Odd notes on a Saturday

 

lamb ragu

Sometimes on a Saturday night you can find yourself doing the oddest things. I just finally stopped myself from scrolling through a site that listed 50 dressing styles and trends women should avoid if they don’t want to look old. Do you realize how endless 50 pages can be? And yet it was one of those situations—you tell yourself, “Just one more. I just want to see the next one.”

Some of these were no-brainers: don’t wear our mother’s pearls, avoid too much blush or eavy black eye-liner, old lady handbags (calls Queen Elizabeth II to mind, much as I admired her). Knee socks with sneakers (really? Who would?). But the fashionistas, whoever they are, can just keep their hands off my stretch jeans now that I’ve finally found a pair that fit. And don’t tell me I can’t have short hair—except in rare instances, I think long hair on a woman over, oh let’s be generous and say sixty, looks dated and out of place.

I am angry at myself every time I get caught up in one of those sites with the endless “Next” button. Often they tell some heartbreaking story, and you’re caught up in it before you know. Because such are a vehicle for ads, writers draw the story out too many pages, repeating details, coming at them from another direction, delving too far into the back story. Still I get caught, even while I’m thinking what a mindless way for a writer to earn a living.

It's not been that kind of Saturday at all, so I’m a bit surprised at myself. I spent the morning keying in corrections to Irene that my mentor found—and occasionally feeling triumphant because I was right. It is Spaghetti-Os, not Spaghetti O’s. and a Frenchman would call a police station a commissary because the French term is commissariat de police.  I had great three-o’clock-in-the-morning thoughts about the next Irene adventure—can you believe this? The fourth is not anywhere near a publication yet—at least another two months —and I’m planning the fifth. But I had a great opening scene in mind and hastened to write it down. I have nary a clue what happens after that.

We are at sixes and sevens as Christian’s mother is hospitalized, and he is spending a lot of time with her in first a Grapevine hospital and now a Bedford nursing center. So we never know who will be where when. Which means I don’t know what to do about dinner. Jean was coming tonight, and I couldn’t wrap my mind around what to do—should we go out? No, I didn’t want to gear up and dress up enough to go even to the Old Neighborhood Grill. Should I ask Jean to bring something, though I couldn’t think of any convenient, reasonable take-out between her apartment at Trinity Terrace and my cottage. No surprise that the easiest option was to cook. Christian brought my curbside order from Central Market, the order that I flubbed yesterday and finally placed for today. There was a pound of ground lamb in it, and I decided to make a lamb ragu. Served with butter lettuce salad with Newman’s Own Caesar salad dressing and lots of grated pecorino. A good dinner, if I do say so. I’ve decided I’m going to keep a pound of ground lamb on hand—it’s so good for burgers, makes a terrific shepherd’s pie, and was great tonight in ragu. Not sure I’d know what to do with a leg of lamb anymore, because it’s gotten so expensive. But ground is a good way to get the flavor.

So that’s my Saturday. Here I sit, dishes all done, cottage as neat as it’s going to get, candles flicking odd shapes and lights on the ceiling, Sophie asleep in her crate. I’m going to read a bit and then slink off to bed.

Tis the season

 

You know how I know? This happens every year. I put my work aside to prepare for Christmas and then find myself, a week or so before Christmas, all ready for the holiday and even more ready to get on with my daily work. This year is no exception. I’d been feeling a bit down—my first time in this long slog of quarantine—and I attributed it to no work on my desk. Then I realized it may well have been the spicy beef on my taco salad from a local Mexican chain over the weekend.

At any rate, today I am feeling brighter—and I have lots of my desk—Christmas cards from cherished friends which I will answer by email because my handwriting has gone too far south for cards and, besides, today Jordan discovered the local post office is sold out of stamps—which may be why the stamps I ordered three weeks ago haven’t arrived yet.

And then there’s a new assignment from the Handbook of Texas: a profile of Electra Waggoner Biggs. I’ve studied Mrs. Biggs—Texas ranch heiress, international celebrity, and sculptor of note—off and on for years and have a forthcoming book (due next fall) on the Waggoner family. So that one should be a fairly easy project, but it will take some time. But now, my entry on Helen Corbitt, doyenne of food at Neiman Marcus, is one of the newer entries in the ongoing online Handbook project.

I’m particularly pleased to have been part of a project titled MysteryLovesGeorgia in which mystery writers pooled their talents to raise money to support the election of Reverend Warnock and Jon Ossoff in the Georgia senatorial runoff. As I mentioned before, I lowballed my prices for what I offered, but I was still pleased that I had takers on a signed copy of Saving Irene, a critique of a thirty-page sample of a manuscript, and the naming of a character in a forthcoming novel. I have sent off the autographed copy and made notes for the named character, but I will have to settle down and study the sample for critique.

