.

I thought Jordan and I were cooking scallops and lemony-herbed rice together, but she kept disappearing. So I did the rice. Now, I’m not much of a rice cooker—we didn’t eat it when I was a kid, and my adult idea was pretty much to follow Uncle Ben’s instructions. But this called for sautéing the raw rice in butter, with green onions, then steaming in chicken broth and finishing with lemon butter, parsley, and the chopped green parts of the onion. Pretty darn good, but by the time I got it ready, I’d run a marathon. I told Jordan she could cook the scallops.

Panic ensued, because she thinks I’m the only one who gets them right—crisp on the outside and soft inside. I talked her through it, with her saying all the time, “I’m in the weeds here.” Because I was being cautious, we didn’t cook them at as high a heat as we should have (induction hot plates necessitate some decisions) and they cooked a bit too long. But they were wonderful. And Jordan said, “That was fun! My first time to cook them!” So the evening and the meal were successes. Christian was out to a men’s only dinner, postponed from its usual pre-Christmas date.

And now I have so many leftovers—ate sausage for lunch, chicken in crescent rolls for supper with the lemony rice. Still have a cheeseburger, some tuna filling for pasties, scallops (just went in the freezer tonight)—and I can’t believe I just marinated some chicken drumettes for tomorrow. We’ll have them with the rest of the potato salad. We do not suffer from a lack of variety around here.

The magic of leftovers

 

These are the pasties I meant; not the other kind.
Mine, however, never look this pretty.

My neighbor was one of seven children. He grew up eating leftovers, and to this day, he won’t touch them. No matter how good, if it was served before, he’s done with it. I’ve tried to explain that some things get so much better if they sit in the refrigerator overnight, but he is adamant. (I seem to run across a lot of adamant people these days, but that’s a digression.)

Right now, I have a surfeit of leftovers, and I am loving the luxury. Mostly I enjoy cooking, but it’s wonderful sometimes to have plenty to eat without having to cook. So this morning I had bangers and mash for breakfast—people eat sausage and potatoes for breakfast all the time, so why not in this form. In case you didn’t know, bangers is the Celtic term for sausages. I claimed that cooking bangers was a tribute to my Scottish heritage, but the truth is the label on the package clearly says, “Irish bangers.” They were a special at Trader Joe’s for St. Patrick’s Day. The mash, of course, is mashed potatoes. I steamed the sausages in beer, then caramelized some onion and garlic, added thyme, and made a gravy out of Better than Bouillon. (I could digress again here about exploring Scottish food; I have eaten blood pudding and found it unremarkable, but now I want to try mushy peas—I used to think they were just smashed English peas but they are a variety unto themselves. For another time.)

As luck would have it, Jordan had a sudden, overwhelming allergy attack while I was cooking the bangers. She came to tell me she was taking to her bed, and she didn’t think Christian would eat supper which would leave Jacob and me with a huge meal. I was not thrilled to have spent all that time cooking, only to serve it to a teen who would probably be reluctant about eating it and would certainly scorn the onions. Somehow I coerced Christian into joining us (maybe he was afraid of exploring bangers and  mash). At any rate, he joined us. pronounced the dinner good, and we had a lively three-way discussion of everything from the Chauvin trial to local elections for city council.

I was concerned, however, because there was nothing green on our plates. Another digression: once I was having lunch with a man I was dating when I looked at his plate, saw chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes, and exclaimed, “There’s nothing green on your plate.” He rolled his eyes and said, “Once a mother, always a mother.” That incident sticks with me.

My leftovers today include half of my cheeseburger from last night and a whole, untouched cheeseburger plus a lot of potato salad. Christian grills the best ever cheeseburgers, and I made pickle potato salad to go with them. Thanks to daughter-in-law Lisa for the recipe which includes a surprising amount of either chopped dills or dill relish, along with some pickle juice. I used what I had—gherkins—and when I first made it thought it was so “stout” that nobody would eat it. But that was ten in the morning, and by supper the flavors had mellowed and blended. Turned out to be one of the better potato salads I’ve made, which suggests to me I should follow recipes instead of winging it—at least with some things. Next time, though, I won’t be cheap and use salad mustard—Dijon would be better.

