Kitchens, ghost and otherwise

 

My tiny kitchen

Despite my whining about standard time, I woke up feeling rested and full of energy this morning. Sophie let me sleep until 7:45 daylight time—I am probably going to spend from now to March adjusting the time to daylight time which will continue to be the standard I follow. Anyway, an hour later when I’d dozed off, my brother woke me, calling from the hospital. I was glad enough to talk to him that I didn’t mind being pulled out of a funny, funky dream. We chatted a bit, but I didn’t have my hearing aids and pneumonia makes him wheeze so that I had a hard time understanding. Still, I was delighted he called, even if he did think I’d called him.

I meant to write about ghost kitchens today, because the new title of the latest Irene adventure is Irene in a Ghost Kitchen, but before I got to that I spent a lot of time in my very real, definitely not a ghost kitchen. My project for the day was to make beef tips in gravy for dinner tonight, and this morning I got it put together—seasoned and browned the meat, sauteed onions and garlic, made the gravy. It’s in the fridge now but will come out to simmer for at least a couple of hours after I nap. And the cooking dishes are all washed and put away. Yes, I am feeling very righteous. It also smells delicious. Decisions, decisions—should we have mashed potatoes or noodles with it? I thought of polenta but I don’t have enough in the freezer.

These days I’m in a kitchen a lot, whether it be my own, my imaginary dream kitchen, sometimes my mom’s kitchen of memory, or Irene’s ghost kitchen. Irene wanted a café, like she has in France, but as Chance, her billionaire lover said, “A ghost kitchen is much cheaper.” Ghost kitchens, also known as cloud kitchens or dark kitchens, exist only to serve online orders and deliver food. There is no on-site service, and the customer has no interaction with the kitchen staff. Irene’s kitchen serves her own gourmet dishes, but some ghost kitchens serve several popular brands of food at one. Ghost kitchens have much lower overhead—they don’t have to be in a fashionable or well-traveled location, and they don’t require nearly as much space as a dine-in restaurant; they have no front-of-the-house staff such as host or hostess, wait staff, bus boys, etc. The restaurants either maintain their own delivery service or use one of the many delivery apps such as Door Dash or Uber Eats.

Ghost kitchens existed before pandemic but really flourished during that quarantine. Customers didn’t want to go out to eat, restaurants couldn’t hire enough wait staff, some restaurants were forced to close completely. Today, with quarantine lifted, ghost kitchens are still popular. Some major restaurant chains operate ghost kitchens under another name: Conviction Chicken is the ghost kitchen of TGI Friday’s, Cosmic Wings and Neighborhood Wings are operated by Applebees, Chili’s has Maggiano’s Italian Classics and Just Wings. The list is long.

Sometimes ghost kitchens are shared—one building may house several, or an independent ghost kitchen may rent space in an existing restaurant. A business called Fort Worth Food Works houses several ghost kitchens and offers all the facilities and services a restaurant needs. Perfect for a start-up chef.

Irene’s ghost kitchen, of course, is none of those. It’s the whim of a faux French chef. She is, however, going to offer small cooking classes in her kitchen. First up, the French classic popularized by Julia Child (shh! Don’t say that to Irene!): boeuf bourguignon. Then maybe a good hearty cassoulet; perhaps Coquilles St. Jacque (scallops in wine sauce—someone once asked me what I fixed for company the night before, and when I said Coquilles St. Jacque he said, “Gesundheit!” so I always explain it). Lobster thermidor and coq au vin may be on Irene’s class last, but daily she’ll fix appetizers such as gougeres, desserts like crème brulee, and special orders—her secret liver pate. Will she make a success of the kitchen? Who knows? Certainly not me at this point, though I hope to know by next spring.

Speaking of recipes I ran across a custom that is new to me but apparently worldwide: putting recipes of the tombstones of people, mostly women, revered for their cooking skills. Want to make Bonnie Johnson’s No-Bake Oatmeal Cookies? Just go to the cemetery in Nome, Alaska and get the recipe. Or read about it on Gastro Obscura The family recipes carved into gravestones (mailchi.mp)

Happy Sunday night!