And then there’s that ongoing novel, Irene in Danger. Perhaps it’s because I am now committed to naming a character for a reader, but I did move ahead on it today—wrote a thousand words for the first time in a couple of weeks and felt fairly good about them. Feeling really good will depend on tomorrow’s re-reading. I now have a whopping two-and-a half chapters. Long way to go.

Meantime, Jordan and I are making Christmas plans. Most of my Christmas gift-giving this year is either online or by mail, and Jordan mailed off a bunch of things for me today. But still, we’re deep in menu planning. Since we’re having a smoked turkey and not fresh for Christmas, we’re trying to come up with different sides. Today Jordan suggested Paula Deen’s corn casserole but was astounded when she looked at the calorie count—something like 208 per serving. I said, “Hey, it’s Christmas, and we’ll have small servings.” She is counting all the dishes we’ll have with cheese in them. And I’ve ordered something special for Christmas Eve, but it too is rich. We shall roll our way into 2021 and diet thereafter.

Why not? 2020 has been a real bitch of a year, and we can only hope for better in 2021. At least, we can see 2020 out with some really good food. In lieu of sharing the holiday with family, an absence which still makes me sad. Still, I like Jordan’s attitude—when I asked tonight If she missed the excitement of Christmas that she knew as a child, she said thoughtfully, “Well, we all have to grow up. It’s just different. We’ve tried to recreate that excitement for Jacob, and now he’s too big for Santa, so we’ll wait for grandchildren. We just have to make the best of what we have.”

When she turned the tables and asked me what I missed, I confessed I miss the days of shared Hanukkah and Christmas when my four were young and excited. But I am grateful for the love and sharing we have today.

Happy Holidays. Stay safe, healthy, and warm—it is really cold out there tonight. Jordan wanted to have our regular Tuesday neighbors for wine by firelight, but I said I refused to sit out and freeze. Next Tuesday will be in the sixties—we’re looking forward to it.

The Bountiful Feast

I’m not sure whether to say my family has done it to me again or I have fallen for it again. They were so sincere about that blasted hogshead we were to have for dinner, even sending me a picture of the grocery ad and telling me it was in the oven.  Colin said he’d never carved one before, and Kristi very seriously said she didn’t think it was that good a price considering all the bone you got with it.

They got me. I finally believed it, in spite of the long history of practical jokes my sons have played on me over the years. This time, Colin had enlisted his entire family, including sister-in-law Kristi. When the dishes began to appear on the table, I asked where the hogshead was, and Colin said, “Mom? What are you talking about? Why did you think there was a hogshead?” I was tempted to throw the entire platter of turkey at him but am glad I didn’t, because it was so good, moist, tender, and delicious.

We had all the usuals—turkey and gravy and mashed potatoes and dressing and rolls with real butter and green bean casserole, though Lisa makes a different green bean dish with sour cream and parmesan and corn flake topping. This year, for the first time, she used fresh green beans, and they were delicious. For dessert, an apple pie nicely seasoned with ample cinnamon. Kegan got a turkey leg that he much enjoyed but couldn’t finish, said he’d get to it tomorrow. A lovely feast with family, and I relished every minute.

Otherwise, a lazy day, reading and napping while others cooked. Chilly--Colin keeps the house cool--and I sat with a small heater blowing on my legs--so comforting. Long visits with Colin, which I enjoy though sometimes I think he takes a position contrary to mine just for the sake of it. We did some nice reminiscing, and he pulled up a lot of pictures from his phone that recalled a happy past. I think that’s a big part of what holidays are about—sharing the good memories.

I hope each and every one of you had a bountiful day, filled with food, love, and gratitude. We have so much to be thankful for, which only means to me we must work harder to preserve the way of life we treasure.

On to Christmas, with all its joy!

Hello, 3 a.m. – meet indigestion

Indigestion is not a word in my vocabulary. It doesn’t happen to me—at least not that I’m aware. But  three a.m. is no stranger. I rarely sleep the night through in one long sleep but rather two- or three-hour intervals. Last night the two came together.

I woke up about three-thirty with the feeling that everything in me was in turmoil, a great feeling of unease. If I sat up, I was less aware of it, so I sat up. I read phone messages, I planned a novel, I went to the bathroom too many times. But each time I lay down that scary feeling, located in the middle of my lower chest, was there.

We all know that everything is scarier at three in the morning. I thought of my friend Bobbie who died halfway out of her bed, apparently going for help. I thought of Don who, home alone, felt unwell and called 911. The parameds told him if he hadn’t called in the next three minutes, he’d be a dead man. I thought of the man I worked for who complained of back pain and it turned out to be a massive heart attack. I tried to remember what I knew if anything about silent heart attacks. I was cheered that I really didn’t think it was my heart—I had no sharp pain anywhere and I wasn’t aware of a rapid or louder heartbeat.

