See you around the ‘hood

 

The main entrance to Lily B. "Sweet Lily B." Clayton Elementary School
Oh, how many times I've climbed those stairs!

Neighborhoods are on my mind tonight. Today was the absolute, drop-dead deadline for the July issue of the Poobah, the newsletter for the Berkeley neighborhood which I edit. (There’s a story about that name, a clear reference to Gilbert & Sullivan’s The Mikado where the Poobah is a self-important person—the name was first a joke for the newsletter, but then it stuck.) Tonight was also the quarterly Berkeley Place Association zoon meeting. So neighborhood has sort of taken up my day.

Fort Worth is, to me, a wonderful city, a wonderful place to live. But I am struck by the diversity of neighborhoods, the way each neighborhood has something to distinguish it. We all come together as citizens of the city, but many of us also have strong bonds to the neighborhood in which we live.

I first moved to Berkeley in the early ‘80s, fresh from a divorce, with four children. We lived in an absolutely charming house on Warner Road, with such Mediterranean touches a arched doorways and parquet floors. Never mind that there was no closet—I asked the seller where he would put the vacuum if he lived there—and only one living room. The kids and I couldn’t both have friends at the same time. I was a single mom in a neighborhood of “typical” families—Mom, Dad, and two kids. While I never felt ostracized, I never felt at home either.

We moved to a larger, ranch-style house in Westcliff, a neighborhood designed in the fifties to break the stereotypes of straight streets and small bungalows. Our sprawling house was on a curved street that wound through a neighborhood of similar houses. My brother lived down the street, close friends a block away in a different direction. I didn’t discover the importance of neighborhoods then either.

But in 1992, a sprawling house was too big as the kids started to move out on their own. We moved back to Berkeley, to the property Jordan, Christian, Jacob and I still occupy. By then I had friends in the neighborhood, and within a few years, I found myself editing the newsletter, a job handed down by good friend Mary Dulle. I began to learn what neighborhood is really about.

Editing the Poobah is pro bono work. I’m a firm believer in giving back to society in whatever way you can, and this volunteer job is the perfect way to use what skills I’ve developed over a thirty-plus-year career in publishing and as an author. It is my way of giving back. But it has many rewards. After who knows how many years I feel fully integrated into the neighborhood. I don’t know everyone in our 604 houses, but I know a lot of them. And I am friends with many. I get emails from contributors who obviously think they know me and want to chat about the newsletter, the neighborhood, whatever. Oh, sure, I get some complaints—once someone suggested I should include more city business and fewer recipes, but we get city news through our syndicated newspaper, the Star-Telegram, and more effectively through our independent newspaper, the Fort Worth Report. There are a lot of good cooks in this neighborhood and a lot of families to be fed—I figure bringing them together is a service of the newsletter.

So is presenting pups from rescue services who are in need of a forever home. I try to feature a pup each month, but of course I want to bring each one of them home (shh! Don’t tell Sophie!). The July Poobah will have a budget report, a breakdown of how many houses have paid dues, an article about the goals of Fort Worth Report, a letter from our association president, advice from a local vet about pets and Texas heat, and a review of a new grocery/restaurant. My goal is to make it a mix of neighborhood news, like cheers to residents who have done something special, and city news—restaurant reviews, zoning disputes (oh that endless short-term rental business) and similar things.

Each neighborhood in our city is distinguished by something—perhaps a fairly homogenous group lives there or the architecture is all the same or there are landmarks and a fascinating history. I think Berkeley is distinguished because, like Park Hill, it sits above the zoo (which causes us horrendous traffic problems every spring break) and by it’s elementary school—Lily B. Clayton, one of the city’s most diverse and forward-looking, successful elementary school with a rich history, including its architecture. It also has a fiercely loyal group of parents/fundraisers (we share the school with the Mistletoe neighborhood).

If you want to know more about Fort Worth’s neighborhoods, I suggest you read the Fort Worth Report on Mondays. Each week, they feature a resident from a specific neighborhood, writing about why they love living where they do.

Me? I’m rooted in Berkeley, in my little, cozy cottage. What’s special about your neighborhood?

 

Friends, dogs, and a momentous decision

 

Sophie with her guilty look.
Yes, she ate a basket of zucchini crisps.

A lovely couple of evenings with friends for happy hour last night and supper tonight. Last night Phil and Subie came. I experimented on what was supposed to be zucchini crisps—one of those recipes that sound too easy and good to be true. Just sliced zucchini topped with Parmesan and cooked in the air fryer. First time I ever tried my air fryer so I’m not sure if that was the problem or not. First, Subie announced she didn’t really like zucchini. At the time I thought these would come out crisp, like potato chips, so I assured her this would be different. It wasn’t. What we got were soggy pieces of zucchini with Parmesan on top. To add to my embarrassment, Sophie managed to grab the entire basket and devour the contents after we’d each had maybe two slices apiece and had voted against keeping the recipe. Subie asked if that would be a problem with Sophie’s stomach, but I assure her it wouldn’t. And it wasn’t.

Sophie was, however, a problem in another way. She got into one of her incessant barking phrases, so much so that Phil threatened to go home. I fed her a small bone treat, and she was quiet—but that goes against all my child-raising and dog-raising theories. I guess it’s a bit late with Sophie. She knows very well when she’s been naughty and won’t look any of us in the eye.

Tonight, Jean came for supper. She, Jordan, and I sat on the patio with wine—a perfectly lovely evening. Mostly the talk was about Jordan’s upcoming trips to San Miguel, Paris, and Iceland (talk about a weird itinerary!). After we went inside, I put together salmon burgers, for once following a recipe because when I do it off the top of my head they are never the right consistency. Recipe or no, these weren’t either—way too dry to hold together, so I added mayonnaise, perhaps too much. Three of the five fell apart when I flipped them. We ate the two that held together in buns loaded with lettuce, tomato, and onion. Good, but you’d never want to eat it in public. Salmon burgers are one of those things for which I have yet to find the perfect recipe, but I will do it! Jean and I sat long after supper, solving the problems not of the world but of being in your seventies and eighties—uncharted territory. It’s good to have someone to have those discussions with.

