A leftover day

 

Sue and Jordan

I think that’s a perfect name for Saturday. After a work week and before Sunday starts a new week, Saturday is the day left over. I had a busy week and a more active day yesterday than I am used to, so I promised myself a slow, easy day today. It turned out to be a day of leftovers.

I wrote like a fiend much of the week, averaging over a thousand words a day plus, most days, my blog. That wasn't drudgery—it was joy. I’m in one of the spells when the words seem to come easily and the story flows—and writing is fun. But yesterday, no writing. I was up early making tuna salad for a lunch guest and a dip for happy hour guests. At noon, my long time (50 years?) friend Linda arrived. She had the good manners to rave about my tuna, and we caught up with families, the few old friends we still know about, life as elders, and touched on the world situation. Her (relatively new) husband had an appointment elsewhere but popped in. and they both left shortly after two, because Linda insisted I need my daily nap. And I do. Sophie and I are always overjoyed to have Linda in the cottage.

In the evening, Subie, Phil, and Renee came for happy hour. The discussion was wide-ranging but got particularly spirited when we talked about wolves and their effect on the ecosystem and about the city of Greenville (see below). It was all fun, and we were tempted to stay where we were, but a little before seven we left for a farewell party for Teddy and Sue. I’ve explained this relationship several times, but fifteen or more years ago Sue moved into the house next door to me. I can still see her dad walking down the driveway when I asked him, “Are you my new neighbor?” and he replied, in a wonderful Canadian accent familiar to this daughter of a Canadian, “I’m your new neighbor’s father.” Sue, newly divorced, moved in with two young children, and her parents went home to Ottawa, Ontario. In time, Sue declared she needed a Fort Worth mother, since hers was so far away. I was honored and consider her my Canadian daughter. Along the way, she bought a house ten minutes away and married Teddy (one of my favorite people in the world). Now they are moving to Greenville, South Carolina—because they fell in love with the area. My parents retired to a small North Carolina town nearby, and I can easily understand the pull of the region. I’m excited for them but will miss them.

The party was fun, and I even knew a few people. But there were two stairs to get in, and we had to recruit a friend from the party to help me. That sort of got me off on the wrong foot, and it was hard to get my party face on. Still I knew a few people and enjoyed visiting. The setting was a gorgeous house, and I was particularly impressed by the hostess’ daughter who acted as the party angel. Teddy, bless him, helped me out and saw me safely into the car.

So that’s why today is my leftover day. I confess I am still wearing the flannel pants and T-shirt I slept in, and I think I’ll just fall into bed tonight, still wearing them. My work today was leftovers—my neighborhood newsletter, some bills and some insurance matter, more worry about the trees. Kept me busy all morning.

Even my meals are leftover: tuna salad from yesterday for lunch; a bowl of split pea soup brought to me some time ago by a friend. It’s been waiting for me in the freezer for another cold night, and tonight is perfect (at 6:30 it is 41 and headed down). The Burtons are going to Plank, the new seafood restaurant I really want to try. I threatened them if either one came home and told me they had a steak or a hamburger in a seafood house.

Tomorrow won’t be as easy. I’ll go to church in the morning, and I’ve promised to make Norwegian hamburgers for Sunday dinner. Norwegian hamburgers are something we learned about from Colin’s mother-in-law, who lived in Norway until she was seventeen and came to the US to marry Lisa’s father. The hamburgers are meat patties in beef gravy, but don’t dismiss them as like our hamburgers. Different texture, different flavor and delicious. We love Torhild, and we love her cooking. I hope I can do them as well as she does, and I hope there are leftovers.

How about you? How was your Saturday Stay safe and warm on this chilly night.

Reviving happy hour

 

Jrdan's charcuteries

It’s been almost seven years since I moved into the cottage. At first, everyone was curious to see my digs. The idea of living in a converted garage full time was new, and friends were curious. We live in a neighborhood where many older homes, like mine, had guest cottages that were really converted servants’ quarters. Oh sure, some people fixed them up as rental property—which led to my kitchen facilities being limited by a zoning ordinance, but that’s another story. Still, I think the idea that I would move out of my three-bedroom house into a 600 square foot cottage was a bit surprising. So it was like Field of Dreams—if you build it, they will come.

And come they did, every night. Jordan and I fixed elaborate finger food, often charcuterie but sometimes other offerings such as tea sandwiches or dip and chips or whatever. It challenged my kitchen creativity, and I enjoyed it. But happy hour began to take a toll on my work time, and the wine bill was pretty high. So we began to cut back. These days, I may put out a bowl of chips or a wedge of cheese, but that’s it, and many “regulars” bring their own drinks, partly because they know my wine cellar and liquor cabinet are extremely limited and partly to help my budget. It all works out.

Tonight, however, we went back to a full charcuterie board. Subie and Phil are preparing to move to Trinity Terrace, and Subie’s sister Cynthia and her husband from Colorado Springs are here to help pack. We calculated tonight that Subie and I have known each other at least forty-five years. I didn’t think in all that time I’d ever met Cynthia, although she said tonight she thought maybe we’d met many years ago. Whatever, I was delighted to have them all for happy hour.

I spent some time debating appetizers and finally settled on a charcuterie board, over crab bites or some other favorites. I thought that would be plenty for the seven of us. Then I spent time deciding what to include—a couple of things I had in the fridge, like a really nice jar of marinated artichoke hearts and a tub of pub cheese. I bought the slightest amount of three meats from Central Market and splurged on olives because Christian loves them. In fact, I had so much I ruled out some items—like a sliced apple and honey to go with the blue cheese (too hard to serve and sticky). Jordan ruled out some leftover horseradish/crème fraiche sauce which would have been good with ham but, again, was too hard to serve. I ordered a baguette—and forgot to ask to have it sliced, a mistake I won’t make again. And somehow my grocery order included some odd chips I never ordered—they got saved for another time.