And the leftovers will keep coming. Tonight, Jordan and I will be alone and will have seared scallops (hard to get them just right with crisp outside and soft inside but I come darn close) and herbed rice. There may or may not be leftovers. Tomorrow night I am fixing tuna pasties (there I go with British/Celtic food again) for a friend and there will undoubtedly be leftovers, which will freeze nicely and make good lunches. (Another digression: I just had a shock; looked up pasties online, thinking to get a good definition, but the first definition and the Wikipedia entry are about covers for certain parts of the anatomy, male or female—not at all what I had in mind; pasties are tiny meat pies; oh my goodness!)

Megan, my older daughter, often cooks up a storm on weekends so that she has meals for the workweek ahead (she is a lawyer and works long hours). I’m thinking I should try that, not that I work long hours. Still, having those leftovers is calling me.

Excuse me, it’s lunch time, and I have half a hamburger and some potato salad to eat.

A moment of nostalgia, a visit, and a workday

 

Awful Waffles

Indulge me a moment, please. Jordan came across this picture of Jacob, and I couldn’t resist posting it. He will probably not be pleased, but….He loved waffles at that age, and when he asked for them, I jokingly asked if he wanted an “awful waffle.” He translated that into “waffle waffle,” and his parents couldn’t understand why he repeated the word twice. He was such a darn cute toddler—I told Jordan tonight we should have put a brick on his head. As it is, he is now a lanky teenager, taller than his dad and still growing, with this astoundingly deep voice.

Nice if brief visit from Colin, Lisa, Morgan, and Kegan at lunch today. They were on their way to ski in Colorado. Colin always, always wants lunch from the local deli where he’s been eating since he was a baby, but since we’re not ready yet to go into restaurants I suggested carry-out from Great Outdoors, our favorite sub shop. There was a mix-up in the order—they gave us five sandwiches when we ordered eight, but it was straightened out. Colin’s verdict was that it was good but not as good as the deli; my opinion is he ordered wrong—who orders a hot meatball sandwich from a sub shop? Should be meat and cheese and all the trimmings.

We have not seen them since July—thank you, pandemic—so it was a bonus to have even this brief visit. They are none of them vaccinated, though Lisa has had covid. They hugged us with masks on and assured me I didn’t need my mask—I put it on anyway, and we ate on the patio. They’ll come back through next Saturday—and we’ll get deli food.

Spent the rest of the day making notes to update my web page, something I should do more often—haven’t done it in a year. Many authors do their own pages, but I’m not that smart and have a wonderful young woman who does mine and can follow my squiggly notes of put this here and that there. This year, because of pandemic, there was slim pickings among new pictures to post—it seems we only take pictures when there’s company. I maybe need to deliberately take pictures of me at my desk, etc., but that would mean cleaning up the entire area. Next chore on my list: itemize my tax receipts etc. In Texas, we have an extension because of snowmageddon—until June 15. Still I am a little nervous I haven’t gotten the forms from my accountant yet.

Leftovers in the oven—last night’s dinner all over again tonight, even down to the blue cheese salad dressing. I didn’t think either the chicken casserole or the salad was that good—too bland—but Jordan has requested them again, so I tried to perk the salad dressing up with more vinegar and mustard. The chicken casserole simply needs salt and pepper. Win some, lose some. Lisa brought me a book titled Texas Tables, which I mistook for a book about table settings. Exploration proved it to be a Junior League Cookbook from Harris and Montgomery counties—lots of wonderful recipes for veal, lobster, lamb. Now I need the budget to go with it, but I did see some chicken recipes that looked good. I’ll be experimenting.

Busy week looms. Looking forward for a visit from Jamie and some happy hours with friends. Plus a desk full of chores. Life is good.

A ho-hum day

 

Even in quarantine, there’s usually something to distinguish one day from another—a patio visit from a friend, a new recipe, a Zoom meeting. Something to break the monotony of the day. Today there was none. And once again a rainy, chilly, dull morning greeted me.

I piddled, spent too long on Facebook, which I find I do a lot these days because of the political news—no, not the opinion pieces, but the hard news sources that report on there. Of course I am frustrated by the paywalls on the New York Times, the Washingto Post, and our local Star-Telegram. I should subscribe to one national paper that I respect, but I find I don’t like to read newspapers on line. My difficulty in getting print copies is a whole different story, and I won’t go into it now.