It has been a rushed twenty-four hours for me. Somehow, I forgot that yesterday was the deadline for submissions to the May issue of the neighborhood newsletter I edit. So there I was—a deadline and no articles. I sent out an urgent plea on the neighborhood email, taking full responsibility, and was overwhelmed with the response. I got so many articles and photos that I was up until midnight editing, and it was noon today before I sent the issue to the designer. I am so grateful for neighbors who have my back when I make such a mistake. I think this may be one of the best issues ever. But gosh, it was a lot of work, all with the pressure of a deadline. Tonight I am glad to have the mundane—a grocery order and a blog. Then I get to read the novel I’m enjoying—All Stirred Up! a culinary novel, love story of sorts, set in Edinburgh. Lots of Scottish life, lots of recipes. My cup of tea.

I reached a big decision the last couple of days. Many of you know that I have, for years now, been working off and on to write a book about Neiman Marcus doyenne of food service, Helen Corbitt, and how she fit into the changing foodways of America in mid-century, particularly her enormous impact on the way Texans ate and viewed food. I find the material fascinating. But when it came to writing the book, I came up short. Corbitt left behind cookbooks and articles galore but almost no record of herself a an individual. What was her childhood like? Why did she never marry? What’s the story behind those three times she was supposedly engaged? What was she like as a person? What we have is all surface stuff. I came up with a 30K-word manuscript, about half what’s needed for even a short book.

I even tried telling the story as fiction from the first-person point of view. But I couldn’t get the voice right—because I didn’t know enough about her. I was getting depressed and sending myself all sorts of negative messages. I have put this project aside and come back to it many times. Now I have decided to put it aside probably forever. And I feel a sense of freedom.

So, once again, I have an optimistic outlook on life and what I’m doing. I’m sure there will be further bulletins, if you are interested.

Happy Fridy night, everyone. Enjoy the weekend.

Sunshine, fall temperatures, lots of food, and return of the bedwetters

 

Today was lovely, the kind of day that makes me think of that poem I had to memorize in grade school. It began, “October’s bright blue weather,” though I don’t remember another word of it. Pretty as today was, a part of me longed for a repeat of yesterday’s long, slow and steady rain. Apparently, we are to get more rain this weekend, so I’ll be content.

I’m trying hard to be a working writer this week. Just sent my webmaster the copy for a Fall newsletter. I do an “only occasional” newsletter—if you don’t get it and would like to, please email me at j.alter@tcu.edu. Also, today I wrote about 1800 words, not my record for a day but darn close and a total that made me feel proud. I know somewhat the end of Irene’s Texas story but getting there had me baffled. Today I decided to stop thinking ahead and deal with each scene as it comes. The characters will lead me to the right direction.

Cooking has taken up a bit of my time, but my one real triumph is so unimpressive that I almost hate to brag. Still, I made the best ever salmon spread the other day and had it in sandwiches for lunch for two days. Colin and I split a case of salmon from Alaska—it really is better than the usual offering in the grocery stores. My secret trick is that I whirred the salmon in a food processor until it was finely flaked. Then I added a bit of finely minced scallion, salt and pepper, juice of a whole lemon (lots of lemon was what made it work), and just enough sour cream/mayo mixture to bind. I didn’t want a juice, sloppy mix; I wanted a spread. Terrific on sourdough bread.

Tonight, we ordered dinner from Bonnell’s. Fort Worth folk will know the place. During pandemic, Jon Bonnell utilized the location of his upscale restaurant on an access road to offer drive-by meals—a different menu five nights a week. He called his customers, “roadside warriors.” The program was so successful, he continues it to this day. We ordered once before when they had pork cutlets with gravy, potatoes, and I don’t remember what else. It was delicious, so this morning when I saw the offering was chicken marsala, soft polenta, green beans, and salad with green goddess dressing, we decided to order it. Once again delicious and so very generous. The food comes cold with clear directions for reheating. Christian was dishing up tonight and had he plates full when I asked about the green beans. He had left them in the house and thought dinner was compete with all that food, We scrunched things around to make room for buttery green beans. A worthy meal.

With mid-term elections two weeks away, I find myself reading less of the prognostications. I read somewhere that then-president Barack Obama coined the term “bedwetters.” He said about this time, in every election cycle, the bedwetters come out with their predictions of gloom and disaster. Everybody is losing, nobody has any money, this is your last chance, and so on. I find it so annoying I have given up.

This morning I read a terrific column by Gabe Fleisher on polls and their reliability or not—read it here: Let’s talk about the polls (wakeuptopolitics.com). If you don’t know Fleisher’s daily column, “Wake Up to Politics” I urge you to subscribe immediately. It’s totally bipartisan, sometimes way too much so for my tastes. These days I sense a great gap between what the polls are saying and my intuitive sense of the mood of the country. Christian would tell me I only hear a select audience, and he may be right. I tend to hear educated voters, and there is a vast world out there, I know, of voters who accept whatever they most recently heard. They are easily misled which is exactly what those who would lead us to fascism want.

This is such a critical election that now, even two weeks out, I am finding the suspense difficult to bear, and I wonder how candidates in those tied races can maintain their calm. I’ve given a lot of thought to how I’ll spend election night. My best idea is several glasses of wine and in bed by seven, with a pillow over my head.

Sweet dreams, everyone.

Cooking and writing make Judy a dull girl

 

Our quiche
with the obviously store-bought crust
Sorry about that.

