Older but no wiser

 

My almost disaster dinner.

Recently I saw a Snoopy cartoon that advised, “Don’t worry about getting older. You’ll still do dumb stuff. Only slower.” I must have felt obligated to prove it true last night while cooking supper. Jordan and I decided on salmon patties and a marinated bean salad. I had seen a “fancy” recipe for salmon patties but at Jordan’s request went with the old and plain way my mom did them. But one new trick I learned (hat tip to Mary Kay Hughes) is that they hold together better if you chill them before frying. So I used two small cans of salmon and made six patties. Put them on a plate in the fridge to chill. (Another tip, this from my mom: throw a handful of instant tapioca into meatloaf or salmon patties or anything you want to hold together—you’ll never know it’s there, but it works magic.)

The bean salad was already in the fridge “blending its flavors,” but I remembered I hadn’t put in the lime juice, so I got it out. And there I sat, bowl of salad in my hands, as I watched in awe as the plate with the patties sailed out of the fridge in a perfect arc and then curved downward to land upside down at my feet. I felt like I was watching something in slow motion and absolutely incapable of doing anything about it.

For a second, I tried for the three-second rule: it hasn’t been on the floor long enough. Jordan was indignant: “I will not eat off the floor, and I will not allow you to.” I knew she was right. If it had been bread or biscuits or something, I’d have been okay. But not uncooked patties. We shooed Sophie away—she seemed to understand the gravity of the situation and did not try to sneak a bite—and Jordan swept it up and threw it away. Jordan got two more cans of salmon out of the closet (my extended pantry), and I did it all over again. I guess, being my mother’s child, what bothered me most was the waste: I used four cans of salmon (it’s not cheap) to get five salmon patties. They were good though, and the bean salad was terrific.

About bean salad: my cooking hint for the day is substitute honey for sugar and cut way back on the amount. The recipe I followed called for two Tbsp each oil, vinegar, and sugar. Whoa! I used 1 tsp. honey, and it was just right. My three-bean salad recipe also calls for a bit of honey, and though I was skeptical, I have to say it’s great.

I demonstrated my age another way one day not long ago. My oldest son and his family—wife and two grandkids—were going to Gatlinburg, TN and Dollywood for a week. Don’t ask my why. Dollywood is not and never would be on my bucket list, though I admire Dolly a great deal. I have been to Gatlinburg years ago and remember it as crowded and touristy but with good crafts. I once bought  a dinner set of good, heavy crockery in Gatlinburg. It went to whoever in the family when I downsized.

In my old-fashioned idea of a family vacation, you get up ungodly early, jump into the car, eat a sweet roll for breakfast while traveling, and drive s far as you can until evening. So I thought I’d just check the “Find a Friend” function on my phone and see if they’d gotten an early start. They were at Houston International Airport—no driving for them! Maybe it’s because I don’t like to fly, but flying and family vacation is an oxymoron to me.

No summer trip for me. Having had my riotous birthday weekend, I am once again content in the cottage and welcoming friends for happy hour. Neighbors Greg and Jaimie came up tonight. I had invited them to walk up (about a long block uphill) but they admitted they drove because it’s so hot. I love it when they come for a drink because we always laugh a lot. And we did tonight, over everything from Jordan’s teenage stories (she was with us and shared them) to neighborhood gossip. Sophie loves it because Greg was one of her early loves—when she was a pup, he came once a week to mow our yard and visited with both Sophie and me. Jaimie often brings an appetizer—she’s the source of the good baked goat cheese recipe—but tonight I fixed pigs in a blanket, which ended up being my supper.

Christian is at a “guys only” birthday evening, Jordan has gone off to watch a movie, and I, happy and content, am going to read. Sweet dreams, everyone.

Sophie got the zoomies

 

My kitchen floor after Sophie's zoomies

Sophie and I pretty much have a morning routine. If she wakes too much before seven, I placate with a snippet of cheese and tell her to go back to sleep. Inevitably, she wakes me again right at seven. I feed her and let her out, and by the time I’ve gone to the bathroom myself, she is back in, waiting for another piece of cheese. Then we both goi back to sleep. This morning, that all went haywire. She did not come back in. I looked out, and she was racing along one side of the yard at top speed—and top speed for Sophie is darn fast. It’s the Australian shepherd in her.

My calls of “Cheese” went unheeded. She’d run from one end to the other and then freeze, as though she thought she was a hunting dog on point. Only her tail would move, and it would wag vigorously. I went outside with the piece of cheese. Nothing. So, I went outside with the leash, having sunk so low that I was willing to pretend she was going somewhere. She ignored me. Since it was Sunday morning and my neighbors—and my family—were probably trying to sleep, I was grateful she didn’t bark much. When she did, it was high-pitched, almost a squeak—from excitement.

Finally I did what goes against my every principle: I left the door ajar and went back to bed. But I didn’t sleep. Every fifteen minutes or so, I got up to check on her. She was still running. Finally a little after nine I got up and started on my day. To get her in for her morning shot, I had to call Christian—of course she came to him right away. He gave her a shot, and I confined her to the cottage.

I had warned Christian not to leave water in her dish, but he thought she’d already splashed a bit and that was the end of it. Little did he know. She was mad at me, especially when barking to tell me she wanted to go out had no effect. She banged the food dishes around a bit and then, in her anger, flipped the water bowl and walked in it. You see above a picture of the results. I triple-mopped the floor, and it still needs to be done professionally.

One advantage—during all those fifteen-minute dozes, I did really good work in my head. Noted the next scene in the novel-in-progress and came up with a plan—and titles—for the first four chapters of pieces of my cottage memoir. When I finally got to my computer, I made notes of all that had been racing through my brain.

Apparently, however, Soph was not through with the zoomies—or at least the squirrels. I let her out a bit after noon, and she went right back to running and barking. Veterinary experts tell us the zoomies are natural to all dogs and result from pent-up energy. Zoomies are not bad for dogs—in fact, they look like they’re having a barrel of fun when they’re running. But there is always the danger that running so fast they will injure themselves. Once, before we got rid of deconstructed granite in some flower beds, Soph tore the pads on her paws badly and was off her feet for several days while we treated with salves and ointments. And let’s be realistic—she is twelve years old and has a chronic condition and six months ago was at death’s door. I worried a lot about her this morning.