Faced with all that, I wondered how to arrange it. Jordan to the rescue—she took charge and created a beautiful arrangement. Together we make a pretty darn good team.

So there we were—seven people in the cottage (which pushes my seating capacity) on one of the hottest nights of the year. We turned on both a/c units and shut the door I usually keep open. Given the temperature, Phil did not bring his dog, Porter, but Sophie was inside with us the entire time.

Sophie getting sympathy

Soph has been a happy hour problem—bad habits have overtaken us. She has learned that if she barks enough she’ll get a treat to silence her. I’ve been trying to break the cycle, but it requires enduring the barking—eventually she runs out and settles down. Tonight we tried something new—her leash. I put it on her and kept her near me—and she lay quietly. When we finally took it off, she jumped up on the couch, apparently to tell the out-of-town visitors what a hard life she has, and they responded with appropriate sympathy.

It was a jolly evening, with Subie and me reciting for Cynthia how we’d met and some of our shared adventures over the years—the time the three of us went to the Caribbean for Christmas because my oldest child was there, or the time the Burtons and I visited the cabin in New Mexico that Subie and her sisters share. Lots of good times in our history, and I’m hoping they’ll continue after they move into the retirement community.

serious talk on jolly evening

I think our move into more elaborate happy hours is a one-time thing, although Subie has another sister who will be here soon. Got to get my thinking cap on. But Mary is coming for her regular Tuesday night visit tomorrow—I’ll pull out what’s left from tonight, and she will bring what’s left from a Zoom cooking class she did today on front porch entertaining. Leftovers are part of the fun.

If you’re in Texas—or reading the newspapers anywhere else—you know it’s hot. Ninety-five at ten o’clock as I write, and they say it will last all week. Knock on wood, the cottage is blessedly comfortable, and Sophie and I stay inside and go about our business. But the yard guys came tonight at five o’clock, and I thought what a long, hot day it has been for them. I love living in Texas—most of the time—but it does sometimes test one’s patience.

Stay cool and safe, please.

A nostalgia-filled day

 

Jacob on the left, and his buddies at the pool

Jacob Burton will be sixteen on Monday—yes, driver’s license and all that goes with that significant birthday. Today was his “party,”—swimming at the neighbor’s pool, with three of his buddies and a very few of Jordan and Christian’s friends who have been close to him as he grew. Christian grilled hamburgers—and sent one home to me—and I gather they all had a good time. One of Jordan’s friends presented Jacob with a clever gift—a picture frame into which she inserted her own material. The heading was something like, “In case of ….” And then there were a variety of suggestions of troubles each accompanied by a couple of twenties. At the bottom it said “Break glass.” The giver, a girl I’m fond of, requested a picture of Jacob and me with the plaque or whatever you would call it.

I was not invited to the pool party. I’m quite sure that is because I would not have gone—can’t get into a pool anymore, never liked lying out in the sun (why do they all say laying out—so wrong!). So while they were swimming, I had a long visit with Carole Tayman, Bill Sheridan, and my goddaughter Kate. My Tex-Mex casserole was a hit, but it wasn’t enough to lure them to retirement in Fort Worth. Carole said if the weather was not so beastly hot this week, they probably would have considered it. My protests that this is unusual fell on deaf ears. They are not coming to Fort Worth, even though one of Carole’s friends this week urged her by saying, “We need your vote.”

And yes, we talked politics. We have all long since been on the same page. Back when they lived here, Roe v. Wade was also under attack, and Carole was a big proponent of the single-issue vote. Even though we agreed today, we brought different viewpoints and bits of knowledge to the table, so it was an interesting discussion.

And Carole had a long list of people she remembered from the eighties and nineties—she wanted to know what happened to them. As I retold the stories, we all realized how many people from those days are gone now. I shed a few tears and laughed a lot. She told a funny story about my Jamie, in high school, staging the house so his friends would be impressed. And it turns out thanks to Kate they had discovered a wonderful, off-the-beaten-track taco restaurant they visited twice. None other than Jamie’s longtime favorite, Ernesto’s.

It was a good visit. Was it yesterday in the blog that I quoted someone who said one of the dangers of retirement is feeling like you don’t matter? These are people who make me feel that I matter—and they mean a great deal to me.

After they left to go to the final session of the competition, I tidied the kitchen—I’m a speed master at that—and worked for a couple of hours, then a long, satisfying nap. And for supper tonight, the cheeseburgers from Jacob’s party You can see it flung on my desk in a baggie in the picture with Jacob. When I said, “I guess it comes with no trimmings,” Jacob laughed. I “trimmed” it with lettuce, tomato, and mayonnaise, and left it on the cutting board for just a minute. Turned just in time to see Sophie reach for it and miss. I scolded long and hard, and she’s been sort of hangdog ever since. But I was really looking forward to that burger and would have been sorely disappointed if she got it. It was really good.

Finished a project tonight, so I’m feeling a bit smug. May read the rest of the evening.

Happy Father’s Day to all the dads, single dads, adopted dads, almost-dads, next-door dads, wherever you are!

Good friends, good food, a chance meeting

 

Mary and Jordan
with Mary's decadent coconut pie. 
Photo by Prudence Zavala.

Tonight the four of us who gather on Tuesday night on my patio (or inside if it’s cold and now that we’re unmasked) went to Pacific Table to celebrate Mary’s birthday—and made gluttons of ourselves. Mary loves oysters on the half shell, so she had a dozen while the rest of us shared the appetizer I call a fish spread. Jordan says that is a most unappealing name for it, but whatever you want to call it, it’s very good. Pru ate her first oyster (okay, she tried it at twenty and didn’t like the texture). Tonight she liked it. I had one, and the cocktail sauce about blew me away. I like horseradish, but all things in moderation.