After an hour in which my imagination ran totally away with me, I called Jordan. Sweet, caring girl. She came out, diagnosed indigestion, and asked if I’d taken a Pepcid. “Never in my life,” I replied. She went inside for them, gave me one, and settled on the other side of my bed. The culprit she thought was that kielbasa we had for dinner plus two not-small helpings of German potato salad with it’s heavy vinegar component. I remembered the night Jordan, driving us home from Dallas, had her first-ever attack of heartburn (after barbecue sandwiches), so severe she kept threatening to pull off at the next motel.

Sophie totally puzzled by both of us in the same bed at the same time joined the party and went from one to the other, giving face licks.. I began to feel better, but it was one of those elusive things—I thought I’d feel better if I could just turn my mind off.

After about half an hour, Jordan went back to her own bed, and I finally slept. Woke a couple of times and finally got up about 8:45—late for me. I’ll be glad for a nap this afternoon, and I guess I should put some Pepcid in my medicine chest.

And kudos to Jordan for once again proving herself a good caretaker--and a loving daughter.

It’s a rainy day, good day to stay in my jammies and chill. Good plan.

Liver, onions, and a birthday hamster

Do you have the childhood memories that my brother and I share of having to eat liver and onions? My mother was a terrific cook who taught me almost everything I know about cooking. I can’t say enough about her innovative and healthy meals, especially since our father was a very British meat and potatoes man. But Mom fell down on liver. It was tough, dry, and tasteless. For years I avoided it like the plague.

Then I began to find recipes for flash frying it, treating it with lemon juice before cooking to remove the gamey taste, serving it with a sauce of lemon butter and sautéed onions. Suddenly I liked liver, though I never could find anyone to eat it with me. I thought about cooking it for myself, but you have to buy a pound and that was a bit much.

When Jean and I went tile shopping, I asked if she ate liver. “Sometimes. I’m not sure I like it. But Jim loves it.” So we settled on Saturday night supper of liver. When I confirmed the date, I asked, “Do you want me to change the menu?” “No, liver.”

So I fixed it tonight, served with German potato salad, green salad that Jean brought, and a fruit salad I cobbled together—peaches and cantaloupe are so sweet and good this time of year. And the liver? It was moist, tasty, delicious. I liked it a lot, but Jean and I split a piece, and I sent Jim home with half a lb. for his dinner tomorrow. Still it was a successful dinner, and I was glad to be cooking again after a hiatus.

Special good wishes to Morgan, my granddaughter who turns ten this week. She desperately wanted a hamster for her birthday, and her father finally relented. I sent some exercise assemblies for the critter, who is black and named, I think, Midnight. Morgan’s picture says it all about how happy she is.

Pooches on the patio

Left to right: Jay with Santiago, the retired guide dog;; Christian with their two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels
Phil, with Porter the brand new guide dog; center, Jacob with my Sophie

With eight people and five dogs, it was definitely pooches on the patio night at my house as we celebrated neighbor Jay's birthday. The dogs love their evenings in the back yard with everyone on the deck except Jacob who plays with them, throws the ball, climbs on the dog house and then retires to the kitchen to love Santiago. Santiago is nine and just retired as Phil's guide dog. If you think about it, most of our dogs spend their days pretty much sleeping; working dogs spend their days working, and they tire out. Santiago likes nothing more than to sleep on the cold stone floor, and Jacob loves to oblige by getting down there with that gentle giant.
Porter, the new guide dog, is two years old, fresh out of training, and has been in his new home about four days. He visited last night and ran and played with Sophie--she'd been waiting for someone with more energy than Santiago. Sometimes she'd bark at him because he wouldn't play with her, so Porter is just right. They run, chase balls and have a wonderful time, with Sophie all the time making her growling noises.
The two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels are another story--quiet dogs, not interested in running and playing, thank you. They'd much prefer to sit on a lap. Without that alternative, they sit right close to the people's feet. Sophie finds them a little boring too, and I think they find her a bit intimidating. She is twice their size and has much more energy than they do.
Jay even picked the menu for his birthday dinner--a casserole of rice with cream of mushroom and celery soups, dry onion soup, and chicken. I almost blew it because I thought, "Oh, a chicken casserole, bake for an hour at most." Luckily about four I looked at the recipe and found it was to bake for two hours. It was really good, chicken most and tender and the rice delicious. I don't like to use prepared foods much but this was worth it. We had green peas, which Jay loves and most of my family won't eat, and salad. Jordan was already to bake a cake but Jay wanted store-bought brownies, the kind with thin frosting. Jacob of course had to help him blow out the candles. All in all, it was a delightful evening with much hilarity. And I think the presence of five dogs made it even better.
The irony was that the birthday boy, who loves dogs, didn't bring his two. We haven't yet tried to socialize them with "the pack" and may not ever.