 

An outstanding day from my point of view

 

This is Pete the Gecko (I just named him and have no idea why I thought Pete was appropriate). Pete was made by mosaic artist Susan Swaim, an old friend, and is part of my drive to have art in the cottage with some meaning to me—often, because it was done by artists I care about. Suzi used to babysit my kids when they were young, tonight we decided it was pre-school. In recent years I’ve seen her mosaic art online, and when I saw the first few geckos she did I thought vaguely that I wished I could have one. This year, as my birthday approached, I realized there was no good reason I couldn’t give myself one as a birthday present—and I commissioned it. The neat thing is that Suzi incorporated a bit of my jewelry that I sent her—can you find the rose on Pete’s back? Came from a necklace I no longer wear, and a couple of other pieces came from things I had. Pete will hang just to the right of my desk—there’s a nice blank piece of wall waiting for him.

Look at Suzi’s work at Facebook She calls her studio my mosaic mojo.

Suzi delivered Pete in person tonight. I probably haven’t seen her in over thirty years, so it was a great catch-up time. Her mom was a friend of mine way back in TCU days and came from three generations of a family deeply involved with TCU, so we talked a lot about her mom and being in the eighties and TCU and just lots of stuff. Went to Lucile’s, which is a favorite of mine, and I got the lobster roll I’d been wanting. A thoroughly enjoyable evening with lots of laughter.

It was a rare out-of-the-cottage day for me. Christian and I went to church this morning. Russ’ sermon was on the parable of Jesus telling the lame man to pick up his bed and be healed, and the sermon dwelt on the question Jesus asked the man: “Do you really want to be healed?” The point was that a lot of us cling to our problems, imperfections, even illnesses because they are comfortable. Much as we rail against them, we know how to deal with them. Being “healed,” represents a great unknown. Russ finally asked the question, “Do you want to move out of your comfort zone?” and I wanted to say, “I’m here, aren’t i? I’m in church and not watching in the cottage.”

Two outings in one day was a big deal for me, although that makes my life sound constricted, which is not the way I feel about it at all. I am always torn between a conscience that prods me to get out in the world and the lure of the comfort of my cottage. I used to have such an active, busy life, and now I’m so content in my cottage that I have to gear myself up to go out. Once I do, however, I’m glad to have done it. So thanks to Christian and Suzi for getting me out of my comfort zone. I think this whole recluse business crept up on me with pandemic and quarantine. And then I think about how many lives were forever changed by that traumatic period. Not just the illness and death, but the social changes, the work-from-home changes, the stay-at-home dinners instead of patronizing favorite restaurants. I think in many ways we are still reeling from the results of that social upheaval. And now, here comes another onslaught of covid

On the bright side, it is cool tonight, eighty as I write about nine-thirty. There was a good shower to the south of us, but we’ve had no rain so far. Still, the air smells like rain, and I am ever hopeful. I know the nineties is hot but compared to what we’ve had, it will seem pleasant. Let us count our blessings as we sail into a new week.

A milestone and some trivia

 

Would you believe I am still getting over pandemic? As I have written before, pandemic and quarantine made it so easy for me to stay home in the cottage and not take my mobility challenges out into the world. Oh, occasionally I have gone out to dinner with friends, but pretty much I invite people to the cottage for happy hour or supper. And I haven’t been to church since March 2020. I was a faithful virtual attendant, signing in on my computer almost every Sunday. But I missed the physical feeling of being in the sanctuary, (University Christian in Fort Worth is a beautiful sanctuary), being surrounded by music, being part of the community.

The Burtons also never got back into the habit of weekly church. My minister friend Renee tells me the church recognizes that having once broken the church habit, it is hard to resume. This spring Christian began to really agitate for going to church. The three Burtons went one Sunday, but I opted to stay home. Then this past week, I had four restaurant meals and somehow got a big boost to my confidence. So I said I’d like to go this Sunday. It was the last day of a five-sermon series Renee was preaching.

Christian and I went to church. What made it work is that he willingly pushed me in my transport chair. I think much of my hesitation was based on insecurity about walking with a walker—I can’t go far without getting breathless. Today, being in the transport chair was easy, and he agreed, proud that just the two of us handled it.

After church, several members came up to greet me, which made me feel really welcome. I asked one if she still lived out in the country, quite a drive from church, and she said she did. “It’s my little piece of heaven,” she said. I remember when the church organist, asked about the long hours she spends practicing at the organ, said, “It’s my happy spot.” My church friend had found her happy spot in the country. I realized that my happy spot is at my desk, not necessarily with my computer on, but at my desk where I am in charge of my world. I think—and hope—each of us has a happy spot.

It's Sunday night, and I am getting ready to dine alone. Going to marinate some cucumber (I am never again buying those tiny cucumbers—they taste different, and they go bad five minutes after  you buy them—I have heard that you should wrap cucumbers in paper towel to keep them from spoiling; some say to add a silver spoon—just sayin’.) I’ll have a leftover salmon patty and maybe a bit of blue cheese salad. A nice evening.