We enjoyed our dinners. I came home with a crab cake for lunch tomorrow, one that was mostly crab and little filler. Crab cakes are such an iffy thing—every restaurant has their own version and it’s always a bit of a chance. But I knew at Pacific Table they would be good.

We lingered over too much wine and finally made our exit. Having sat in a special, private booth (Pru makes good reservations), we walked the length of the restaurant and came across a table of thirty-year friends, not close friends but special people. Jordan and David both laugh (without a lot of humor) when I describe it this way but way back in high school, David was her first boyfriend, and even after they “broke up,” he was around a lot. I began to claim him as my fifth son.

So tonight it was his parents that we ran into. Got lots of warm greetings and hugs. They have always been so good to us. I remember a Mother’s Day when Jordan and I were alone, and the Barnes invited us for dinner, complete with small gifts of sweet potato plants. First I knew of those ubiquitous lovely green things. I was grateful for the warm family feelings.

When David married (he waited for a good long while) I was included in the rehearsal dinner because, as his parents said, “you helped raise him.” I don’t know about that, but we still consider him family. Now that he’s happily married to a lovely girl, we don’t see him as much, but I understand they will join us when we celebrate Jordan’s birthday in a week or so.

My point in all this is that this is the kind of town Fort Worth is—you have friends you’ve known for years, and you run into them at the oddest moment when you’re not expecting it. That brief encounter warmed my heart almost as much as the birthday dinner did.

So now I’m home, overfed with a tad extra wine and not inclined to work. I did write a small bit today but made a momentous change. New title for the current Irene adventure: instead of Irene Keeps a Secret, it is now Finding Florence, which I hope is a nice parallel to the first book in the series, Saving Grace.

I went out tonight all bundled in a lovely, voluminous gray sweater that Megan gave me, only to find it isn’t nearly as cold as it was yesterday. But apparently it is to get cold later tonight, and by Thursday we may have freezing rain and sleet. I am beginning to think of this as the never-ending winter. I huddled inside all day, unable to get really warm. Looking forward to my cozy bed tonight.

Sweet dreams everyone. And say a prayer for the people of Ukraine and the ordinary citizens of Russia—and all of us. We live in a global world. Remember the shot that was heard round the world? The first was at Concord when British troops and American revolutionaries met. Someone fired a shot, and the battle was on. Americans may have won the war eventually, but they lost that battle. Perhaps the more famous shot heard round the world was in 1914 when Austria’s Archduke Franz Ferdinand was shot at Sarajevo. That shot triggered the start of World War I. That’s how I feel about Ukraine—that first shot was heard round the world and continues to reverberate. I pray it is not the beginning of World War III. Please join me in prayer, whatever your faith.

 

Warm memories and chilly evenings

 

This morning I went to a Zoom memorial service for two people who were at one time a huge part of my life. I met Nancy and Ray in Fort Worth, though Ray attended the osteopathic college in Chicago where I worked. We could have run into each other but didn’t. They were close friends from the mid-sixties until whenever they retired to Santa Fe, and after that I visited them often, sometimes staying in their home. Once I went to a week-long writing workshop there, lived in their guest room, and rented a sporty convertible. Boy, did I think I was big stuff.

Nancy and Ray were married for sixty-three years, and while I loved them both, Nancy and I particularly shared a lot—life’s ups and downs with doctors/husbands, children, careers, my divorce, some family trauma with them. Today it was so satisfying to see their three children, now in at least their late fifties and beyond, well settled in life. They did an outstanding job of remembering their parents and sharing those warm memories with us. I’m almost beginning to think Zoom is a great way to do a funeral, though I guess I still prefer, when possible, the traditional service in the church. Certainly in quarantine times Zoom allows us to find the closure that we all need after a loss.

One of the memories shared today was of a place called the Public House, a restaurant/meeting area that Nancy started in Fort Worth with a friend. Nancy did all the cooking, and it was hearty, good food. But it was so much more. Groups met there, people came to drink coffee and see who was there to visit with. A bookstore started in one corner of the huge space. It was innovative and forward-thinking, and I was glad to be reminded today of how special it was.

Tonight as a bonus from the memorial, I had a long talk with an old friend in New York City. She too was at the memorial service—we had shared these mutual friends. We caught up with each other’s families and goings on. She loves living in the city, while to me Fort Worth is already too big, and I can’t imagine living in New York City. We also talked about mutual friends from our TCU days. It’s interesting to me that my connections to friends are so multi-layered. I’ve noticed over the years that when I introduce friends to each other they then become good friends. A nice compliment, I think.

Today was one of those balmy days that can fool you in North Texas—temperature probably in the sixties and sunny most of the day. But when the sun goes down, the air chills quickly. Subie and Phil came for happy hour, and Christian built a fire in the fire pit while Jordan turned on the outdoor heater. I wore a cozy jacket and had an afghan over my knees—pretty comfortable, though I wouldn’t have wanted to stay much longer than we did. Cold weather puts a real crimp in our quarantine socializing plans, though even on the patio we only socialize with those we know have also been quarantining. As Subie said tonight, we are in a pod.

my Christmas front door

Now, it’s late, and we’re waiting on the cook who got a late start on supper. Marinated chicken breasts and salad—sounds yummy.

Warmer weather coming this week—until Christmas Eve when a cold front will hit. Enjoy the sunny days while you can.

 

 

Sleeping my life away

 

The thing about shingles is that the medication makes you sleepy. I am in danger of sleeping my life away. Last night about nine, I lay down to take a quick nap, planning to get up and blog. I woke up at midnight, did the bare essentials—locked up the cottage, turned on the alarm, saw that Sophie had water—and went back to bed. I slept until nine this morning. And then the day floated away as I dealt with emails and read Facebook.

Line of the day—I’m sharing with a line from an email with you before I go public with it, but it is so funny. This comes from author Ann McCauley who wrote a great review of Saving Irene. She says she wants to be invited to Henny and Patrick’s wedding, but please do not seat her at the table with Irene. I love it when my characters become so real to people. There is some buzz about Irene in Danger, the sequel on which I have not written word one. But Ann insists the wedding has to be at the Palmer House. Such fun. And, yes, I do listen to my readers.