The squirrels are to blame, of course. They know exactly what they are doing when they tease her, and she falls for it every time. What they say about dogs having the thought processes of a two-year-old is so true!

Tonight we had happy hour with the neighbors directly behind us. Two or three years ago, they asked me to sign an easement waiver or whatever so they could build a cabana/guest house closer to the property line. My cottage also sits too close to the line, but it was obviously built before zoning restrictions. They are good neighbors, nice people (with sons about Jacob’s age), and I was glad to do it. They and their architect—who also designed the renovation of my cottage—were most considerate of my privacy. The new structure directly blocks the view from my bathroom window, but a fence covered in honeysuckle hides their pool equipment and, besides, who spends a lot of time staring out the bathroom window? Windows on my side of their cabana are for ventilation only and are up high—all they see is trees, which is pleasant for them and keeps my bathroom private.

So tonight we saw the finished project, and it is classy. The cabana matches the house and faces the new pool. The main, two-story house has a new screened-in porch on the first level and an open porch above which must be off their master bedroom. They’ve created a lovely oasis, and I was delighted to see it. Having grown up with a scrrened-in porch in Chicago, I am more than a bit jealous.

A nice end to an off day. I may have to take a nap before I go to bed. Sophie is now calm and angelic, and occasionally I think the look in her eyes says, “Will you forgive me?” Here comes a busy week. I’m looking forward to it. You?

Storm memories

 

My neighbor, Susan, mopping.

In the recent devastating storms we’ve had in the Metroplex, the Alter/Burton compound has been lucky. We have survived with very little damage. When we had hail a night or two ago, I listened with worry as it pinged against the frail old  glass in the cottage windows, and I worried about the cars, particularly my soft-top VW. But all was well. Just blocks from us, at TCU and University Christian, windshields were shattered and in one instance a car top broken.

But this morning my computer popped up a memory from ten years ago, and I was taken back to a terrific spring storm that did real damage. Jacob was probably six and scared of storms, so he had slept in my bed. I am not sure if this was the time we sat in the evening and watched the rain and hail fall furiously, only later to hear that it had taken the entire roof off a building down the street. My protestations that I loved a good storm only brought forth one word from Jacob: “Why?” I couldn’t explain that as a kid in a cabin on a high ridge in the Indiana Dunes I had watched storms roll down the length of that lake and stir the water into dark, big whitecaps. Thanks to my mom’s attitude, I reveled in watching the power and was never afraid. In Texas, I have learned that a little fear might be a good thing.

But this night it must have rained hard during the night, and when I woke in the morning, I could smell wetness. It came from the back of the house, where the add-on family room has a flat roof. We were in the midst of getting the house and cottage re-roofed, and the roofers had put a tarp over the family room. I didn’t want to go back there alone, so holding Jacob’s hand, I went through the kitchen and into the family room. The wood floor was two inches deep in water, and if you stood in the middle of the room, you were rained on.

I called everyone I could think of—Jordan, our neighbors, our contractor, our roofer, and it wasn’t long before there was an army cleaning, sorting, mopping. I can still hear my neighbor (the good looking one) saying as he walked into the room, “Sweet Jesus!” and I can see Lewis, my beloved contractor, and the roofing company owner on their hands and knees sponging up water.

My cookbook collection was on top of a long bookshelf, specially built for the room. I lost all of them, including beautiful four-color coffee table books as well as books I had treasured since childhood. We were planning a special sale that afternoon of my children’s books for the parents of children at Lily B., across the street. All the children’s books were spread out on the couch—and mostly ruined. It was Jordan’s birthday, but instead of the lovely lunch we planned, she spent the day sorting wet books on the front porch, as everyone else ferried them out to her.

The long Lovesac wrap-around couch was soaked, the wood floor buckled. Fortunately, insurance covered most of it, and eventually order was restored—the floor smooth, the couch as good as new after it was sent out for a long drying process. But the books were a total loss. To me, an incredible loss.

I guess I never again felt the same about storms. But there was one funny night a year or two later when we were under severe storm warning. Jacob decided we had to go to the closet, and he kept urging me to the long closet on one side of my bedroom. When I finally went there, I saw he had a pillow and blanket for himself, an electronic game of some sort that he could play on batteries. And he had a dining chair, a flashlight, and a glass of wine for me. So we sat for a long time. When I’d ask if we could go out (I heard no thunder), he’d say, “Not yet, Juju, not yet.” It’s one of my favorite memories of his childhood.

I know with the last couple of storms this spring, friends and neighbors have suffered damage. I am grateful we’ve been spared—even the new Chinese pistache tree came through unscathed—but I worry for friends who lost so much, especially a Facebook friend with a nursery who lost a greenhouse. Storms are something we learn to live with in North Texas, and I guess we always think it wouldn’t happen to us. But it can. While I still enjoy the power and glory, I am respectful—and ever watchful.

Next time we have a storm I hope each and every one of you is safe.

View from the cottage

The view from inside my house 
in the days when I had a houseful of littles.

I’ve been writing this blog now for seventeen years, a record which frankly astounds me. Way back in 2006 my daughter-in-law, Melanie, suggested I start a blog. Blogging was then fairly new, and I complained I had nothing to write about. “Yes, you do,” she replied. “Write about writing and cooking and grandmothering, the things you do. And call it Judy’s Stew, a stew of those things.” So that’s what happened. In those early days, I had no idea how to attach a photo, so I would write a post, send it to my computer at work, and have Melinda, the production manager, add the photo and post it. I’ve gotten a lot better since those days, thank goodness. And over the years, the number of people who read my blog and sometimes respond has grown steadily. You may never know how grateful I am to you for letting me share my thoughts and doings, some serious, a lot silly. Blogging is my form of journaling.

Six years ago, I moved into the cottage—I cannot believe it’s been that long. But I immediately recognized that my view of the world, sheltered in the back of the property, was distinctly different. And I wanted to rename the blog, “View from the Cottage.” I was discouraged from that by wiser heads, but I still keep old posts in a file with that title.