But the result today, as in many days recently, is too much time spent browsing the web for news, election updates, etc. It’s self-defeating, because all it does is increase my anxiety—and believe me, I see physical signs of anxiety in me. I explained to Jordan that I probably wouldn’t be much good for the next week, and she promptly said I need a new project. Huh, me? With too many projects on my desk already? She had in mind cooking desserts. I will take that under consideration, but meantime she has an array of meals laid out for me to cook.

I did listen to four chapters of the audio version of Saving Irene, and I’m gradually getting ahead of that project. I am now well over halfway through the book. I did some good email business—a letter of recommendation for a friend, some marketing posts for Saving Irene—have you tried the hamburger Stroganoff recipe? Emails to a couple of old friends, including some in Omaha where trump left his followers in frigid weather with no transportation. Such a caring man!

But overall, I accomplished little. I napped, of course, and when I woke up, I thought since we were not having family dinner—leftovers, and we were each eating on our own—I’d just stay in my jammies. But a voice in the back of my mind said to get dressed—for my own sake, not for the family. I do usually work in jammies until after I nap and then I “freshen” myself ad put on new clothes. So today I did that anyway—Jordan who came out for happy hour was the only beneficiary of my spiffed-up self.

With leftovers for dinner, I didn’t even have cooking to pull me out of my doldrums. But Jordan did—last night she undertook what she thought would be a huge process and found out it wasn’t that big a deal—she made pesto out of the large bunch of basil neighbor Mary had given us. So now we have a bunch of basil in the fridge, and Jordan is planning spaghetti with basil sauce and chicken for election night supper.

I think she is already beyond cooking that night. I am beyond worried about how to make the night pass—a lot of wine and early to bed? In truth, I may be less anxious about election night than the days the immediately follow

I did find an event outside my cottage tonight—a Zoom meeting of our neighborhood association. I haven’t attended meetings because, in truth, I don’t want to get out after supper, especially when they moved the meeting to eight. But now it’s back at seven and I could go from the comfort of my desk, so I was a wiling participant, though all I did was listen. I hope they keepe the Zoom meetings even after we don’t have to quarantine.

This afternoon, late, the sun came out a bit—an encouraging sign. And the temperature is to creep up the next few days until we reach Saturday which is to be pleasant and in the seventies. Maybe the world will be all right.

Sunday, oh Sunday!

Went to church (euphemism for watching an online service) by myself this morning, since the family had gone to celebrate with friends who joined our church today—a momentous occasion for them, and Jordan made sure that it was well celebrated. I stayed home, made chicken salad for supper, and did a bit of writing. Leftovers for lunch.

This evening our neighbors down the block, Greg and Jaimie Smith, came for happy hour, and the man behind the screen (Jay) and his wife (Susan) joined us. Greg used to do my lawn, and Sophie adores him, so she was in heaven—and he paid her lots of attention. We were all sorry they didn’t bring Levon, their new English shepherd/doodle pup. It was good to see these neighbors we simply don’t see enough of.

Sophie has a sad story. After her morning of joyous and carefree abandon, she began to limp in the evening—Friday, this was. By Saturday morning, she was moving tentatively, like an old lady. Quite a contrast to the happy abandonment twenty-four hours earlier. I called the vet in a panic, but they were totally booked for the morning. I was distraught because I thought perhaps she got a sliver of glass from a broken wine glass, though we worked hard to clean up ever little bit, and also because she was clearly in such misery. I couldn’t bear the thought of her in pain all weekend. To my relief, the vet on duty volunteered to stay late to see her, and Jordan and Jacob whisked her up to the clinic.

Seems Sophie has been tearing up the pads on her paws for some time—she had old, healed cuts, and fresh new ones. Hearing this, I realized that ground cover is probably really hard on her paws, something I’d never thought of. She had a shot and came home with two kinds of medicine. Tonight she is almost back to her old self but sticking close to me, staying in the cottage, and not interested at all in running outside.

After our company left, we had chicken salad for supper, disguised for Christian’s benefit as a chicken casserole. It’s a cold salad that you top with cheese and crushed potato chips and run under the broiler briefly at the last moment. To my relief, he went back for a second helping. So I start the week with plentiful leftovers—a bit of tuna salad, some salmon, a small serving of potato casserole, and a generous helping of chicken salad. So good to have such delicious things to look forward to. I’m told chicken piccata is on the menu for supper one night, at Jacob’s request.