Lots of nice things have happened to me in the last couple of days. Yesterday morning, a dear friend called. She lives not far away but we haven’t seen each other because of quarantine. She’s had some family business to worry over and tend to, but the restaurant they own is going along with their supervision being remote. It was good to catch up, but I was sad we can’t see each other. She does not quarantine as strictly as I do.

In the afternoon, a childhood friend sent a message asking for my phone number. I sent it, and she called immediately. Judy and I lived next door to each other from before I can remember until we were both grown. I have seen her and her Episcopalian priest husband occasionally. When they travel through Texas, they put me on their visit list. But it’s been a while, and I was glad to hear her voice today. We had a grand, long conversation. She loves the Hyde Park references in Saving Irene but she specifically loved one character that resembled someone we both knew. What fun. She said we’d talk again soon. She and her husband, who has retired, live in Muskegon, in cold north Michigan, along with Judy’s younger sister, Nancy. I’m getting lots of input about a second Irene story, do Judy and I will talk about that.

I got the December issue of Southern Living, which always makes for a good day. And Jordan made the dinner tonight, while I sort of supervised and washed a good load of cooking dishes. Tater tot casserole is apparently a favorite in the Midwest. I just heard of it but realized tonight it’s a complicated recipe: meat layer, sauce layer, repeat, then add tater tots and top with cheese. It was delicious. Jordan and Christian both thought it tasted like stroganoff, though there is no sour cream in the sauce, which is a mire poix in a white sauce—I think the white sauce is what they tasted. Anyway, it went on our list of keepers.

Last night’s entrée also went on the keepers list. Christian pounded chicken breasts flat, slathered with onion soup dip—you know, the stuff your kid could eat a whole bowl of and, truth be told, probably you could too. It’s an old friend and highly addictive which means it has lots of salt. Once you covered the chicken with that, you cover it with panko. Sauté until it is gold brown on both side and the meat is cooked through. The sour cream keeps the meat moist and good. Jacob wants it for dinner every night.

I’m thinking tonight about quarantine and the surge and wondering if I’ll ever be able to dine in a restaurant with friends. I’d like to break out of my cocoon. And I’m thinking too of a defeated president who is threatening the security of the nation by satisfying his ego and refusing to concede. They are not happy thoughts, but the determined way Biden is handling transition gives me hope.

Be safe and well, my friends.

A December day in Texas

‘Twas  a dark and stormy night—oops, no. I got carried away. It was a cold morning, slightly damp, and most discouraging. Another good day to stay in. Makes me think how fortunate I am to have that choice to make and to have enough “busyness” at home to keep me happy.

Though I confess I’m not that busy. A neighbor posted a picture of herself making a face on Facebook—not a happy face—and wrote that was what she thought of folks who have their Christmas shopping done, presents wrapped. Shhh! Don’t tell her, but I am one of those. There are still a couple of presents that have me biting my nails to see if they’ll arrive in time—one for a gathering tomorrow night, and I’m losing hope on that one even though the tracking says between the 16^th and 20^th. Another gift I thought perfect for old and dear friends in Omaha has apparently disappeared into a black hole. It may brighten their days in the dark of February.

Jordan and I are compulsive list makers—it’s a gene that Megan happily confesses she missed. But we have lists of groceries to be bought tomorrow, groceries at the end of the week, who’s cooking what when we all get together, what we’re having for dinner each night that all seventeen of us will be under one roof—yikes! Melanie even did a spread sheet, and to my alarm it read, “Breakfast on your own.” I asked Jordan to put cottage cheese on the shopping list.

Meanwhile, today I did odds and ends—some author-like chores, including looking for a picture I’ve had trouble locating and getting what head start I could on my neighborhood newsletter—but mostly Christmas. I’ve wrapped the last three presents (excluding those not yet arrived), written a few Christmas cards, figured out what to do about the last person on my list. My wrapped Christmas presents are pitiful—if you’ve seen that ad where a youngster about five holds forth in a hardware store and in one climactic moment hands a customer a clumsily wrapped gift with paper going every which way, you know what my packages look like. I strive for tight, neat corners, but somehow, I never get there. My daughters’ packages are always neat and square with fantastic bows, while I confine myself to red yarn. And, really, I like gift bags the best.

A lovely letter from an elementary school friend—we also went to church together for years—cheered me today. She and I share a love of Lake Michigan, and we’ve reunited on Facebook—one of the great pleasures of social media—but we’ve never directly communicated before. Now we share hip troubles—she is scheduled for January surgery—and I have been encouraging her about the benefits, not negative aspects, of a walker. She wrote of her appreciation, and I was grateful. It’s the season for spontaneous and unexpected communication, whatever we can do to bring a little joy into someone else’s life—not just those who need joy, but those who don’t expect to hear from us. The unexpected always brings special pleasure.

Tonight I ate the last of the coffee beef stew—even better tonight. The recipe called for three bay leaves, and by golly, I got all three in my modest portion tonight. And then Scottish shortbread from the gift basket the neighborhood association brought me in appreciation for my work on the newsletter. It’s also a bountiful season.

As we move into Christmas week, I am continually struck by how timely the theme of the message from our church is: “Be not afraid.” The words of the Angel to Mary, and the words to Joseph as he considered marriage to a young woman already pregnant. Those word have great meaning in our day and age, when fear is all around us, and we must fight to prevent it from shaping our lives. Be not afraid—the Lord is with us.

The morning after

I love that morning-after-the-holiday feeling. The pressure is off, though I readily admit with Lisa preparing the feast, I was under little pressure. Maybe it’s anticipation that adds a bit of spice to the holiday—waiting for company, waiting for the meal. Anyway, that feeling is gone by morning, and I feel free to sleep late and sort of float through the day.  Early this morning, a dense fog contributed to the lazy atmosphere. It has gone now, but the day is cloudy and uninspiring.