Today I was struck again by the difference in my view. As long as I lived in the main house, one of my great pleasures was to sit on the porch and watch the schoolchildren arrive in the morning for the elementary school across the street and leave in the afternoon. For six of those years, Jacob was one of those children. He stopped a my house each morning for a hug, and, most of the time, I was the one who walked across the street to get him at three o’clock (wreaked havoc on my nap time!). These days, my view of the street and the school is obstructed.

Ever since Jacob’s catalytic converter was stolen, the Burtons have parked three cars inside the electric gate—my VW which Jordan drives, Christian’s Lexus, and Jacob’s van (I have been chastised for calling it a van—it is a Toyota Sequoia, but it looks a lot like the van I drove in the late seventies). I can see around the two cars, but not Jacob’s, so my view is of a tiny sliver through an iron gate. And only if I go to the kitchen window. From my desk, I cannot see the street.

This morning was half-price day during spring break at the zoo, a day when our neighborhood is notoriously brought to its knees by zoogoers and lines of cars parked on both sides of the street, and others in a long line waiting to get to the zoo. It’s frustrating and dangerous—emergency vehicles couldn’t get in if they had to. This year new extreme measures have been instituted, and I wanted to see if they were working. I wanted to look out and see if there were bumper-to-bumper cars on the street. But I couldn’t see.

I mentioned the other day that a new building has gone up, unnoticed by me, on the neighbor’s property behind me and one lot over. I kept waiting to tell Jordan about it, but when I did, she said, “I know. I see it every day.” When Jamie and I went to the grocery Monday, we both saw it, looming over the single-story garage next door, and were amazed. Jordan made me realize it was clearly visible all along—except from my limited view from the cottage. I had wondered for weeks why I heard so much hammering—including a nail gun that seemed to ratchet up just when I wanted to nap. Now I know.

But if my view is limited, it also has advantages. You know those tacky people who leave Christmas lights up all year? Count me as one. When Mary Dulle moved, she gifted us with a live tree, about four feet tall, strung with Christmas lights. Now, in March, it still shines brightly outside my French doors. And one year Jordan bought a light that throws tiny specks of green lights on the wall of the neighbor’s casita (guest house). I love it.

When the yard is in bloom, I have a wonderful view from my desk. Last year, the pentas were pitiful, but most years they are lush and gorgeous, and in fall bright yellow mums line the front edge of the deck. This year, my new native plant bed is showing great signs of growth, and I am anxious to see it when it’s had time to fill out. It’s also showing great signs of weeds.

This morning I saw that June Bug, the youngest of the Burtons’ two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, was walking better. Several years ago, she was given months to live, but she defied predictions. Not without several lapses when we thought for sure she was going. Somehow, she rallied. This past weekend, her hind legs gave out on her until she was literally on her last legs—the dogsitter had to hold her up so she could pee. We thought it was the Rainbow Bridge for Junie. But this morning, I watched fascinated as she walked almost straight down the sidewalk. Marvelous recovery. We are calling her Kitty from now on.

Such is the view from my cottage—limited but oh so rewarding.

View from my desk window

 

 

 

 

 

 

Watching Junie walk better

Missing church, a frustrating day, and a fun dinner

 

Brinner

For the first time in forever, I didn’t make online church this morning, and I suppose it wasn’t even for a very good reason. I hope the Lord understands. I was frustrated with the computer world.

All day yesterday I tried to order online from Central Market and always got an “Access Denied” response with security cited as the issue. I’ve had this problem before and customer service has been responsive and quick. Not so today. I think the lady lost patience with me because I told her I was hard of hearing and elderly—so she thought “dementia.” She was helpful but not very. So then I called son Colin who took over my computer and spent an hour figuring things out. Finally, he made Central Market a trusted site, and I was in.

But meantime I ordered by phone, which has its own perils. Dealt with a nice woman who really tried, but now I have God’s quantity of ground rosemary—don’t ask!—and an equal amount of dried parsley flakes, which I will eventually use if I live long enough. I got most of what I want, but ground turkey instead of beef—oh well, turkey burgers will be good one night.

In fixing Central Market, Colin left other problems, a couple of which I finally solved. But there was a huge blank white screen in the middle of my screen saver and I couldn’t get into Twitter, which I know should not be a huge problem these days when people are bowing out of Twitter in droves. But there are some left-leaning columnists I like—David Corn, David Frum, Rick Wilson. Tonight, after yet another session with Colin these seem to be solved. Wish all of life’s problems were so easily fixed. But the whole things left me exhausted.

Tonight we had brinner—breakfast for dinner, a potluck affair with three sets of friends. We used to do this more often before pandemic, so it was fun to rehook. And we had an amazing supper—sausage and cheese on a biscuit, potato casserole, baked egg casserole, bacon and sausage, French toast casserole. Not the meal if you’re struggling with your waistline. Conversation tended to be mostly about food, both cooking it at home and restaurants. At one point, neighbor Jay (the good looking one) asked, “After we’ve had such an amazing meal, why are we talking about where to eat next?” But in a big way, it was talk about keeping up with how much our city has changed and grown, even since pandemic.

Sophie and I survived the first night of standard time. She slept until six, daylight savings time, which means she ate at five, which she often does. I had dreaded the thought of a four o’clock demand for food. (Why do we do that? For a few days after a time change, we measure everything against the time it “should have been”—five o’clock a.m. is really six o’clock, etc.) I also survived—slept until 8:15 (new time, with several interruptions), had a good nap, but now I’m so sleepy.

The week ahead brings a dinner guest, a doctor’s appointment, and, I hope, a lot of time for Irene’s adventures. I keep living them in my head, particularly when I sleep, so I really need to get them on paper.

What about you? How are you handing the switch from daylight to standard time?

The tax man cometh

 

Not my picture
but isn't he adorable

For some reason today, the saying that kept repeating in my mind was, “The Lord loveth a happy heart.” Well, I qualify! My heart is happy tonight because I spent much of the day organizing my tax information so that when my accountant sends his annual questionnaire I have it (almost) all ready to go.

I suppose everyone’s tax information seems complicated, but mine always has for years because as a free lance writer I have income—none of it large, mid you—from several sources. And then I must keep track of all the expenses that qualify for deduction, and I end up with ridiculous questions for my accountant, like “Can I deduct the new tree I bought as property improvement?” Maybe I could detect the value of the hundred-year-old tree that had to be replaced. OH, oops! If you count depreciation, I guess a hundred-year-old tree has lost all its value. But losing it was such a traumatic thing for us and made us so sad, I really think we should be compensated for sentimental value. I doubt the IRS would see it that way, and I’m not about to tempt them.