Well, not really—at least I hope not. But it seems this week that’s all I’ve been doing —cooking and writing. And it doesn’t make for scintillating blogs. But as I look back at midweek, I realize it’s been a pretty interesting week. And cooking has been a large part of it.

Monday I had company for happy hour (my crowded happy hour schedule this week is a whole other topic, a good one), and Christian was cooking—so it was late before we ate supper. But we had chicken roll-ups with cheese and pesto. So good. Tuesday night I experimented and made a quiche—bacon and cheddar. Yummy, and it made a great breakfast this morning.

For about a week I’ve had a whole chicken in the freezer but cooking it in the oven means spatchcocking it (fits in my toaster oven much better), which in turn means defrosting it far enough in advance to be able to do that. So we finally got our act together, and yesterday I defrosted the chicken. Except that I forgot until about noon and was afraid it would not be defrosted in time for Christian to spatchcock it this morning. It was defrosted, but Christian didn’t get my message until mid-day today by which time I had struggled through and done it myself. Except it didn’t look like the ones he has fixed for me. I panicked and thought maybe I’d cut through the wrong side of the chicken, but I kept telling myself that wasn’t possible. I turned that silly chicken every which way before I cut.

Tonight I found out the problem—I only cut on one side of the backbone—believe me that was enough hard work. But you’re supposed to cut on both sides and lift the backbone out. My chicken had a definite tilt to it, and the kids said it looked like a drunken chicken. But I used a Greek recipe—olive oil, lemon, and lots of oregano—and it was delicious, with lots of good, crisp skin. With leftovers for salad tomorrow.

My tipsy Greek chicken.
Oh, those onions were so good!

My efficiency discovery for the day: Jordan’s work has been so busy—lots of people traveling these days--that she is hard put to get to the grocery store. She said she’d go to Albertson’s tomorrow, and I could order from Central Market for pick-up. Well, I fooled her. There were a lot of non-grocery items on my Albertson’s list—mouthwash, eye drops, Tylenol and the like. I ordered them all from Amazon. I told Christian tonight I regretted all the packaging, but the convenience was worth it. He said since we recycle religiously, the packing was okay. So now my grocery order for the week is set—and I’ve already thought of something I didn’t list. Oh me!

I have truly been writing, but with Finding Florence debuting next month, I’ve been mostly writing marketing stuff, like a newsletter. If you’d like to subscribe to my newsletter, please send an email to j.alter@tcu.edu. I call it my only occasional newsletter, but it usually ends up being quarterly, more or less. I announce new publications, rehash what I’m working on, offer a recipe I like and some tips about what I’ve been reading. And this time I’ll give away three copies of Saving Irene, the first Irene in Chicago Culinary Mystery, for those who haven’t met Irene and her storyteller, Henny. I’m also writing blogs, posting on Facebook, and trying to get the word out. A high-powered marketing person I am not.

My new word for the day: clairaudience. You know clairvoyance, the ability to see things in the future? Well, clairaudience folks hear voices that the rest of us don’t. And it turns out there’s a word for extrasensory perception dealing with each of our senses: clairsentience is for feeling; claircognizance for knowing; and clairgustience for smelling what others cannot. The latter could be helpful in many situations. A writer’s online group I belong to had an informative post today from a certified psychic. She urged us to avoid stereotypical thinking about psychics: admittedly there are many fakes in the business, but there are also genuine psychics. Often, they have taken courses and been certified. No, psychics cannot predict the future and it would be unethical for them to do that, particularly predicting the time and manner of  your death; psychics do not live in dark rooms in Victorian mansions, have twenty cats and a crystal ball; psychics do not know what everyone in a room is thinking at every moment; and not all psychics receive the same signals, as indicated by the new words I heard today. Some receive visual signals, some hear voices, etc.

All this was particularly interesting to me because Irene, in Finding Florence, has suddenly given greater credibility to the voices she’s always heard. And Henny has no idea what to believe.

It was a good day. I cooked a good chicken, soothed out a bit of household stress, even caught a glass in mid-air as it was about to crash on the tile counter. Life is good. Hope it is for you too.

 

 

A bright (if dreary) new day

Someone lit a fire under me today. I have no idea who or why, but I suddenly got down to business with a vigor, despite the fact that I’m still isolated, it was another dreary dull day, and I find the sight of frostbitten plants outside my window particularly depressing. All that aside, I got to work.

A writer friend had put out a call for blog posts about writing process, wanting to hear from different people how they go about writing. I put it aside, as I did most things in the last few weeks, but I did recently rough out some answers. Today I buckled down, edited it, re-read it twice, and sent it off. My punishment for dillydallying was that she wrote a most apologetic note saying she had been flooded with responses, and at this point mine is scheduled for Summer 2023. Unless there’s a cancellation, in which case I’d be on the waiting list. But I assume many others are also on the waiting list. It’s a good lesson to act while—what’s the saying—the fire is hot? Not procrastinating. It’s also a good illustration of what I’ve often said: a writer’s life involves a lot of waiting.

But then I got busy and pretty much roughed out a newsletter. Discovered that I hadn’t done one since September, which maybe isn’t too bad since I try to do them quarterly. So September was Fall, and this is Winter, and I do promise readers that they are only occasionally—I don’t want them to fear I’ll show up in their inbox monthly. But still in that hiatus I published two books—you’d think I’d want to tell readers about that. My newsletter has fallen into a pretty standard form—news about my writing, a glance ahead (provided I know anything to glance ahead about), an annotated listing of books I’ve read that I think might interest others, some recipes, and maybe a personal picture or two. This time I will also offer a give-away—I have a nice piece of swag that I will offer. More details later, because I’m hoping some of my blog readers will want to sign up for my “Only Occasional” newsletter.