I may not have had the hostess pressure yesterday, but I do want to protest that I did my part for the meal. Because I asked how I could help from a sitting position, I got the great privilege of peeling apples and potatoes. When Lisa plunked the bag of apples down in front of me, I asked weakly, “All those apples?” She smiled (a bit mischievously) and said, ‘Yep.” And do realize how many potatoes it takes for mashed potatoes for thirteen? I’m now even more in favor of mashing red potatoes with the skins on!

Dinner was traditional and so good—I think I forget from holiday to holiday how much I like turkey and gravy. And Lisa, despite being a Texan, made ‘northern” white-bread stuffing—my favorite dish perhaps of the whole meal. An updated version of green bean casserole, homemade cranberry sauce, pistachio salad, and rolls. All wonderful. And of course it had been preceded by bountiful appetizers—a vegetable platter, a sausage-and-cheese platter, a French onion dip, hummus, guacamole—need I go on?

I haven’t yet had a piece of apple pie. After dinner, which we ate about 3:30, I suddenly found myself alone in the dining room—I think boys had gone to watch football and the ladies to see Lisa’s parents’ new house. Turkey had worked its proverbial effect, aided by a bit of wine, and made me sleepy. Plus the a/c was running full steam, and I was freezing—my internal thermometer does not sync with the rest of this family. So, full and sleepy, I snuck off for a nap. After a bit, I was vaguely aware of the hum of conversation of many voices but too comfortable and cozy to rouse myself. Two hours later, I joined everyone, just as some guests were leaving. I’d totally missed dessert.

Among the guests was a longtime friend of Colin’s—they tended bar together in their salad days—and his wife and two teenage sons. Alirio, a native of Colombia, just retired after twenty-two years with the Border Patrol. Somehow, after my nap, I ended up at the now-clear dining table with those two—lots of catching up to do, but we also talked about everything from raising kids to politics. For at least two hours. Serious discussion, interspersed with bits of humor—no, Alirio, I did not “yell” at you all those years ago for speaking Spanish at the dinner table, when I was trying to encourage Central American students to speak English. I gently suggested.

It was the kind of sustained exchange of ideas I think you only have with people you don’t see often. I did ask once if Alirio had anything to do with immigrant caravans, and he put his head in his hands and said, “It was horrible, horrible.” After a minute, he added, “Still is.” I didn’t pursue it.

One big takeaway for me: Colin and I, though basically in agreement, look at things from different perspectives: he, once a science major and now involved in big business, looks at process and results, whereas I, after a lifetime in the humanities, focus on the human aspect of politics, as well as everything else. It was an evening that will long stick in my mind, and a thoroughly good holiday.

My hope is your holiday, whatever, wherever, and with whoever, was equally rich.

Bright skies, old friends, and dogs

When I was in elementary school, we had to memorize a poem about October’s bright blue skies. As I went out to meet a friend for lunch today, I looked up and almost recited that poem. It was the brightest, most beautiful sky I’ve ever seen, even if it was November and not October. A beautiful day that lifted the spirits.

Otherwise, Monday was, well, Monday. Baking cookies, odds and ends at my desk, lunch with my good friend, Fred, the man who saw me through graduate school. Love I that I can talk to him about the projects that interest me—few other people get excited when you talk about George Pullman, the Pullman railroad cars, and the Pullman riots in Chicago in the 1890s. Fred gets my enthusiasm—and I get his for the early aero plane culture and particularly the women pilots. Good lunch at the Black Rooster, where it’s quiet enough you can hear each other talk.and the sandwiches are great.

Interesting and fun happy hour tonight. In grade school and middle school, Jordan and Sarah were good friends. Although they were always friends, they drifted apart with adulthood and marriage. Recent events have brought them back close to each other in the last couple of years. I remember Sarah’s parents from those early days but hadn’t seen them in years. They came for happy hour tonight. In an interesting parallel, they now live in a cottage (converted garage/guest house) behind Sarah’s house, a situation so similar to mine.

You’d think given the connection and situation we’d have spent a lot of time “catching up,” but we really didn’t. There was a bit of talk about tiny house living—theirs is almost twice as big as mine and they have a real stove—and a bit about when the girls were young. But then there was a lot of talk about politics—we are all on the same page—and a lot of talk about dogs. Sarah has three Labrador pups, and Sophie was begging for attention from anyone who would love on her. We talked of dogs past and present. It always delights me to talk to people who care as much about dogs as I do.

Got most of my molasses cookies baked—maybe two pans left to go. A good project for tomorrow, when impeachment hearings will again be on TV. I can roll balls of dough in sugar while staring at the TV. I’ve decided of late that trump is taking way too much of my time and thought, when I could be doing more constructive things. But as I said in our discussion tonight, I feel a moral obligation to keep informed on what’s going on and to share the news when appropriate, offer my own opinions less frequently but occasionally. We talked at length tonight, without actually quoting it, about the saying that’s been around for a few years: This is not your father’s Republican Party. These are wild times we live in, and I can only imagine how history fifty years from now will assess them.

Old friends, good times

I love these ladies! We have been friends for at least forty years, probably more. Three of us are the divorced ex-wives of osteopathic physicians. In one of life’s little ironies, two of those men are deceased, while we party merrily on. The fourth woman is the widow of a physician all of us loved. We have gone our separate ways, sometimes for long periods of time, but then one or two at a time, we come back together again. For the last year or two all four of us have come together for dinner every couple of months. When one of them thanked me for once again organizing a get-together, I repeated what I often say: Friendships are like gardens. You have to tend to them and cultivate them.