The tree is sort of like my car—a 2004 VW convertible bug—which is now back in the driveway after spending months in a repair shop of Christian’s choosing. Christian kept telling me this was a good guy, but I began to have my doubts after the car was gone so long. Was the guy driving it himself? Selling it? All is well, because one day it just reappeared in the driveway, in much better shape than when it went away. Jordan and Christian want to keep it for an alternative for a while, because both their cars are old, and Jordan’s needs some work. Meantime, Jordan and I ran an errand in it the other day, and I realized it is so much easier for me to get in and out of than climbing into her SUV. I have requested that we take the VW to all future doctor appointments, etc. But the truth is my little pale-yellow bug has much more sentimental value than actual worth. Like the tree.

And I am headed into a series of routine doctor appointments that I rescheduled when omicron was rampant. I hate it, because now I have all these visits breaking into my work schedule. And I’m always a bit hesitant about some doctors—will the cardiologist find something wrong? Will the dentist find a cavity? How about the eye doctor? I’ve had enough eye trauma to last a lifetime. Probably I’m not so worried about the ones I should be worried about.

My heart is also happy tonight because Jordan and I had a good visit with my neighbors who usually come for happy hour on Tuesday, as long as everyone’s schedule permits. We talked of plumbing problems—Mary has major work being done, so much so that she and Joe are staying in a hotel. And we talked of kids, primarily Jacob’s triumph at a golf tournament today—five schools, and he came in at 77, third place, two strokes behind the winner. I am so proud of that boy. And of course we talked of food and recipes.

After the ladies left, I ate a quick bowl of leftover chicken soup and tuned into a Zoom program sponsored by the Chicagoland chapter of Sisters in Crime on social media. I prepared myself to learn a lot, but what I learned is I am probably doing it all right with a visible presence on Facebook, a less active presence on Twitter (I mostly retweet and must learn to post original content), and some presence on BookBub and Goodreads. The one I’ve left slide is Pinterest, and I went exploring tonight, made a little progress, but need a tutor. And I really need a tutor for Instagram—hmmm, I’m wondering if Jacob can help.

Enough. I’ve had a full day, and I’m going to take my happy heart to sleep and pray for the people of Ukraine. That situation scares the bejabbers out of me—which I guess is what Mr. Putin wants.

Has Christmas changed—or have I?

 

And so begins another holiday season. I have wrapped seven gifts, done some online shopping, a bit of cooking and a lot of menu planning. And I officially feel in the holiday season. My cottage is gaily decorated, thanks to Jordan, with colored lights on the pussy willow arrangement and white lights and ornaments on the table-top tree. The tiny virtual fireplace son Jamie gave me glows with welcoming warmth, although it doesn't put out much. Outside, the deck railings twinkle with white lights, and the neighbor’s wall shows my tiny green lights, with a few red flickers (he says he doesn’t mind at all, and it looks like such a fairyland from my desk). Most of my shopping is done, except for a few reluctant kids who will give me no hint.

But I confess, I approach this holiday season much later and with less—not enthusiasm, but perhaps less energy than I used to. When my children were little, I had to plan both Christmas and Hannukah, the latter involving eight days of gifts for four children. Plus Christmas required several packages under the tree plus stocking stuffers. I used to do spread sheets. And I hid the presents in the upstairs guest room closet—since all our bedrooms were downstairs, the kids were not supposed to go upstairs, but I will never forget the year they found their presents.

And then there were Christmas cards. As a doctor’s wife, I sent out countless obligatory cards. I would buy them December 26 at Hallmark when they were half price, and by the next November, well before Thanksgiving, I had them addressed and ready to mail. And then I sent a Christmas letter, printed off my computer, to distant friends. I remember buying special Christmas letterhead. I haven’t done any of that in years. When I hear from a few, special, distant friends, I reply individually after the holidays, but the mass mailing days are gone and not lamented.

Thanksgiving weekend was when we decorated the house—when there was no longer “we” but me and the kids, we stuck to that weekend. And left the decorations up until January 6 when we celebrated Twelfth Night.

Christmas is different this year—okay, it was different last year but that was because we were in the midst of pandemic and quarantine. This year, I’m trying to figure out if the whole Christmas atmosphere is different or if it’s just me and another signing of aging with, I hate to admit it, waning stamina. Okay, I will admit that I am no longer up for everything I did in my thirties and forties. I try not to use the excuse that I need a walker, but that does mean everything takes more energy and more time.

But I’m not sure it’s just me. Yes, Christmas decorations appeared in the stores shortly after Halloween, which is an abomination. And yes, there are still huge civic Christmas trees and parades and, on the surface, we’re still celebrating wildly with little regard to the meaning of the celebration. But ours is a nation in deep trouble, fraught by conflict and division and corruption. We argue about abortion and voter suppression, critical race theory and socialism (neither of which most of us understand). We want to ban books and masks but not guns. I think we all know we are skating on thin ice, and it makes us more tentative about Christmas, Hannukah, Kwanza, and other seasonal celebrations. I have my own theory about how all this meshes with religion, but I’ll keep it to myself. I have no proof, but I think many of us will be grateful for a quiet holiday with loved ones. We don’t need the hullabaloo to convince us that we’re happy, because maybe, deep down, we’re not that happy. We’re scared and anxious. So it’s a time to draw loved ones close and treasure them.

On a less somber note, there was a high old time in the cottage tonight. Neighbors Jaimie and Greg walked up for happy hour. Jordan and Christian were going to a holiday party but came out for a drink first. Conversation flew far and wide—while Jaimie and Jordan discussed I don’t know what but I think exercise classes and diets, Greg, Christian and I talked about everything from dogs (their dog broke his leg chasing squirrels, poor baby) to gardens and our new tree to politics and the SCOTUS debate on abortion (do not get me started on that or I’ll rant). For some reason, we all talked loudly and with enthusiasm, and I often had a hard time hearing. When the Burtons had gone, and Jaimie and Greg were on their way to check on their dog, I said, “I really hadn’t planned any entertainment for the evening,” and they both laughed. It was a good, neighborly time.