And I seemed to get more emails than usual that required somewhat lengthy attention—some about my neighborhood association, one from a friend who is having a really hard time personally, one from a man who has begun writing me about his family history—it’s fascinating and good historical stuff, but I am hard put knowing what to tell him to do with it. He would like me to write it, but I have two big projects on my desk that won’t be put aside.

I am still in isolation though tonight I sent my doctor a query, explaining all the real and possible exposures and asked for his advice. I expect I’ll hear tomorrow. Meantime, it was another solitary day, and I was at a loss about what to cook. Yesterday I washed a large head of leaf lettuce, and then had so much else in my salad that I used only one big leaf. So I asked Jordan to make a big salad tonight, and she did. But I had to put out a grocery sack with the lettuce, apple cider vinegar, dry mustard, and garlic, because those are all the things she didn’t have in her kitchen. She usually makes the salad in my kitchen and had initially said she’d come out and make a salad. But I told her I wasn’t sure we were quite ready for that. I made salmon cakes to go with my salad and experimented a bit—put some mayonnaise and a dab of mustard in them. The flavor was good, but they were a bit loose because of the mayo—guess I needed more cracker crumbs. Earlier today I made egg salad for my lunch—finally after all these years, I have found a recipe I love. It doesn’t have onion or celery or any of that in it. Just mayo, mustard, pickle relish—and eggs of course.

And Sophie must have sensed my frustration because she was very demanding tonight—which only made me more frustrated until I spoke harshly to her, and then I felt guilty. She wanted her dinner at 4:30, and I figured if I fed her that early, she’d keep wanting it earlier and earlier. My explanation about it being too early fell on deaf ears. When I finally fed her and gave her a treat, she then demanded a second helping and a second treat. And then fresh water. And then she wanted to go outside. The one time my tirade got her attention was when she pawed at my arm—it hurt, and I yelled, and she slunk away. More guilt. Now, she’s in her crate, but I will have to make amends.

See how this works? The dog misbehaves, and I make amends. The Burtons go to crowded functions, and I isolate. Something is out of whack here. Oh well, tomorrow I’ll finish the newsletter and then maybe write some more on Irene Keeps a Secret or Irene Stumbles into Trouble or whatever I decide to call it.

Sweet dreams, everyone. Stay safe and mask up!

More chutney, some awesome Christmas lights, and a sense of caution

My Christmas orchid towering over Serenity with her poinsettia headdress.
I feel as though I live in a greenhouse.
So wonderful!

My project of the day was a second batch of chutney—this the cranberry/apricot. I think I perfected my technique, because it didn’t take me nearly as long, and I think the chutney is better. Yesterday, I let it thicken too much—good flavor but not so great on the consistency.

Tonight, I went to Pacific Table with three longtime friends. We try to have dinner together fairly frequently, but tonight was in celebration of Subie’s early December birthday. Okay, we were a bit late. We also had a small Christmas gift exchange, and I was thrilled with the book Carol gave me on dairy restaurants. She purchased it at New York’s Tenement Museum, Author Ben Katchor traces the history of these establishments, originally begun to cater to kosher laws which required the separation of meat and milk products. Eventually, some critics claim, the dairy restaurants morphed into Dairy Queen and similar chains. The book has wonderful, humorous illustrations, and I look forward to digging into it.

Subie brought me a beautiful orchid, of a color I’ve not seen—sort of off-white, but with pale striations that almost make it look like the blossoms are of thin wood. And Kathie contributed a jigsaw puzzle which should be great fun at our family get-together.

Lovely evening. I ordered my usual—Caesar salad with fried oysters. Pacific Table has hands down the best Caesar salad in town, and the fried oysters are so well seasoned you shouldn’t even think of cocktail sauce. The restaurant was, however, a bit noisy.

On the way home, I mentioned that I’d been told that the light display at Cook Children’s Hospital was spectacular, so we detoured—and were delighted that we did. It is an absolute fairyland, wonderful to see. Cars slowly drove by—and a parked limo blocked traffic, making a minor jam, but I guess if you can afford a stretch limo you don’t care.

I came home to the realization that I need to get my neighborhood newsletter out the door first thing in the morning, so I spent much of the evening proofreading and following up on odds and ends.

These are the days of anticipation. For many, they are frantic days, worrying how you’ll ever get everything done. For some of us, like me, everything seems done, so you worry about what maybe you haven’t done. And you don’t want to start anything new because…well, Christmas is just around the corner.

A sense of—how to say it? Caution? Dread? —hung over us at the dinner table tonight, because we all feel we are headed into another severe Covid season. Of course, there’s a good reason we feel that way—it’s predicted all over the media. So, we talked about maybe having to go back to patio parties and small—what was the word? Hives? Coveys? That small group you felt comfortable socializing with. We all seemed to feel we were headed to mandates (which doesn’t bother any of us), masks (doesn’t bother us either, though I don’t hear as well when people speak through a mask), and perhaps school closures. I am the only one closely affected by that, because I am the only one lucky enough to live with a grandchild. For his sake, I hope schools don’t close—he hated his year at home but bore it with good grace; on the other hand, I want to keep him safe. And my six other grandchildren, scattered as they are. Always a dilemma.

At any rate, when people toast, as we did tonight, to making 2022 a better year than 2020 or 2021, I have some hesitation. For my own part, I survived quarantine nicely, pretty much with spirits intact, and I would expect and hope to do so again. And you should see all the toilet paper Jordan has secreted away on a high shelf in my closet. What was that phrase a while back? “Buckle up, Buttercup. It may be a rough ride.”

What a downer way to end a Christmas blog! Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all, and for just this brief time, put Covid and abortion and politics and warfare out of your mind, and enjoy the season.