We caught up on children and grandchildren. We rejoiced with one who has just had a major surgery and reassured another who faces surgery soon—signs of aging, I guess. We oohed and aahed over one whose son was moving back close to her and lamented other children far away. We talked of people we knew and missed. When one name came up of someone who’d dropped from our radar due to personal and health problems, someone said, “She should know that we still care about her.” Most names brought us happy memories, though there were a few snarky comments about some of the people in our shared past. All in all it was a joyful, happy evening.

We met at Ellerbe’s, where the service and the food are both fine. When they started to seat us on their second level, I suggested as politely as I could that their ramp was a bit steep for my walker. It took a little fiddling, but they found us a table downstairs. Our waiter was charming, took this picture of us, and let us linger over three courses of dinner—I never ever eat an appetizer, an entrée, and a dessert, but I did tonight. Actually I had two appetizers—one when others had their salad and one as an entrée. And  brownie as dessert. Result is that I am almost uncomfortable tonight—too rich, too good. One of those lovely evenings that leaves me happy with my life.

Speaking of tending friendships like gardens, there was gardening going on at our place this morning. Our neighbor had a mountain of mulch dumped in his driveway. After he had, as he said, mulched everything on his property twice, he asked what we wanted. The picture below is the best I

could do through my office window of the neighbor and Jordan mulching the bed under my window, under Jacob’s supervision (sorry about the green lamp in the foreground). Jacob did work harder at other times—I saw him spreading mulch and shoveling it into the wheelbarrow. That stuff smells so good—like the best parts of a barnyard. Far as I can tell, there’s still a mountain of mulch in the driveway next door—and the wife’s car is in the back yard, hemmed in by the mulch. Which I guess is all right because she is staying home with a two-week-old beautiful baby girl.

Menu items that recently struck me: last night on the menu at the Italian place where we dined, chocolate salami was on the menu. And today I saw an ad for kale candy canes—I don’t even like kale in salads, but I love salami. Not chocolate though. Two food adventures I’ll be skipping.

Blessed Sunday ahead, everyone.

The value of new friends

Make new friends, but keep the old;
Those are silver, these are gold.
New-made friendships, like new wine,
Age will mellow and refine.

Throughout my life, I have been blessed with friends, many of whom are still in my life today. Witness the fact that I am still in contact with the girls who grew up next door to me in Chicago—they were part of my life ever since I can remember. And one of the people who understands me better than most? The friend I made in fifth or sixth grade at church—our lives diverged, but we have always been in touch and always value each other. Among my long-term friends, a couple I knew when working on my master’s degree in Missouri—I remember when they married, and they celebrated their fiftieth several years ago. Yes, I am getting old.

But I am not too old to make new friends, and last night a “new” friend came for supper in the cottage. She is a relatively new associate minister at our church, someone I’d met and visited with twice over meals, but not someone I had ever had a long and one-on-one conversation with.

You know, sometimes with old friends and even family there are long silences in your communication, as though you’ve exhausted everything there is to say. It’s not always a bad sign, though I do remember that when my marriage was falling apart, we would go to dinner and have absolutely nothing to say to each other. On a happier note, I see this silence even with my kids—sometimes we’ve said it all, and the bond between us is unspoken.

But new people offer all kinds of conversational opportunity. There’s so much to explore about the other person. Last night’s conversation was a two-way street as I learned about my guest and shared with her some of the milestones of my life. The nice thing is that we were both genuinely interested in learning about each other. We talked of kids and dogs and divorce, of climate change and the disaster in our country. She is a person of boundless energy and, like me, on who thrives on optimism. We may both be Pollyanna crying in the dark, but we believe in the future. We believe that our country will go back to being a democracy, that this dark period is a good learning lesson. We share a deep religious faith though she puts hers to more active use than I do. I have rarely known time to go by so quickly and happily. We talked—and ate and drank wine—for almost three hours.

I had fixed a light summer supper. When I entertain, the food is almost always an experiment, and so it was last night. Okroshka, which I’d never heard of before I found a recipe in the New York Times. A traditional cold summer soup from Russia. There are, of course, variations on the recipe, but I made it with a base of yogurt and buttermilk, diluted with water. I chopped all kinds of things to go in it—potato, scallions, cucumber, radish, cooked chicken, hard-boiled eggs. I worried if I should warn her, ask if she was lactose intolerant—it is, after all, a fairly unusual dish.

My oldest daughter called the night before and asked what I was doing. I said, “Making a soup you wouldn’t like.” When she heard the ingredients—yogurt and buttermilk—she said, “Yewwww.” Megan does not like white things—sour cream, cream cheese, mayonnaise, yogurt, goat cheese—though she regrets the latter because she says everyone who eats it loves it. But my soup is not everyone’s cup of soup.

Fortunately it, and the blue cheese salad that accompanied it, were enthusiastically received. I decided to splurge for dessert and bought two pieces of chocolate ganache cake from Central Market. So wrong! One piece was more than enough for both of us. One of the problems with my curbside pickup is that I can’t always tell about size or quantity. These pieces were huge, and Jordan, Christian, and I will share the second piece tonight.

Meantime I am hoping that my new friendship will, like the new wine mentioned above, mellow and refine with age. But may we never run out of things to talk about.

Super What?

I have no idea how this image fits the Super Bowl except maybe Linus got knocked out by a football, and Lucy is consoling him--or apologizing. But the picture struck my fancy more than a lot of footballs sailing through the air. Guess that tells you my attitude before I even begin.

Yes, tonight is that game. I considered inviting a couple of friends for a Souper Bowl party, but Jordan and Christian beat me to it. They know how to mark the occasion. They invited a few close friends, including some young people for Jacob, and Christian slaved all day over a huge pot of white chili. Someone brought a couple of dips, and someone else, a bowl of fresh fruits. We had a traditional feast.