Trivia: I saw an ad today for mink eyelashes! No kidding! I thought of all the animal lovers (me included these days) who shun fur coats and wondered who is vain enough to want mink eyelashes. Maybe I misunderstood. No, they are all over the internet. A bit pricey, as much as $95. There is an internet warning that you are killing these cute little critters. Do you suppose vain women care?

And get ready: I read somewhere that stores are preparing to display their Halloween offerings. We’re sweltering in the midst of summer, school hasn’t even started yet, and merchants want us to think ahead to Halloween. I don’t guess so.

I saw a book title that I thought was funny—until I read the description. There’s apparently a short story titled, “Namaste Trump” which is the title story of a collection about broken lives in small towns. I guess that’s appropriate if trump supporters can see themselves clearly, which I seriously doubt. And then there is a book by that title designed for journaling and described as a gag gift for trump supporters. Wish we could see sales figures on that one. And finally there really is a MAGA journal titled An Enlightened Trump Meditation.

I have no words. I am going to go quietly and eat my supper. Y’all have a  good evening.

Everything really did change

 

Pre-pandemic dinner with good friends
L. to R., me, Betty, Jean, and Jeannie
at Trinity Terrace

A dear friend came for happy hour tonight, and it got me to thinking how Covid really did change our worlds. Before Covid, for twenty-five years or more, Betty and I went to dinner once a week. In recent years, our dinners had become a Wednesday evening ritual. We had some grand adventures trying new and unknown restaurants. I remember once taking her to explore a part of town, not far away, that she never knew existed, and if memory serves, I once took her cemetery exploring. She was Aunt Betty to Jacob and his parents. We laughed a lot, and we drank a sufficient amount of wine.

With Covid that came to a crashing halt. Betty and her husband had owned a steak and hamburger restaurant in the Stockyards for years. In fact, for a few years I used to help on Saturday nights—running the cash register, rolling silverware, hostessing when Betty was busy. When Covid came, they still went to the restaurant every night on weekends—no one was vaccinated or masked, and I wasn’t willing to risk it. Betty came once or twice for wine on the patio at a great distance, but we never ever thought of going to dinner.

And somehow we never picked it up again. Tonight it was like falling into an old relationship—except it wasn’t. Her husband is now elderly (aren’t we all?) and she mostly spends her days taking care of him. She’s been to the cottage a couple of times, but after an hour she’s always anxious to get back to him. I stopped trying to serve her dinner and started saying happy hour. But since the world shut down in March 2020, I’ve probably only seen her a handful of times.

In the meantime I became sort of a recluse. Christian wondered how I could be content in the cottage after I’d had an active social life, but content I was. In fact, when I first began to get out, it was a big deal that I had to gear myself up for. I told myself—and I think it’s true—because of the walker and not driving, it’s easier for me to stay home and invite people to visit.

But other changes. I love to grocery shop, browsing the aisles for things that inspire me to cook. I even love driving those motorized carts they have. I had been using Central Market’s curbside shopping service for some time, but with Covid it became my primary grocery source—that and sending Jordan to Albertson’s. Both are wonderful, neither are perfect, and I’ve ended up with some weird items, a lifetime supply of some things, and not enough of others. Since quarantine lifted and I was well boosted, I’ve been to Albertson’s a couple of times. Whole Foods once, Central Market once, and Trader Joe’s a couple of times. Thanks to Mary Dulle for several of those trips.

During quarantine, I fell into a routine for my days that persists until this day. Work in the morning, an afternoon nap, followed by checking email and cooking dinner. Lately I’ve been reading and writing late into the night and sleeping late in the mornings. Sophie also has her routine—breakfast at five-thirty, back outside at seven-fifteen, and then inside until I get up to stay, which is usually eight-thirty.

Along the way, the nature of my friendships has changed. Some people that I used to see have dropped away and my few overtures toward them have met with politeness but nothing more. I’ve decided they didn’t really enjoy my company, certainly not enough to come to happy hour. But other friendships have strengthened. Jean and I were always good friends, but we see much more of each other these days, a habit developed during quarantine. She was one of the few people I knew who was as careful about exposure as I was. Recently widowed, she was alone in her house and, I suspected, lonely. So she came often for wine and supper and now it’s grown to be a once-a-week thing most weeks. There are others I see more of these days, whether it’s a result of pandemic or not, I don’t know—I suppose it’s the nature of friendship to ebb and flow like tides. But I am most grateful for my friends.