Blessing the students and other blessings

Jacob and Christian at Baylor, presumably on the stadium

After lollygagging for a couple of days, I got back to work today, which in itself is a small blessing. I blame my inertia on the heat, but the last couple of days I have conscientiously kept the outside doors closed and the a/c on 70, which made the cottage a bit chilly. Today I kicked it up to 72 and am comfortable, though my kids probably prefer the lower setting.

Wrote my summer newsletter today and found I had way more to say than I thought, plus I listed eight pictures to go in it. Waiting to hear from the webmaster who puts it together for me so I can send it off. Last I knew she had lost power, but that was from Hurricane Isiaih, a bit ago. Surely the power is back on.

If you do not get my newsletter and would like to receive it, please email me at j.alter@tcu.edu with your name and email. I promise it doesn’t come often, and I hope it’s interesting. If not, delete, delete, delete.

You know how churches occasionally have “Bless the animals” day? Everyone brings their pet to be blessed---I swear I heard of someone once bringing a skunk. It reminds me of when my children, as infants, were welcomed into the concerned community of the Unitarian Church (what I was doing at that church is a long and separate story). But when Jamie was to be welcomed, at around a year of age, someone brought their dog. The minister never missed a beat. After asking each set of parents, “How do you call your child?” he asked the dog owner, “How do you call your dog?” I forget the dog’s name, which may be the punch line of the story. I can remember clearly how both surprised and amused my brother was.

But I digress. Last night our church had a drive-through “Bless the students” evening to replace the usual school send-off event, now cancelled because of social distancing. I thought it was one more innovative way that the church is reaching out to keep us attached and involved until we can meet as a congregation again. Jordan took Jacob—they were only gone about ten minutes—and he came home with small gifts, including a leather key fob with his name on it. She said the youth minister chatted for a minute and then prayed with them—and she confessed she cried when he prayed about Jacob going to high school. He will be going to virtual school at least at first, as will my Austin sons. The Tomball two and Eden in Frisco will attend classes, so I am praying extra hard for their health. My Tomball daughter-in-law will also be in the classroom so she, too, has my prayers.

Tonight, the Burtons have gone to Baylor for supper—sounds like a long drive for supper, but Christian loves that campus and has passed that love on to Jacob. Jordan assured me the Baylor Club, where they have reservations, has a patio. I said it sounded awful hot to walk around the campus, but she says they’ll drive. When I said that I apparently gave away their surprise, because they hadn’t told Jacob about the outing yet. He perked up happily at the news. Meantime, Jean is coming for happy hour, and I’ll fix myself some leftover beef-and-bean and some squash, because they won’t eat squash. They’ll be home about dark.

Jacob and Jordan at a very empty Baylor Club

PS What I thought was a small zucchini, from my sister-in-law Cindy on the ranch, turned out to be a small cucumber. I had a larger very round squash—I don’t know the name—that I cooked with salt, pepper, panko and grated pecorino. Overcooked it, but it was delicious.

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.

Saturday is a hodge-podge day

At least, that’s sure how my Saturday was today. The big deal was that it is Jacob’s fourteenth birthday? Really? He was just that cute kid who said all those funny things, and now he’s this lanky thing who walks like a jock, smiles some of the time, but is pretty solemn. Except he does take an interest in social issues and politics, and he’s determined to perfect his golf game. Plus he’s a sweet boy. I think we’ll keep him a while longer.

He’s outgrown birthday parties long ago and is today off for a day at a local lake with a buddy—and his parents. He’s been studying hard to pass the online test so that he can operate a motorized water vehicle—jet skis. The last thing he said was, “We’ll work it out.” Which meant he hadn’t passed the six-module test yet. Fingers crossed for passing it and for safety.

After checking email and all, I spent a good part of the morning making a huge pot of okroshka, a cold soup that probably originated in Russia. It’s a buttermilk base with a variety of diced vegetables—scallion, radish, cucumber, potato—plus diced eggs, a meat (I used a rotisserie chicken), fresh dill (Oh my, those herb scissors are a blessing), and a buttermilk/water/lemon juice mixture. It made so much it wouldn’t fit in the biggest pot I have, and I had to improvise. I’ve been sharing the wealth far and wide with my neighbors.

I also started organizing the July issue of my neighborhood newsletter, which for some reason this month was a particular challenge. I’ve put it aside now, to review in the morning. Think my head was getting fuzzy from overthinking some of it, and a good proofreading is in order. This month, we have a new column: Poohbah Junior. A group of neighborhood kids have written a column, established a website, and one of them is offering a service where she’ll make pillows out of discarded T-shirts and tea towels. Love that spirit in these kids.

Tonight good friend Jean came for happy hour on the patio. We had a good visit about everything from the sad state of our nation to food. When Jean and I are together, there seems to be a lot of laughter, and I am always grateful to her for that.

Tonight my mind is much on Tulsa. I am leaving the TV on mute, in hopes that if a special news report comes on, I”ll catch it. I honestly don’t know which I’m more afraid of—a riot or an epidemic. I guess the real answer is both. I am appalled that the squatting president would blindly go ahead with the rally plans in spite of loud and frequent warnings from health officials. In an effort to keep peace, the mayor of Tulsa ordered a curfew, but let himself be talked out of it by trump. The potential for tragedy is so great. I somehow see this as a climactic moment in the trump presidency—maybe the worst moment?

Meantime I feel so distant from it all, sitting here, safe, secure, and isolated in my little cottage. I hope each of you are equally safe and secure. God help America!

A day with a goal and the virus gets up close and personal

Today dawned bright and sunny—I know because Sophie had me up at seven and again at seven-forty-five. But by late afternoon it had turned gray again, there was rain to the west of us, and rain in our forecast for tonight and tomorrow morning. Jordan insists tomorrow will be a lovely day and I will sit outside, because she’s going to clean the cottage and doesn’t want me to breathe the fumes. That means, Lysol spray and bleach and all those things I think are too strong for our environment. But, hey, I am grateful she does it, and yes, I’ll sit outside.