The guests were all people I’m fond of, and I was glad to see them. But I really don’t have much interest in football. Christian said he’d be more excited if it was a team he likes—but I don’t particularly care for any team, so that cancelled out my interest. I had already seen a couple of the best ads—Budweiser, Jeep—and I’m not sure how interested I will be in the halftime entertainment.

So I visited, ate my chili, drank some wine, and came home to eat some chocolate. Turned on the TV just in time to see a super ad that had people passing a gold football at a banquet, crashing into tables, etc. Missed enough that I don’t know what was being advertised, but I admired the talent and skill of the acrobatic actors and the concept dreamed up by whatever PR firm.

Now the halftime show is on. I have no idea who the guy leading the entertainment is except that I’m quite sure it’s not John Mayer. My daughters will be so proud of me! Whoever he is, he just took off his jacket, revealing solid tattoos from wrist to shoulder on both arms. Do these people think what that will look like as they age and their skin begins to sag—and keeps on sagging? I hate to sound like an old fuddy-duddy, but I guess I am. This entertainment does not restore my faith in mankind, but I am grateful that other things do.

Super Bowl of course makes us think of food. Have you noticed how advertising really pushes the seasonal foods of the moment? We’re about to go from dips and nachos and the like, for football watching, to chocolate for Valentine’s Day. I never object to chocolate—in fact I crave it. But somewhere the other day I saw mention that made me question my devotion. Chocolate hummus? I can’t quite imagine it. Not sure I want to.

This has been a weekend of recalling old times. Yesterday I had lunch with an old friend, and today my friend Linda went to a birthday party for another old friend, a woman my age who was once the nurse assistant to my ex-. We have not seen this friend for over fifteen years—she’s been going through a rough patch. But Linda brought back a good report on her and her family, who we knew well once upon a time when we were all young and optimistic. Fun to hear about people I’ve lost touch with, even if some of the stories are sad. It makes me realize, as my friend said yesterday, how very fortunate I am.

New music and old friends

Phil Green and me in what seem to be

our assigned spots at Burton parties

Such a lovely day today! This morning, Jacob and I went to church, just the two of us. He is the perfect escort—takes care of stashing my walker, holds my purse, generally looks after me. Our church always has glorious music, especially during the holidays, but today was a special event—the debut of a new composition for choir and orchestra, with the composer in the congregation. It was smashing—and I don’t just mean the brass sections. It truly was a magnificent musical experience. And I was one proud grandma to have Jacob in church with me.

Linda Powell and Nancy O'Shea

We go back together a lot of years

s

Tonight, Christian and Jordan had a few neighbors in, along with two of my longtime
friends—both women who, like me, had been doctors’ wives back in the day. They are special to me, and I loved visiting with them. Our next-door neighbors, a young couple who are both physicians, are also hunters, and they brought duck cooked several ways with fancy tags telling us what was what (I passed on the poppers with jalapeno).

Roast duck breast

Delicious. Christian made his drunken meatballs, and there were salads, a rice dish (mine), a potato dish, a corn pudding, which is something I’ve been wanting to make. Jordan made her wine cake recipe that is always a hit. Nice, casual, easy evening.

My new rug

The drunken meatballs remind me—Jacob was trying to tell me about some drinks that had been partially drunk. He said, “They’d been drinken.” Then he thought that didn’t sound right and he said, “Dranken.” I suggested “Drunk.” And so we invented a new conjugation: drinken, dranken, drunk.

And a highlight of my weekend: a new rug for my living area. Sophie, who is never sick and is perfectly housebroken, had a stomach attack of something beyond her control and delivered the coup de gras to the rug that’s been in the cottage fifteen years or more. It’s cheaper to buy a new rug than to send the old one to the cleaners, a fact that smacks of conspicuous consumption to me.  But the old rug appeared beyond saving, so I ordered a new one—Amazon has everything! The one I chose was a bold change for me—colorful to say the least—so I asked Christian’s opinion, and he was enthusiastic. (Tonight, he took credit for picking it, but I reminded him I picked it; he only approved.) Anyway, so far it has met with approval from everyone I’ve dragged out to look at it.

No work done today. Tomorrow will be a work day—and I have promised the family a taco salad, and I have gingerbread to make. ‘Tis the holidays, and I love it.

Random happiness

Today has been a banner day. Colin, my oldest child, came through town (I mean that literally—he didn’t even come to the house, but we met at Carshon’s) with his Lisa, twelve-year-old Morgan, and ten-year-old Kegan. We celebrated a reunion of sorts (half the family) and Jordan’s birthday with brunch at the deli. Colin could, I’m quite sure, sneak through Fort Worth without telling me, but he’d never be here without a trip to Carshon’s. He’s in his late forties now, and he’s been going there ever since he was a baby.

It’s always a joy to see one of your children after an absence—okay, only since Christmas—but it’s a particular joy to see him looking so well and happy, since he has a chronic health condition. Lisa said he spent spring vacation skiing like an eighteen-year-old, and he has a smashed thumb and who knows what else to show for his wipe-outs. All four of them looked glowingly healthy. Colin is riding a wave—happy marriage, wonderful children, good job, amazing home. He’s a happy man, and I love his positive outlook on life.We sent them on their way back to Tomball, and Jordan and Christian went about the business of celebrating her birthday.

When I bought this house, some twenty-five years ago, I was warned about living across from an elementary school. The school has ben a joy, especially since it’s the focal point of our neighborhood, the glue that holds it together, and Jacob went through all grades there. The zoo? Not so much. Every spring break, zoo traffic seems to get worse. These days it’s bumper to bumper even in front of our house, which means some drivers are trying to make an end run around the traffic—and failing. As for the road through the park that’s our favorite shortcut everywhere, don’t even think of it. I thought by Saturday it would be over, but it wasn’t. Now we’re waiting for Monday.