During quarantine, Jacob and Jordan were home all the time. Jordan and I planned menus and cooked dinners together—and the family ate in the cottage. I loved it—the cooking and the companionship. Now they’re back to their busy schedules, and it’s been an adjustment for me. But we still eat together three or four nights a week. And I cook often enough to keep me happy.

Maybe quarantine simply accelerated part of the aging process for me, slowing my extracurricular life which would have happened sooner or later. But I have only a few regrets. My new life is without a lot of the stresses of the old. Life is good, and I’m relaxed and happy.

Ladies night out—or in

 

The four of us at an earlier dinner.
Not sure when, but I think it was a Cajun restaurant that had been recommended.

For several years now, a group of four women (including me) has had dinner together once every month or so. We are—ahem! elderly, me more so than the others, and we are all interested in the arts. All three are old friends, though they didn’t all know each other until a few years ago. They claim they first met at my annual tree trimming Christmas parties, now a thing of the past much to my regret. Pandemic threw a huge monkey wrench into our dinner plans. We are all cautious, again me more so than the others. Each of us take masking and vaccines seriously—one because her partner is more elderly even than I, another because she is herself immune compromised, me because I’m an elderly scaredy cat.

We had managed a dinner just before the Delta variant swept us all up and again another in December for a birthday, just before omicron was a threat. And then we were all hiding in our homes again. Two ladies—Kathie and Subie—came to my aborted New Year’s Day party, but Carol stayed home out of an abundance of caution. She, however, was the one subsequently exposed to Covid, and although she tested positive, she was never sure she had it. Meanwhile I spent January alone in the cottage when first Jacob and then Jordan had mild cases.

Finally a week or so ago, Carol suggested we meet for pot-luck supper at my cottage—and joked about how bold she was being to invite people to my house. The usual juggling ensued as we tried to find a date that suited everyone. Tonight was our potluck dinner, and it brings aa couple of thoughts to mind. The obvious one is the good fortune of having four forty-plus year friendships—we literally have grown old together. The ties that bind have lasted, though we have each grown in different directions, developed new interests, etc. And yet, mostly, we blend and share.

The other is that potluck is an old-fashioned idea. As you know if you read this blog much at all, I am increasingly interested in so-called American food, the dishes that are considered passé now, the food of the fifties and sixties. And I’d sure put the concept of potluck right up there with those dishes, although I know it is much older and probably traces back through most of American history. Especially as we all get healthier and sanitation conscious due to covid, I wonder if both potluck and buffet lines aren't going the way of all good things.

As hostess, I felt it was incumbent on me to provide the entrée, so I fixed a chicken casserole, made with Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup. Cooking with canned soups is a hangover from my growing-up years, and yet I have recipes I treasure that call for mushroom, chicken, or celery soup. Lots of cooking snobs scorn such cooking, but not me. Our appetizers tonight were sort of retro—vegetables and dips, though the dips were not anything we thought of back in the day. There was a herb dip—really herbal and really green, a cheese spread spiced with pimiento, and a hummus with peppers (I avoided that). The crispy breads with Parmesan would not have appeared at my growing-up table (we never had bread with dinner). Salad was a tossed green salad—shades of my mom, though she never would have added sunflower seeds, blueberries, and apple. I can just see my dad’s face if he found a blueberry in his salad—he loved them, but all things in their proper place.

And finally there was dessert—a scrumptious fruit salad (with lots of raspberries which is always a plus for me) and good bakery cookies. What struck me about the meal was that it was a blending of the food from our young years with some more trendy dishes from today. And maybe that’s what’s to be treasured about our friendship—the best from the old days when we were young and full of plans blended with whatever wisdom age has brought us and surviving despite diverse interests.

Want that good, light chicken recipe? Look for the Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog tomorrow. I plan to post my two favorite chicken casseroles. Meantime I have taken two days from my novel—one to do taxes and today to make the casserole, straighten the cottage and get ready for company. I laugh at myself because in these tiny quarters I usually don’t do much to prepare for company—just ask a couple of regulars—but today seemed more like an occasion, and I couldn’t wrap my mind around much else. Tomorrow, back to the novel!