And I was most proud of my appetizer: I pulled the baby leaves out of the center of three heads of romaine and put them upright in a glass, made a Caesar dip, and added a basket of baguette slices. To my mind, it was showy, innovative, and delicious. Greg didn’t indulge, but Jaimie and I feasted.

And now I’m catching up on emails but getting so sleepy. Sweet Christmas dreams, you all.

Going to school on Saturday

 

Saturdays are supposed to be a mini-vacation from work and responsibilities, but I went to school today. Specifically, I want to a webinar on the importance of first lines taught by Hank Phillippi Ryan and sponsored by the Grand Canyon Writers chapter of Sisters in Crime. If you haven’t read any of Hank’s books, you should immediately seek them out. They’re thrillers, and she’s really good, over and above the fact that she’s won several major awards in the mystery world. Her newest title is Her Perfect World.

Today she talked about what the first line of a book should tell the reader. I’ve always known, or thought, that the first line should hook a reader in, and that’s been m goal. But Hank says it must do much more, and she traced the scenario of an average customer considering a book in a bookstore. Our Jane Q. Pubic considers the cover—the first selling point—and then flips to the back cover to study the author’s bio and look at the photo. Believe it or not, readers want to know what the author looks like. But then, Jane Q. will open the book and read that first line—and right there, in a few seconds, she decides whether or not she’ll buy that book. Ideally, the first line will so grab her that ten minutes later she’ll still be standing there, reading the first page.

Hank says the first line must set the tone for the book—is it action adventure, spy thriller, sweet romance, cozy? It sets the book in time and indicates forward motion because the plot of a mystery always must be moving forward. We know from that first line that something has happened, something significant, and that the story will develop to tell us what that something was, how it affects the main characters. And the first line must introduce the main characters—that is, to use Hank’s phrase, “who we’ll be on the train with.”

She used several examples. One that sticks in my mind comes from Ken Follett (not being a Follett fan, I can’t tell you which one): “The last camel collapsed at noon.” So what do you know? The narrator is almost certainly in the desert, there have been several camels, but this is the last one, and it doesn’t just die—it collapses. It’s noon, and you can almost feel the desert heat. And undoubtedly the narrator is with a party, if there were several camels. So now they are in a bad place—the story has to go forward. How will they survive? What will they do?

The program sent me scurrying back to look at some of my own first lines, and I decided the best one I ever wrote came from The Perfect Coed: “Susan Hogan drove around Oak Grove, Texas, for two days before she realized there was a dead body in the trunk of her car.” What does that tell you? The narrator is not part of the story but a detached observer. Susan is in a small town in Texas. She’s not very careful about her car. This is a serious murder mystery, though with a light touch—it’s almost laughable that she wouldn’t know there’s a body in her car. And we as readers know we’re going to hear whose body it is and how it got there—and the story is on! I don’t know what Hank would say about that line, but I think it still needs improvement. Now I’m going to look at the first line of the forthcoming Irene in Danger.

Aside from the webinar, the highlight of the day was coffee on the patio with a new neighbor, a former teacher who founded a non-profit to help with the education of military children who are frequently transferred from school to school. Mary was CEO for twenty years, traveled extensively during those years, and has lots of stories to tell. It was a lovely morning, with a cool breeze, my friend Subie was with us, and we told our own stories about children and grandchildren and growing old.

A satisfying Saturday

 

 

A blessed mix of a day

 

Sophie in her safe spot

I have a couch problem. No, it’s not that I am inclined to be a couch potato, but Sophie is. I am inordinately proud of my rather ordinary couch, because it is enlivened with a hand-woven wool blanket, designed loosely after Navajo patterns, and has a matching pillow—these were done years go by a high school student under the tutelage of a good friend who was a weaver. The final accent on the couch is an octagonal needle-point pillow depicting the story on the Blue Willow plate (in case you don’t know or forgot, at this point in my life Blue Willow is my only china—in the downsize I gave away at least four other sets). Years ago a good friend made this pillow for me. I have since had it re-stuffed and cleaned, but it is suffering wear again (read below).

Every afternoon, when Jordan comes in, she straightens the blanket, which has somehow crept up so that it almost falls over the back of the couch, and she picks up the two pillows that are on the floor between couch and my big oak coffee table, which is one of my favorite pieces of furniture. Next morning, all is in disarray again.

We know the culprit of course. I’ve watched Sophie go frantic on the couch, as though she was having some wild party of her own—she buries her head, then twist, and jumps, and bats the pillows down. But today at noon Jordan caught a picture that tells the whole story. Soph creates a nest for herself on the floor between couch and table. Dogs feel safe in a confined spot, and this is the spot she has chosen as her safe place. For the time being, she has again abandoned her crate, but soon as I take it up, she’ll want it back.

A do-nothing day, mostly because I spent a huge chunk of the morning on the computer with a customer service rep from McAfee, the computer security company. I’ve had lots of annoying pop-ups, the most alarming of which tell me that my McAfee subscription will expire in four minutes. How dumb do they think I am? But McAfee had also warned me that my email was found on the dark web and some of my passwords were in danger. I was freaked about computer security, although my software engineer son-in-law tried to tell me everyone’s email is on the dark web and passwords are leaked all the time. Still, I was completely befuddled about how to tell legitimate McAfee emails from scams and phishing.

So this morning I steeled myself to spend time, got a most helpful gentleman, and learned a lot. He took remote control of my computer, deleted some programs, including some that said McAfee but apparently weren’t, and re-installed the whole thing. He also found that I had two concurrent subscriptions, so he added what was left on one to the other one and extended it. And he gave me a lesson on some things to watch for: when you search for McAfee, for instance, the first site that comes up has [Ad] in vary small letters at the beginning of the site description. You want to avoid that. You also want to avoid any offers that show up in icons on the far right of your screen. And if you get a pop-up with the words “topsearch.com” on it, you want to quickly delete and exit—that’s apparently where my fake McAfee threats were coming from. I feel better about my security tonight but am still going to work with my son to use 1Password, a password management program. Yikes, I hate this kind of stuff!