My neighbor Jay (yeah, the good-looking one) put in my vegetable garden today. I was convinced he waited too late for lettuce, but I was thinking seeds and he bought plants. Had to dig up the ground and all those spring weeds and install a drip watering system which is on a timer to the faucet. I am so excited—I’m going to make wilted lettuce. When I told him that he said no, he’d fixed the water source, so it wouldn’t wilt. He also planted onions and some basil seed. The basil will last the whole long summer. Having basil at your finger trips is a treat—I recently bought some from the store, but it was limp and unattractive, and I pitched it. And there’s nothing more wonderful than lettuce and onions that have just come out of the dirt.

Storms brewing tonight. The sky has turned a funny color, and I hear thunder rumbling quite close. Sophie is looking a bit alarmed. I’m expecting happy hour guests. They said they’d be here unless it comes a tornado. I’ve got the TV on just in case.

Later: the storms turned into nothing but a lovely gentle rain, kissing the new lettuce plants. Jay said maybe if he’d planted two weeks earlier, it would have rained two weeks ago. We’ve gone quite a while without rain.

Lovely visit tonight with friends who were neighbors almost fifty years ago and have remained friends ever since. My hors d’oevres platter turned out to be just right, and we visited about everything from kids to cruises. A perfectly lovely evening. So comfortable to be with people you’ve known forever who know you and love you in spite of your foibles.

Time to read.

Haste makes waste

Remember the most famous line from the prose poem, Desiderata: “Go placidly amidst the noise and the haste . . .” Most days, now that I’m retired and only semi-mobile, that’s what I feel I do. I see others, even my retired contemporaries, who are always behind, always worrying about being overloaded, always stressed. I set my own deadlines, so the only pressure is self-imposed, and I’m good at avoiding that. Usually.

Not today. To begin, my day started much earlier than usual, well before seven in the morning. I was to be ready to leave at 8:30 for the school run to drop Jacob off, then a hurried grocery trip to Central Market, all in time to make a 10:15 doctor appointment. It started off badly because, though I was ready, we didn’t leave until 8:50. Jordan’s missing wallet caused the delay, but it was finally located. Then we hit every red light, every snarl of school traffic.

Got to Central Market and Jordan started to pull a motorized cart out where it would be easier for me to get into. It was a new model, and she couldn’t make it work. Frustrated, she tried one of the older models, but it dragged the newer one with it. Conquered that, headed for the vegetables, and I almost ran down the same lady twice. Somehow that lady and Jordan reached for new potatoes simultaneously or something. Next thing I knew, I was watching the two of them picking up tiny potatoes from everywhere. While I sat.

At this point, Jordan turned to me and said, “I believe the Lord is telling us to slow down.”

Our frantic shopping came to a grinding halt when my motorized cart ran out of juice. There I was, stranded in the cheese department. The cheese monger called for a new cart, but I sat there in solitary splendor for a while. Central Market profited just a bit, because I impulse-bought some salami and cheese that was handy to where I was. A new cart arrived, and we finished our shopping.

The doctor appointment was one of those where you wait for the doctor to ask what’s bothering you, you say nothing, and he says everything’s fine and he’ll see you in three months. And you’ve spent an hour and a half waiting to hear that.

Believe me I was glad to get back to my cottage, away from the noise and haste.

Tonight, a peaceful, relaxing dinner with an old friend, both of us ex-wives of osteopathic physicians, both of us mothers of kids who grew up together. But these days we don’t talk old times much. Our talks are blessedly forward looking, and I am grateful for that. A pleasant evening. And, oops, I forgot all about the lemon juice when I served the lentil soup. It was still good. I put a dollop of sour cream in mine.

Peace, my friends.

Tornadoes and memories

I hope it’s an omen that May came in with such gorgeous weather. The spring storms we were threatened with never did hit us, though they did great damage east of Dallas. That area around Canton, which was so heavily hit, is one dear to my heart. I had good friends, both now gone, who had a guest ranch in Ben Wheeler. My family and I spent many happy days and nights there. Mostly we enjoyed Aunt Reva’s cooking, eating on the porch of their house which overlooked one of the large stock tanks/small lakes on the property.

But sometimes we went to the neighboring town of Edom to eat at The Shed, a down-home café which had become sort of an institution. They featured fried catfish on Saturday nights, and often had lemon meringue pie. I remember Charles (uncle to my children) telling me there were no calories because it was all air. And when I told him he was overlooking the custard part, he said, “Shut up, Judy.” The Shed inspired the Blue Plate Café of my mystery series by that name.

I’ve lost touch with that family now that the parents are gone, except one daughter who faithfully called me when she was in Fort Worth, and we had lunch. Marsha had been blind from diabetes since about the age of twenty, yet she went on to get a graduate degree in anthropology (with the help of her radiologist father), and I much admired her. I got word recently that she had died unexpectedly, and I felt at a loss because I didn’t know who to contact to express my sympathy. It got me to thinking once again about how things change and life moves on, and we go with the flow. It’s no good being stuck in the past, but I grieve for her.

Today, however, life seemed to stand still. For me, it was a no make-up, no shampoo day when I was in my jammies until four o’clock. Not that I didn’t work—I cleared up all kinds of things: a bill paid to the wrong health care providers (I’ve now paid the right ones, and I want a refund from the other); Amazon accounts—it appears I had five, and now I have only one. That kind of busy-ness can wear you out. I did some odd but creative (I hope) marketing for my books, and finished reading The Last Chance Olive Ranch by Susan Wittig Albert. Great book that kept me spellbound—and also taught me a lot about olive oil.

I didn’t intend to be so lazy today. I thought son Jamie was coming for the day, and I was looking forward to our traditional breakfast at Ol’ South Pancake House. He has a Dutch baby and I have corned beef hash. When I emailed last night to ask if I was still expecting him, he said no, it was always Tuesday. Now, I know that child (45, but he’s still my child) is wrong. I have Monday on my calendar and in my head, but he was adamant. So that gives me one more day of nice anticipation. And I did make good use of the day.