Losing yourself in a fictional world

Writers should read--seems a simple enough thing. I learn a lot by reading other writers' mysteries--they give me ideas, they make me think of things I could do in my books, and they reveal some things I seriously want to avoid. But I don't read much these days--it's partly a matter of time and partly, as I think I've said before, that it's hard for me to move from one fictional world to another. So when I'm writing, I rarely read--though it would probably do me good to read non-fiction.
The last few days I've been caught up in novels--Julie Hyzy's Grace Takes Off, which smoothly does something I've worried about: she takes a series character out of her normal setting, at least for part of the novel. I've wondered--can I send Kelly out of Fairmount on a trip? I may just do it when I get back to the work in progress. Now I'm in the midst of The Little Black Book of Murder, by Nancy Martin, who has created the wackiest ever blueblood family of sisters from Bucks County, now fallen on hard times. Watch for a review, but it too is a good read, and I'm stealing time to go back to it. And thoroughly enjoying losing myself in someone else's fictional world.
I did take time to cook today, which always relaxes me--German potato salad, which will have hot dogs in it, for tomorrow night. I'll serve corn and baked cabbage--shh! Don't tell my guests about the latter. Cooked cabbage is coming back into vogue but some people may not react well. I changed the menu partly because one of the guests said he loves spinach salad, doesn't eat cooked spinach (I had a delicious dish of polenta with cooked spinach in mind). But I also changed because I'm pushing hot dog ideas in order to publicize Danger Comes Home, with its Bun Appetit haute cuisine hot dog café, and I need a picture of this dish for a blog. At least the appetizers--Gouda and crackers--and the dessert--ice cream with raspberry appertif/chocolate sauce--should be hits.

For myself tonight I made an abbreviated version of salade Nicoise--with hard-boiled egg, avocado, roasted green beans, and Tonnino tuna packed in garlic olive oil. Tonnino is a brand of tuna I've just discovered (and my pocketbook wishes I hadn't)--several interesting varieties, like one packed in olive oil with oregano. For tonight's salad, I sprinkled it with capers, drizzled a bit of the oil from the tuna over it, added a bit of salt and pepper, and squeezed lemon juice over all. So good. Sometimes it's fun to make an elegant meal just for you. First time I've roasted green beans, and they were great.
Happy weekend, everyone.

Oh, my, what a wonderful day

I had a rare treat today. I fixed lunch for the girl I grew up next door to. I thought I hadn't seen her in fifty years but she says she remembers coming to visit once--there's so much of my past I've forgotten. But when she walked into my house she said no, she hadn't been here before. Her husband, a retired Episcopalian priest and a wonderful man with a wry sense of humor, was with her, and we were joined by good friends of mine who are active in the Episcopalian church--they know each other from national church meetings. So there was much talk of Episcopalian politics (they are convoluted) but Judy and I found some time for reminiscing--and we need more time to do it again. We talked about her family and mine and incidents from childhood and books we read as youngsters--Albert Payson Terhune and Walter Farley--and we talked about going back to visit as adults. I truly wish we could spend two days, because already I've thought of so many things I didn't say, ask, whatever.
We sat on the porch for an hour, with hummus and crackers and then went inside for lunch. Fixing lunch for these people was a big deal for me, though I usually entertain easily. But I wanted this to be just right. I set a spring-like table with my mom's Susie Cooper china--a light turquoise border around a flowered center. The menu was curried chicken salad, fruit salad, bread, (I experimented with butter and used one that has olive oil and sea salt--couldn't tell the difference). Dessert was small mint chocolates. I think--hope--it was the perfect menu. I had thought to make a layered sandwich--slicing a round parmesan loaf into three layers and filling them with chicken salad, pimiento cheese and egg salad--but when I was at low ebb last week that seemed like way too much trouble and I changed the menu. I may still do that sandwich loaf sometime.
It's so lovely to call up past memories with someone who shared them with me...and we had little, odd moments to share: a Congo line for Dewey which led my dad to call me inside (he was a huge Democrat  and Judy's family was Republican), the time I had whooping cough and we finally talked over the fence, her grandmother who spent every day in a chair by the window that looked out on our house but assured my mom it was friendly interest. Wonderful stuff. The stuff memoirs are made of.
Then tonight Melinda from TCU Press picked me up for the annual dinner for Friends of the TCU Library. I saw people I was glad to see but a lot of people I didn't know and I missed a lot of faces I thought I'd see. Good dinner, generous happy hour, long acceptance speech (read from his book) from Rick Bass, winner of the TCU Texas Book Award. I'm not sure how long I'll keep attending such events but I was glad for a visit with Melinda and for a few people I saw and value--Paul Boller, Susan Hotard, Susan and Jim Smith, Sue and Alan Winter. I'm sure I've left some out.
A good day and I'm tired. 'Night all.