A reflection on pandemic

 

The last few afternoons have been sunny, if chilly, and in the late afternoon, just before dusk, the living area of my cottage—office and “company” couch and chairs—have been flooded with warm, bright sunshine. The room has windows on the south, west, and north, which make it bright but not always warm. But this week it cheered me just to walk into the room, filled me with gratitude for all the comforts I enjoy—a comfortable shelter, plenty of food, and, usually, plenty of companionship. I like to think of myself as a grateful person.

But re-reading some of my recent blogs startled me into the recognition that I have bee anything but grateful. Story Circle Network is having a blog competition, looking for the best blog post on the subject of growth. When I got that notice today, I thought, “Why not?” As I ate my lunch, I scrolled through some recent past entries in “Judy’s Stew.” I did not find growth, no gratitude either; I found a lot of anger and a lot about isolation. I think my blog—and me—is in a rut.

As many of you know I have been sort of quarantining since the New Year for reasons that have to do both with exposure and caution.  What I found today was that lots of my Lots of my posts were about isolation and anger. Isolation because my family is out and about, exposed at high-risk events, and my friends are cautious. For a while, patio entertaining was fine, but it turned cold and is supposed to do that again this week. We developed a transport system between the main house and my cottage. Mostly it consists of a grocery sack left on the step by my kitchen door, sort of in the same manner you raise a flag for service at a Brazilian steakhouse or at Pancho’s. Jordan makes many trips from back door to back door, especially since one or the other of us cooks dinner for everybody. Transporting dinner without spilling or letting it get cold has proved tricky. I posted about Jordan’s brief, two-minute masked visits to do this or that I needed, about wishing Sophie could talk about books and menus, about Sophie knowing something is different and acting out like a two-year-old. About gloomy, gray days when I could seem to get warm. About the day I just decided to write the world off and keep going back to bed—which left me wakeful during the night. Not a good solution.

And anger. I was angry at the Covid virus in all its mutations, angry at the rodeo (I tried not to be angry at my family because they, after all, have lives to lead and are not as much at risk as I am because of age and health), angry at a world where half the people doubt science and refuse to take precautions to protect others—those people who fuss about their rights and won’t get vaccinated or who swear masks don’t work and won’t wear one. Angry at Governor Abbott and his cavalier attitude about the pandemic while pursuing his own dreams of glory, at “the former guy” who let it get out of control (I’m always angry at him anyway). Angry at the world because I eat alone most nights instead of with my family gathered around my coffee table, angry because we didn’t have our annual Twelfth Night celebration, because … because … because

There were of course highlights—a visit from a dear friend back in Texas briefly after a move to Taos, patio visits from the neighbor ladies, lunch on the patio with my Canadian daughter; some good meals that I enjoyed cooking, despite transport difficulties. I’m grateful for some good writing sessions and a lot more reading than I usually have time for. But what re-reading these blog posts taught me, beyond that I need to change my attitude, is the Covid is re-shaping our lives and making us into people we sometimes don’t recognize. You can’t see the shift day-to-day, but pandemic has made us angry and cautious, suspicious of our neighbors. Who knows4 who might be asymptomatic and a carrier, even a super-spreader? And so we do, as I have done, hide in our houses, become lonely and angry. I’m wondering what the effects will be five years from now.

A wonderful visit tonight with old friends Phil and Subie brightened my spirits immensely. We met in the cottage, unmasked but with the patio door wide open. Conversation was lively, wine generous, and I felt more alive than I have for days. But I still say it’s true that pandemic has changed us as a society. I’d love to hear your opinions.

 

Where is your camel, or lessons from the pandemic

 

My physical therapist and I were discussing how much we are each willing to break quarantine, now that we, like many others, are fully vaccinated. He, more willing to get out and about than I, had been to in-person church at Easter, while I stuck with virtual. His parting words were, “You got to get out more. God’s got you.” A few days later a friend wrote that she agreed with me and ended her message with what I presume is an old Arabic proverb: “Trust God, but tie your camel to a tree.” To me, that says it all. I’ve spent a lot of time tying my camel to trees.

In truth, I tie that camel (okay, I’ll quit with that image) because I’m confused. We are inundated with news of how wonderfully well President Biden’s vaccine roll-out is going—way ahead of the schedule he predicted for his first hundred days. And I am among the first to clap loudest and longest. But that statistic that now one out of five is fully vaccinated? Try putting the word “Only” in front of it: it means that four out of five people are walking around without full protection. Apparently one-third of our population has had one shot—I wonder how many never get that second one.