Our regular Tuesday night ladies came for happy hour tonight—first time since Mary has been gone a month or more, and we had a pleasant visit on the patio. Hot, but with the fan not unbearable, and nobody mentioned mosquitoes. I decided my life is calm compared to my neighbors who have relatives with terrible troubles, school troubles, and a host of other issues. Grateful that I just bobble along from day to day in my little world which, knock on wood, goes along smoothly.

Tonight, we had Big Mac Salad for supper—one of the favorites of Jacob and Christian. We had a bit of Thousand Island dressing in a bottle, but I threw it out and made my own. So easy and so much better.

The gnats are awful tonight!

The inevitability of birthdays

 

Birthday happy hour at the cottage
left to right, me, Pru, Victor, and Jordan
Photo by Mary Dulle
I thought I was off-camera, hence no big smile.

You know that old quip about growing older being better than the alternative? That’s kind of how I feel tonight. Friends and family seem determined to mark that I am about to begin yet another journey around the sun, and I am having a long, drawn-out birthday. A pre-celebration weekend at the lake was followed by a neighbors’ happy hour tonight where I was feted (love that word!) with a bountiful charcuterie, plenty of wine, crème brulee, and lots of good discussion. “The girls” as we call them turned our regular happy hour into a truly festive occasion—and Pru’s husband, Victor, joined us so we weren’t all gossipy girls.

This happy hour has a history. Several years ago—I’d say six, seven or eight—Mary Dulle and I used to go on Tuesday night to join several neighbors at the Old Neighborhood Grill. Mary’s husband played—and still does—tennis on Tuesdays. When Jacob was quite young, he joined us, and I have funny stories from those times: like the time I asked if he wanted fries with his grilled cheese and he said yes. But later when I asked if he was going to eat them, he said, “No, they’re bad for you.” Pause. “May I have a cupcake?” He was quite the hit of the table.

There was a regular group—the Alan Barrs, the Paul Harrals, Lyn Willis, and sometimes others drifted by. Of course, at the Grill, you always saw other neighbors you knew, and I was pleased that Tuesday was always meatloaf night. The staff knew and welcomed us, and we all visited. One big neighborhood family.

Somehow it fell apart—I’m not sure of the chronology. With severe hip pain, pre-surgery, it was increasingly difficult for me to get out; Peter sold the Grill; Jacob grew up. Mary and I fell into the habit of having happy hour at my cottage, either inside or, depending on the weather, on the patio. Two or three years ago (who keeps track of these things?), Prudence and her family moved down the block from Mary. There was some unpleasant controversy over a fence, zoning regulations, and flaring tempers. I reached out to Prudence to squelch the unpleasantness and welcome her and her family—four children—to the neighborhood. She came to happy hour one night, and boom! She was a regular. And Jordan began to join us.

Now we are a close-knit group, sharing joys, successes, worries, and more. During pandemic, the others shopped for each other—whoever found Lysol shared it with the group. We celebrate birthdays and other special occasions, but most Tuesday nights we just gather for an hour of talk about whatever. I like it best when we can sit on the patio, and truth be told, it’s cool enough these days, but some of the others are more sensitive—or attractive—to mosquitoes than I am. So tonight, we were indoors.

I am blessed and grateful to have these women as friends who care enough to celebrate with me.

And a good day in other ways: Jacob played in a high school golf tournament today and scored a 77. Pretty darn good for a fifteen-year-old, if you ask me who knows nothing about golf. But even he, who is reluctant to ever say he had a good day on the course, acknowledged it was pretty good and looked pleased when we congratulated him.

And I worked hard this morning and early afternoon, getting my neighborhood newsletter almost done—now waiting on articles and reports from others—and got my Lone Star Literary Life column for August drafted. A lot of detail, intensified by several people who called with last-minute changes or corrections to their contributions. Answering emails kept me busy much of the day. Tomorrow will be a catch-up day as I finish details on the newsletter and edit the column. Plus a bit of cooking.

Life is good, and I am grateful to be growing yet another year older, because, yes, it is much better than the alternative. For the record, the birthday is Thursday, and I will be 83. I am so comforted by Wally Funk who rode Jeff Bezos’ rocket into space today—she’s 82. Of course, she had a lifelong ambition to travel to space, something that is the farthest thing from my mind. Different strokes for different folks.

Happy days

Big Mac Salad.

Every Tuesday night two of our neighbors come for happy hour with Jordan and me—except this week, we got our schedules all mixed up. I went out to supper on Tuesday, so they came tonight—but Jordan had already made plans to entertain someone from her work for happy hour. But still the three of us sat on the patio and visited for a quick hour. Afterward, Prudence email enthusiastically about how great it was to see everyone so happy.

She was happy  because she has reconciled herself to staying in an online  graduate program with which she is not entirely satisfied because she can finish more quickly and go on to specialized studies. Mary was happy because she felt she finally made progress in “gentling” the feral kitty they’ve been housing for several weeks—she can now do a bit of petting and was rewarded with the first real, deep purr. And I was happy because I’d had that nice dinner out with friends—although I have to say I looked at that picture and realized I can tell (maybe no one else can) that I am still on steroids from the hospital stay. My face is puffy—surely I don’t look that way all the time. Supposedly we are tapering me off them—I thought we did that a while ago, but apparently not.

My “be still my heart” moment of the week: 18-year-old granddaughter Eden texted from Kansas City where she is with friends to say she was eating a salad of hearts of palm, and it made her think of my because she used to eat them out of the jar from my refrigerator. I asked about the salad and she said it also had artichoke hearts and Parmesan—I’m about ready to head to Kansas City just to get that. She also wrote that now she has had covid and recovered—I didn’t know that—she can hug me because she has antibodies and hopes to do so soon.

Good day for me because I took a step to reactivate my study of Helen Corbitt, the diva of food service at Neiman’s in the 1960s, and also explored writing another biographical entry in the Handbook of Texas, this on some people I knew years ago which would make it more fun. More on that later. And there’s a mystery floating around in my mind, though it sure hasn’t surfaced except for stray ideas. Still, it’s nice to have projects on my desk and on my mind.