Today was a day with a goal: I worked on putting together the next issue of our neighborhood newsletter together. For once, I have a plethora of contributions—I think people took lots of pictures because they’re bored. It’s great and will make an interesting issue, but I have to figure out how to handle it. Still I was glad for the chore, because I know it has a goal—the issue will come out the first of May, the Lord willing and the Creek don’t rise. (Did you know that old saying does not refer to a flooded creek but to the days when settlers feared an uprising by the Creek Indians? That’s your history lesson for today). Anyway, so much of my time these days is spent on what you might call spec work—novels I don’t know will be published, research projects I don’t know will come to fruition—that I am grateful for a guaranteed project.

In the course of working on the Poohbah newsletter and skimming the internet, I’ve done what bored people do—collected bloopers. Here are a few:

--some one who referred to her under ware (underwear)—can’t remember the context but it wasn’t as risqué as it sounds;

--someone else who wrote about taking our lifestyle for granite (for granted)—maybe she meant it was carved in stone

---on a cooking site, someone referred to a well-flowered cake pan (well-floured)

--these remind me of a young lawyer I dated in my salad days who truly thought it was chester drawers (chest of drawers). Now that was supposed to be an educated man!

Corona virus got up close and personal today when I learned that my Bronx brother- and sister-in-law have both contracted it. He is in day 21 and almost well. I knew he had been tested, but it came back negative. His doctor/daughter said there is a 30% false negative result. Sure enough, tested again it came back positive. The first test was a method they have already discarded as not accurate, which shows you how much we are still learning about this virus. My sister-in-law has only shown symptoms for six days, but she says the disease “packs a wallop.” I worry about her, because I hear he is doing the cooking. I love him dearly, but a cook he’s not. I recently wrote him for his mother’s brisket recipe, and he patiently explained that he eats it, he doesn’t cook it. He referred my request to his wife, who was most helpful. I am grateful they both seem to be doing well.

I also worry about my niece from that family. For several years, she has been an R.N. on an orthopedic unit at Lennox General (in Manhattan, I think—my knowledge of New York is slim). Her unit has been converted to a COVID-19 unit, so she is one of the medical personnel in the thick of it. Her sister, a doctor with young children, is working from home—praise be.

My California relative that I can’t define (she is my ex-husband’s child by his second wife but feels like a daughter to me) writes that in Santa Clara, California, a study has shown that between 40,000 and 81,000 residents had the virus. The reported number of cases was 965. Pretty scary statistics.

As I write, it’s ten o’clock at night, and I hear the rhythmic sound of my grandson practicing basket shoots in the driveway. Got to love that kid. Sophie is, of her own accord, asleep in her crate. Nice now, but I wish it would last until at least eight tomorrow morning. That’s my magic hour.

Not my usual Saturday lunch

Saturday lunch is almost a ritual for me—tuna fish salad and cottage cheese. But today was really different. I went to the Fort Worth Neighborhood Community Awards Luncheon. The Poohbah, the neighborhood newsletter I edit, was a finalist for an award. Stars in Subie’s crown for going with me.

The event was at the Bob Bolen Public Safety Complex, a sprawling, multi-building thing on the far south side of the city that serves as headquarters for the police and fire departments and training grounds for both. I should have known about that when I was writing mysteries set in Fort Worth. Might  have made a huge difference and even spawned a new novel.

We were surprised that we had to check in through a scanning station just like the airport. Of course my walker set off all kinds of alarms, and the attendant made a huge joke of it. But then we found the luncheon was in the next building—not a huge distance away but a daunting walk for me. A kind gentleman whose official duties I never figured out asked if we’d like to ride in a golf cart, and we—at least I—eagerly said yes. We waited almost forever but were finally whisked down to the luncheon.

Found out there was a table from our neighborhood, with our names on seats and food delivered without Subie having to stand in the long line. So we settled in, had lunch, visited with those at the table, and finally at one o’clock, the program began. The usual introductions and acknowledgments and a speaker, blessedly brief, on the importance of changing your health habits and eating a plant-based diet—as we were served chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans.

Then the awards. The newsletter category was first, but there were apparently two sub-categories, and we were not mentioned in the first. By this time one of my hearing aids had gone out, and I wasn’t hearing all that was going on. But I sat there and thought, “Oh, swell. These people at this table have come to see us win, and we didn’t.” But then in the second category, we were first mentioned. I asked Steve Scanlon, Berkeley Place Association president, to accept for me—no way I was going to hold up the program while we fetched my walker and struggled me up to the stage, though the past president kindly said, “We’ll help you.” Steve came back with a nice certificate.

There were lots of awards following, and what Subie and I were impressed by was the way neighborhoods are reaching out to each other and neighborhood associations are doing such wonderful work to bind their people together and to help those who need assistance in their neighborhoods. They have all kinds of projects and events to benefit their neighbors. Truly impressive. There were also individual awards—Neighborhood Police Officer, volunteer of the year, and neighborhood of the year—which Berkeley won last year.

After the ceremony, Subie snagged the mayor as she was leaving, and she willingly agreed to pose for a picture. When she sat down next to me, I said, “You know my grandson,” and she of course asked who. When I named  him, she said, “Of course. He’s such a doll.” We had a moment together about 13-year-old grandsons, because she too has one.

The golf cart was waiting after the lunch, and we were whisked back to our car, thankful to be out of an increasingly cold wind. All in all, it was a good experience, and I’m really glad we went.