So, high ho, here we go—into what for us is the thirteenth week of quarantine. Yes, we’ve relaxed a bit but not much, and each little bit of relaxation, each new face we introduce makes me a bit nervous. I am still content, though watching the protests and the government response with tenacious—and sometimes indignant interest. For me, the week holds more writing—a short project, which wrote itself in my mind today and I must get on paper, and the novel, which is nearing the end and is more of a puzzle to me. I look forward to all of it. Sometimes I pinch myself about how blessed I am.

The sermon this morning was about hope, and I admit I have abundant hope for the future—for my family, for Texas, and for the country. For the long slow slog out of racial discrimination to begin finally, truly. The protestors will not be ignored—and good for them. As someone else said, “Hold on, folks. It’s gonna’ be a rough ride.” But a good one. I have faith in the American form of government and in the American people (most of them).

Have a good week, everyone. Stay well and stay safe.

A day of minor annoyances

MY shaggy grass

My first glance out the window by my desk this morning was a tad discouraging—wet sidewalks, cloudy skies, and long, long grass. The grass in the front lawn is okay, a mix of Bermuda and St. Augustine that has gone dormant for winter, but in the back, we have winter rye, lush and green and lovely up to a point. The yard service owner said last week he thought it was growing an inch a day in this rain. Ours hadn’t been mowed in three weeks, because it rained every time our turn to be mowed came up. It occurred to me that three things at my house were shaggy—the grass, the dog, and me. Tonight, the grass is short. Sophie and I are still shaggy.

Not sure how to describe today. It began to go south when I discovered that my printer was shooting out blank sheets of paper. After much tearing of hair, prowling on settings and devices and troubleshooting and finally calling my computer genius son-in-law, I discovered it was the black ink cartridge. And it’s all my fault. Somehow when I last changed the cartridge, I re-installed the old one and threw away the new one. Yikes! A $50 mistake! I have ordered a new one from Amazon, and it is to come Friday.

I actually broke quarantine this morning and went to Carshon’s deli to pick up an order. It was like driving in a ghost town, so little traffic. At the deli, we got curbside service, but Stephanie , who brought the order out, says they have no business. I am so sorry. Hope it doesn’t crater the business. I’ve been eating there over fifty years. My oldest son thinks no trip home is complete without a stop at Carshon’s. It’s a fixture in our lives.

Jacob went with me, but he was pretty monosyllabic, in spite of my attempts to start bright  conversations. His excuse was that at ten o’clock, he’d just woken up. Tomorrow they are supposed to get schoolwork.

Spent a lot of time checking authors for my monthly column in Lone Star Literary Life, only to have the editor tell me I’d somehow missed several newer books when I reported that several authors only had much older books. So tomorrow I have to backtrack and re-do what I did today. Only bright spot was that I got in touch with an old friend who has new books coming out.

To add to my day of minor annoyances, Sophie, who is almost nine and should know better, has suddenly taken to retrieving used Kleenex from the bathroom wastebasket and strewing it about the living room. It’s not a huge problem, as I have a grabber to pick it up—but it is, to repeat myself, an annoyance. And she knows it. When I start to pick one up, she’ll grab it and run, with a furtive look at me. Sometimes I think this and some of her other behaviors are her way of acting out the underlying tension she feels in all of us. I would tell you I’m not anxious and on the surface I’m not, but the virus is always there in the back of my mind. Yours too?

I’m having fun using up leftovers. For way too long, one giant baking potato has been staring at me in my bowl of onions and potatoes. It even started to grow little green sprouts, as if to remind me it needed attention. Tonight I baked it, mixed it with plenty of butter and grated cheddar, those last tiny slices of bacon in the freezer, some rapidly wilting scallions that I had to trim way back to find usable onion. Bound the whole thing together with sour cream and had a feast. The other half of the stuffed potato is in the fridge. One day I’ll run out of leftovers, but for now cleaning out my stash is an enjoyable challenge.

Enough prattling. Sweet dreams and pray for sunshine tomorrow. It’s supposed to go into the eighties.