Balmy days, so much so that we had a salad dinner. Big Mac Salad—all the ingredients of a Big Mac at McDonald’s except in a salad and with homemade Thousand Island dressing—lettuce, tomato, pickle, ground beef, grated cheese. Good and refreshing. Jacob had a golf tournament today which means he got up at 5:30 a.m., so he slept through dinner, and Christian was at a late meeting, so Jordan and I dined together and enjoyed it. She fed them salad later.

All in all, I agree with Prudence. There is happiness—and spring—in the air. We don’t have to find a reason—just enjoy! Hope everyone else feels it.

 

A busy day at the office

Honest, I think I worked harder today than when I had a “real” job. But at least I earned my keep. First on my list was proofreading the neighborhood newsletter. This time it was down to twenty pages, its normal length, but fraught with problems. The minor stuff involved mis-used italics, consistency of quote marks, and all those little errors that bother me but most readers might not notice. On the other hand, one of my neighbors is a proofreader, and she’s fussy. Then there was a historic photograph that I assumed came from a private collection. Wrong! When I investigated for a caption, I found out it came from an academic library’s special collections. So then I had to trace down permissions. I’m in the process of supplying proof that we’re nonprofit, but it has taken a lot of time.

I had a big accomplishment today too. Spoke, via Zoom, to a small book group. A friend and her four cousins have formed this remote group. Several are members of the Daughters of the Texas Revolution, and they read mostly Texas history. They just read The Second Battle of the Alamo. She asked, and I said I’d be glad to do meet with the ladies..

Not as easily done as said. First of all, I put make-up on for the first time in three and a half months. It did no good, because I was horrified when I saw all the wrinkles that showed up onscreen. Of course, I was looking at an in-the-face large version of me, but all the others saw was a tiny thumbnail. And since I usually work at my desk in whatever I slept in until mid-afternoon, this required that I “dress for the occasion.” So I had on a tangerine-colored top—but if you could have seen the bottom, you’d have seen lilac shorts (one of those color combinations that could be great or awful—I fear it was the latter). I assured myself no one would see. Wrong again! After the meeting started, I realized I forgot my hearing aids. Had to get up and go get them. Fortunately, I hope no one noticed since the pictures are so small and the camera mostly aims above the waist.

Of course, we were all amateurs at this remote meeting business. At first the woman in charge tried to get us together via Google Meet. Nobody, not a one, could get online. So then we went to Zoom. I’m almost pretty good at that—knew where to click to turn on audio and video. But when free Zoom decides you’ve used your time, they cut you off without warning—in mid-sentence. My friend said they were going to restart a separate meeting but after about ten minutes, she said they all gave up.

Still for the half hour or whatever it was, it was interesting and a fun challenge for me to answer their questions about Adina de Zavala and Clara Driscoll and what responsibility the Daughters of the Republic of Texas bear for the deterioration of the chapel and how the Alamo ended up in George P. Bush’s hands. And now I feel more confident about Zoom meetings. I filled out a speaker’s form for the FW Women’s Club today and indicated that I am not speaking to groups but would be glad to do a remote meeting. Courageous, that’s me!

After all that, it was lovely to sit on the patio with neighbors, sip wine, and talk about nothing much—until a fly decided to swim in my wine, and I had to throw it out. Still we had a good visit—thanks to Greg and Jaimie Smith for giving me a bit of human companionship and to Jay Mitiguy for scanning documents for me and then joining us on the patio. Greg kindly brought packages from the porch and moved the bougainvillea under the roof overhang in anticipation of the severe storms predicted for tonight.

I capped the evening off by repeating last night’s dinner—a salmon croquette (honest, I like them better cold than hot) and a zucchini casserole (yes, I heated that). So good. I could have eaten the extra croquette and bit of zucchini, but I restrained myself.

North Texas people, please stay safe if we do get those storms tonight.

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 Mother’s Day surprise and thoughts on a pandemic

Had a special treat last night. A neighbor family came to serenade me for Mother’s Day. Prudence Zavala told me it is a custom in the Mexican community. Standing at a good distance in the driveway (now a basketball court), the dad strummed a guitarron, a large base instrument of Hispanic origin; one daughter had a vilhuela,a Spanish stringed instrument shaped like a guitar but tuned like a lute--Prudence called it a rhythmic guitar,  and the other daughter was on a violin. Mom took pictures, while two younger children danced and jigged in the background, giving their own spontaneous performance. It was absolutely delightful. Jordan and I watched from the doorway of my cottage, and I was so flattered they wanted to do it.

After a long weekend with no attention to my novel, I was back to work this morning. For me, it was a long workday—you can tell nine to five is not on my horizon. But I proofed my spring newsletter (if you want to read it, email me at j.alter@tcu.edu), checked the world’s goings on in the news, on Facebook, my email, including two listservs to which I belong. All that takes a long time, so it was eleven before I started on the novel, but I got my thousand words (my minimum goal) and ended at a good spot to both end a chapter and take the action in a new direction.

About three I was ready for a nap. Just crawled into bed when the yard guys arrived, which sends Sophie into a hysterical fit of barking. I have learned that no amount of chastising, shouting, or pleading will quiet her, so I just waited it out for a long fifteen or twenty minutes. And then they were gone. I fell into a surprisingly deep and long sleep. Dreamt old friends were moving back to North Texas. So overjoyed I was sorry to wake up.

Like most Americans, I am horrified by ongoing news about the corona virus. Not just the spread, not even the rising death numbers, though unlike our squatting president I don’t consider that a victory. I am worried—okay terrified—by the fact that the virus apparently keeps changing. Doctors are finding new symptoms, new organs that It attacks, new ways that it destroys the body. And now, it’s hitting kids—after we though they were safe.

This morning, Jordan reported that Jacob had an upset stomach. The rational part of me knew that he does that from time to time—his digestion seems to be a weak point. We all have them—anxiety has long been mine. But the irrational part of me immediately leapt to the fact that gastrointestinal problems are one symptom. Not a part of the early classic pattern of symptoms, but now recognized. Of course, later in the morning, Jordan reported that he was fine and considering what he ate this weekend when his cousin was here, it’s no wonder his stomach was upset.