But I came home and slept for an hour and a half. And tonight—yep, you guessed it. I had tuna salad and cottage cheese  And a half an individual piece of chocolate mousse cake. Oh, my!

Mayor Betsy Price, BPA president Steve Scanlon, and me

What a day! A house tour, riveting PBS time, and some good food

Last night my Austin daughter called and gave me a tour of their house, still under construction but getting closer and now, for the first time, with electricity so she could show it off. Their house had major structural problems and bigtime plumbing—sewage—problems. But they loved the location, so they are building a new house on the old foundation, with lots of improvements and an almost full second story in place of the previous one room. Meantime, she, her husband, and two teenage sons are living in a two-room apartment over their garage—and seem quite cheerful about it. When they finally get into the new house, probably the end of May, they will have been in the apartment for fifteen months.

Using Facetime on her phone, Megan walked me through the new house, accompanied by Eddie, their miniature poodle. Up a lovely flight of stairs (replacing a circular staircase which I climbed, with trepidaton, for years). The boys each have a bedroom up there, with a full bath, and there is a common room. Downstairs the pattern is more familiar but such things as windows are a huge improvement (the old house was built in the Forties which I don’t consider old, since my house will be a hundred in a couple of years). But much of theirs was dated. Megan will have her glorious big kitchen, and they will have a proper master suite, instead of the tiny closets they had to share with the boys. Expansive windows look out on the pool from the living area and to the street from the dining area. At least one window in each room in the house can be opened to catch the breeze. The architects have done clever things with windows in unexpected places that open the house up to the outside. I am so anxious to see it in its finished state.

Today I ran some errands, so I listened to PBS in the car. I’ve been watching the impeachment hearings sporadically, especially when Adam Schiff was speaking—he is my new hero: so articulate, such presence, so well organized, and so passionate about what he believes. But today was the first time I really paid attention to some of the other managers, and they were all spot on, very convincing. I am angry about Republican senators who left, did crossword puzzles, read books, and generally ignored the procedures. They ought to be arrested for ignoring the oath they just took.

My take on it? The prosecutors have been absolutely convincing that trump violated his oath of office and the constitutional limits set on a presidency,  the separation of powers among the three branches of the government. Clearly, he obstructed justice. The senators if they have any conscience will vote for more witnesses and the withheld documents that trump is bragging he has. Unless those by some miracle exonerate him, they should vote to remove him. They probably won’t, but I firmly believe retribution will hit them hard. Don’t mess with karma.

I got an early start on fancy weekend eating. Last night I fixed myself eggs Benedict—using some Christmas dinner rolls I had in the freezer, smoked salmon, two eggs that got poached perfectly right, and store-bought Hollandaise sauce (shhh! don’t tell on me!).

Tonight, Jordan and I sliced a rotisseries chicken and used that salsa verde on it that was in my Gourmet on a Hot Plate column last night. Plus we had half an avocado and half an artichoke, with the same Hollandaise. Living high on the hog—and feeling overfed.

Now I need a nap. I had good writing news today, but I’ll save it for tomorrow. Suffice to say, I will sleep happy tonight.

I did finalize my winter newsletter today. If anyone reading this, isn’t on the subscriber list and would like to be, please send me your name and email at j.alter@tcu.edu. I promise I don’t flood your mailbox with newsletters—probably four short ones a year.

‘Night all and sweet dreams.

Lots of nothing—and maybe a lesson in political reconciliation

That’s the kind of week it’s been. Seems like there’s nothing going on, but really there’s been a lot.

Jacob went off to eighth grade Monday morning without notable enthusiasm for the prospect—he looked cute though. Temperature was forecast to be 102, so he wore his hoodie. Just in  case, I suppose. In Austin, grandsons Sawyer and Ford went back to school—eighth and seventh grades—and in Tomball, Kegan went to seventh and Morgan started her first year in high school. I tried to grab their first-day pictures from Facebook but couldn’t. In Frisco, Eden started her junior year in high school, while Maddie is junior at Colorado in Boulder. They’re growing so fast! I laughed at the friend who confessed she still thinks of Megan as a TCU student—only about twenty-eight years behind, but that friend moved away years ago and until recently didn’t keep in close touch. Nice to have her back in the fold.

School also started at Lily B. Clayton Elementary across the street from us and brought complications—the city has put up No Parking signs in front of our house, effective from 7:00-9:00 in the morning and 2:00-4:00 in the afternoon. For a three-car family, with a skinny 1920s driveway, that’s a real hardship. We also have new Stop signs, though thank goodness they are not in front of us. I don’t see how the No Parking is going to help—it should be down the street where the crossing guard is. An engineer from the city will meet with us “in the field” next week. Perhaps he’ll explain the logic.

Monday was much taken up by Jordan’s bad back and a doctor’s appointment. She has been referred to a specialist but won’t been seen until August 29. When you’re in the kind of pain she is, I’m sure that seems an eternity. There’s not much I can do to help, but I’m trying. Made Frito pie for everyone one night, and helped put together a big salad last night.

Tuesday I managed to get a whole lot done. Finished edits on my ranching history novel, and it has now gone back to the formatter for finishing touches. I’m excited about publishing it in September. And I put together what I think will be a huge issue of the Poohbah, Berkeley neighborhood newsletter. Lots of good stuff about who did what over the summer, back-to-school pictures, and marvelous photographs of the painted churches around Schulenburg plus the usual monthly features. Still tying up loose ends.

My former student, now a chef, came for lunch today and declared I had fixed the perfect light lunch. Always pleases me to get her culinary approval. Recipes will be on my cooking blog, http://www.gourmetonahotplate.blogspot.com, tomorrow. After lunch we had our own mini meeting of Better Angels, the group that tries to bring together people of opposing political views. I asked why she supports trump, and she said the economy is doing well. I fear that my protests that it’s not really healthy at all fell on deaf ears.

But on a lot of issues she agreed with me—the hilarious folly of this kerfuffle over buying Greenland, the unbelievable promise to the NRA’s LaPierre that background checks are off the table despite trump’s words at the times of the shootings in El Paso and Dayton. She’s not sure climate change is real and says there are two sides, doesn’t believe we could lose the earth, while I think it is desperate. We agree that we need health care reform and immigration reform—pre-existing conditions might be a deal-breaker for her, and she says trump is not the kind of person she’d ever sit down and have a beer with.  It astounds me that given that she still thinks he’s the person to run the country. We kept it light, but that is hard for me because I feel so intensely about the earth’s current situation. I did find that she was unaware of several things I mentioned—one of the reasons I keep posting on Facebook. We need an informed voting populace.

I have one other friend that I haven’t seen since trump took office because I can’t bear her support for him. I don’t know if I have the strength for reconciliation there, but today was a lesson for me.

Tonight, a relaxing dinner with Betty at the Tavern.

How much things have changed

Lazy Sunday, sort of

           

The northern-style bread-stuffing I made today

Jordan and Christian are off to take Jacob to Sky Ranch, and I have the “compound” to myself. When Jacob came out to tell me goodbye, I discovered his education has been severely lacking. I found a wishbone I’d tucked away to dry and held it out to him, thinking we would each make a wish before he left. He looked blank and asked, ‘What is that? What am I supposed to do with ii?” I crooked my finger around one end and indicated he should do the same. This was sort of difficult because it was from a rotisserie chicken and was tiny. As soon as he got his finger around it, he pulled, and it flew out of my hand. So I explained, we made silent wishes, and pulled. He won, and I really hope his wish comes true.

I’m still cleaning drawers in preparation for having the furniture moved out of my bedroom while they put new floors in. Amazing the things you find that you have no place for and yet don’t want to get rid of. A small oil of an ocean/wave scene, done in shades of brown instead of blue—it has a small three-corner tear in the beige sky that I never had repaired, but I always loved the painting. It’s signed, but I don’t know a thing about the artist. A dish towel with various places in Scotland shown on it. A bunch of half slips—ladies, remember when we wore those? (I did get rid of them.) Lots of winter-weight pants and jeans—now I have to inventory the closet and decide which to keep, which to donate. I do not need five pairs of jeans! Found my wool beret, scarf, and leather-palmed gloves, just in case we have sleet and snow ever again.

The summer issue of my “only occasional” newsletter went out Friday, and it’s had an unexpected side benefit—I’ve heard from several old friends in reaction to it, including a former boss at the university who said something unfortunate about my age bracket. I know he meant it as a compliment, but it caught me up short for a moment. Two local friends that I lost touch with responded, and I am hoping we can have lunch one day soon.

I’ve asked for turkey for my birthday dinner, because my mom always fixed it when I was a kid—served cold with potato salad—and because we’re always gone for turkey holidays and never get leftovers. We will not serve it cold but will make a casserole of my invention. Wish me luck.

So this morning I made old-fashioned, northern-style bread dressing. It was a by-guess and by-gosh process, because I couldn’t really find a recipe on line—some called for sausage, others for eggs, the one I used as a sort of guide called for eight stalks of celery which I thought excessive. And not a one told you how much bread in usable terms—a loaf didn’t help when I was using odd bits of baguettes in the freezer. I tried to remember how my mom did it, and I imagined her looking over my shoulder, making suggestions—that’s how I learned to cook. The taste I tried was pretty good, but we will serve this to people used to cornbread stuffing. We’ll see.

It’s late afternoon, and I plan to devote the rest of the day to reading a novel. With a big salad and a glass of wine for dinner—and a piece of the mousse cake we cut into last night. Might as well spoil myself.

Monday, oh Monday

Today seemed like an ordinary day—stay home and work. Mondays are often my most productive days, and today was no exception. I wrote the scene that was on my mind and figured out the bare bones of the next scene—always lovely to know where you’re going when you return to a manuscript. I did some business work, catching up on things from the neighborhood newsletter to defrosting sausages and cooking them for a potluck breakfast in the morning.

A bit of good news—the Poohbah, newsletter for the Berkeley Place Association, which I edit, is a finalist in the newsletter for the mayor’s neighborhood awards. I’ll go to a luncheon in January and see if we won. Nice to have your work recognized.

Beyond that, it was an ordinary day, and I had no blog ideas. I didn’t want to get heavy again about our country’s dismal situation, sexual predators (okay, I’m breathless about the Alabama special election), the Russian intervention investigation (say that fast three times) which seems to be heating up. There’s so much to mull and worry about, but I wanted to find something light hearted and new.

And then Jordan reminded me. Thirteen years ago today, she and Christian married in a truly beautiful ceremony at University Christian Church—full choir and everything. I remember being so nervous about lighting the unity candle, but Colin walked me up to the chancel and stood by me every minute. And Jordan had decreed she wanted both her brothers to walk her down the aisle—her father was there but in a wheelchair. When they got even with where he sat, both boys leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. Even one of my most non-sentimental friends said, “Be still, my heart.” Then Christian walked down the aisle to get her.

To my surprise, I don't have any pictures on my computer from that momentous occasion. Shows you how far I've come in technology--or even, maybe, how far technology has come. I snatched the one above from Christian's Facebook post.

Tonight they celebrated with steak and lobster, at home, and Jacob and I were exiled to the cottage—except he went to Young Life and I didn’t see him until they all came out here at ten to share chocolate pie. Meanwhile I had leftovers for dinner--but Rob Seume, your meatballs were great the next day.

So it was, like every day, a special day. There’s always a golden lining when you look for it. Every day is special in some way. Oops, I sound too Pollyanna-ish.