I vacillate between hope and despair. With the ever-changing nature of the virus, the ease of contagion, and the lack of cooperation by a large segment of our population, plus the denial of our leader, I sometimes think it will kill us all. But then the hopeful part of me reminds that scientists all over the world are working to decipher the nature of this monster disease and to find treatments and vaccines. Surely, they’ll solve it soon, though it’s fairly awful that the US is not cooperating with other countries and has ordered a halt to research in this country. Research, like testing, must make us look bad, and above all, we must open up the economy..

How about you? Are you full of hope, despair, or somewhere in between?

Finally! A sunny day in North Texas

Amazing what a bit of sunshine does for  your disposition! I woke up to sunshine, and it stayed all day. This evening it was positively balmy—80+ degrees—and we sat on the patio with wine and talked to our neighbor, who is self-quarantining in their guest house. He sat in his window, and we sat on the patio. A jolly visit, except of course I could only hear half of what he said, even with my hearing aids on.

And I had a terrific supper. Our neighbor Margaret, across the street, sent over a care package of corned beef, cabbage, carrots, and potatoes—they had a belated St. Patrick’s Day dinner. She has her hands full these days of quarantine with both her sons home, one a recent A&M graduate whose job the quarantine has put on hold and the other a college junior who has been sent home because of the pandemic. But Margaret appears to be coping well and cooked the best corned beef I have ever had—tender, flavorful, better than the local deli. Vegetables were also done just right.

Another bonus to the evening: Jacob came out to visit. We talked about the pandemic, of course, but also about neighborhoods. He recognizes the community spirit in our wonderful neighborhood but is bothered that everyone knows if he screws up. I tried to explain how much I value the community support of our close-knit neighborhood, but he kept saying he valued his privacy.

We also talked about school. Today he and his mom got his school-issued computer, but so far, he has no lesson plans to go with it. I asked what he was doing in English—actually called English Language Arts—and got the answer of basically nothing. I’m trying to be helpful here—after all, I have an advanced English degree—but it’s hard, because I don’t know where he is. He says he knows grammar and he knows about the beginning, middle, and end of an essay—I’d sure like to see an example. My suggestion that he read Catcher in the Rye has fallen on resistant ears. Apparently, literature is not part of the local ELA curriculum, and Jacob is not a natural reader, as I was and some of my children were. Yikes! I may tear my hair out, which is okay because it needs cutting anyway.

I find these days settling into a routine. I get up about eight and make myself tea, doing whatever else it takes to get my day going, from washing my hair to putting away dinner dishes. Pretty much I work during the morning, and it’s a blessing that I have plenty to keep me busy. Though I confess that catching up with the news takes a chunk out of my morning—I tell myself when the pandemic is over and trump is out of office, I won’t spend so much time on Facebook and related sites. Morning is also the time I pay bills and do whatever business-related tasks are on my desk. With time out for lunch, eaten at my desk, I work  until about two. And then I nap—sometimes for two hours, which sounds like more sleep than it is. Napping for me often unleashes my mind for creative work, and I come up with lots of ideas.

In the late afternoon I piddle at my desk with whatever has come up during the day and, with a fierce dedication, I watch the news. I am of mixed emotions about the fact that the local news now pre-empts the corona task force briefing. Today I was glad to see Dr. Fauci back but chagrined not to hear what he had to say.

Jordan comes out for happy hour, dinner follows, and I write my blog and read in the evening. It’s a comfortable routine, and so far, I’m okay with it. I don’t want to spend my life this way, but I have faith life will get back to normal. Not as soon as trump promises, but some day.

My Foodie Weekend

I didn’t cook as much as usual this weekend, because Jordan, Christian, and I all had Saturday night dinner with our delightful new neighbors, Victor and Prudence Zavala. We went to Tokyo Café, and the talk and laughter flowed—everything from food (she’s an astounding cook) to raising children. Christian had the sake and beef bowl he loves, Pru and I each had the lobster roll—to me, that’s elegant dining—and Jordan stuck with the California roll. Victor had some kind of tuna roll—not your regular sushi, but one large item. It looked delicious, but he warned me his dish was spicy. I love the food at Tokyo Café, but I have to watch the spicy dishes—the beef and rice bowl, for instance, looks so good but the one time I ordered it, it was way too spicy. I’m now told I can request it be less spicy.

Victor and Pru came into the cottage when they brought me home, and we still had so much to talk about, I’m embarrassed I didn’t urge them to sit and have a glass of wine. But they have young children and needed to get home. Next morning, Pru delivered a large mum she got at Costco. I protested that I should be sending her flowers in gratitude, but she responded with a directive: she will buy me flowers when she wants, and I will enjoy them. Yes, ma’am! They do brighten a winter morning in the cottage.

Friday night I wimped out on going to pick up my groceries at Central Market, which means I didn’t have the ingredients for the Eggs Benedict I planned for my supper—I meant to put the eggs over smoked salmon and use some of the dinner rolls, split and toasted, still in the freezer from Christmas. By serendipity, I had asked Jordan to pick up a few things at Albertson’s, so with the ingredients she brought, I made tuna pasties. A bit labor intensive, but so good. You use refrigerated biscuits for the dough but have to roll them out thin. The filling is simply good albacore tuna, flaked, sour cream, grated cheese, and some celery. Mine were definitely not the prettiest or most elegant pasties I’ve ever seen, with carefully crimped edges, but they were tasty, and I snacked on them all weekend.

For Sunday night supper, Christian grilled some salmon—well, he tried to grill it, but the grill wouldn’t ever get hot enough, so he ended baking it, which meant we didn’t eat until 8:30 by the time he figured out the grill was just not going to do it. I made an herb sauce for it—oil and vinegar and micro-planed garlic with lots of “fragrant herbs”—cilantro, parsley, basil, and watercress. Mincing all those herbs was tedious and messy, and I vowed not to do it again until I have better tools. I’ve ordered herb scissors, so we’ll see. The sauce, however, was delicious—and pretty on the salmon.

So it’s Monday morning, and I’m just now blogging because I was too sleepy after that late dinner. But I’m resolved this will be a nose-to-the-grindstone work week for me. I have lots of reading to do. Hope you look forward to a happy and productive week. Sigh, as I write that I realize it’s a giveaway to my personality—why do I think at my age I have to be productive all the time?

Talk about productivity! Three dogs waking Jacob, or trying to.

Bonus points for finding the black dog.