And I’m assuming we still can’t hug, unless the huggee is also vaccinated. Which calls into question all those newly vaccinated grandparents who are finally hugging grandchildren after a year (call me guilty—I hugged one because she had covid a month earlier and, as she said to me, was “full of antibodies”). Aside from the rare case where a vaccinated person gets sick, if we hug unvaccinated grands, are we putting them in danger? They are almost all, at least in my family, too young to have been vaccinated. I haven’t heard a definitive answer about the vaccinated as carriers of the virus. And how long is the vaccine good? Six months? A year? So much still to be determined.

We get advice from several sources, and I’m never sure what the CDC is saying. Apparently, it’s all right to gather indoors with a small group of vaccinated people but we should avoid large groups in enclosed spaces. Yet domestic travel is safe—but they just ruled out planes, trains, and cars. And we should avoid bars and restaurants that are open to full capacity (hello, Texas!).

The most sensible restaurant advice I’ve heard came from local journalist Bud Kennedy who recommends eating on a patio or in a well-ventilated indoor restaurant where they only seat every other table, staff is masked, and customers are masked except when eating. Of course, that means you either check it out as you walk in the door or call ahead and ask their mask and social distancing policy. And in Fort Worth, and I imagine other cities, patios are a problem because many of them are enclosed with ugly plastic to ward off the winter chill. The result is no moving air and a space without ambiance. I suppose in summer they’ll be enclosed for coolness. I’m on a search for open-air patios with distanced seating. Suggestions welcome.

This morning our minister talked about how emotional many people felt when they worshipped in the sanctuary once again, the first time in 54 Sundays. And I have read posts from many people who cried in relief when they got their second vaccination. It’s like the vaccination wipes away all the tension and frustration of the past year. But as Dr. Fauci cautions, we must not get complacent too soon. There is hope on the horizon, but we have to hold on.

Here comes that camel again. Now where’s the nearest tree?

Living on Covid Time

For nineteen years, Story Circle Network, an international online organization that encourages women to write about their experiences, has published an anthology, Real Women Write, choosing a different theme each year. For the 2020 anthology, the choice of theme was clear; the book is subtitled Living on Covid Time. It contains 80 pieces of poetry and prose, written by 52 women. I got my copy in the mail yesterday.

In her foreword, Brooke Warner, publisher of She Writes Press, suggests that for writers the time of isolation imposed by the virus may be a rich and focused period or one so filled with anxiety that writing proves impossible. Whereas authors usually write in retrospect, this past year has required many of us to write as we live through a worldwide, terrifying experience with no sure idea of the final outcome. Writers are capturing the present moment, recording history. As an aside, let me add that for novelists, this has meant a choice: do you allude to the pandemic in a novel or assume people are too tired of hearing about it and set the action just pre-pandemic (I chose the latter for my current work-in-progress). For memoirists and many nonfiction writers, there is no choice: you come to grips with the disease.

The stories and poetry in this collection “showcase a range of reaction,” including “grappling with illness, fear and death, with heartbreak and isolation, with the coexistence of ugliness and beauty.” Reading, Warner points out, is one way we listen, and writing is one way we start a conversation with vulnerability. She believes, and I do too, that we have an opportunity to come out of this more courageous, more honest, more productive.

In the final brief essay in the book, Susan Wittig Albert uses a hardy antique rose to make just that point. The leaves of the rose, on her side deck, turned brown, something that had never happened in 25 years. She realized she had taken it for granted and neglected it during a blistering hot and dry summer. But then came Hurricane Beta, with cooler temperatures, even if only a smidgen of rain for the Hill Country. Susan saw that as a lesson from nature, teaching us that the world is resilient but also vulnerable. She concludes that we will go forward. The world will never go back to what it was before the Pandemic, but we can move it forward with hard work and deep breaths, taking more responsibility, paying more attention.

Reading these selections is like listening to a chorus: Lynn Goodwin describes a physically painful episode during which she is convinced she has the virus (it was not); Jeanne Guy offers a prayer to be free of fear and not to have to go to the grocery store—apples and oranges, you think? Not on Covid time. Linda Hoye uses a trip to the grocery store to illustrate just how different life has become in lockdown—and how small things can grate on our nerves. Linda Wisniewski describes sewing masks while watching, for 111 consecutive days, Governor Andrew Cuomo’s daily briefings and the reassurance she found in his constancy.

Yes, I have a short piece in the collection, a piece that made me face honestly some of my lifelong anxiety. It’s called “The Temptation of Quarantine.” At different times in my adult life, but more as I aged, some ordinary activities raised my anxiety to an almost paralytic level. Things other women did without thinking could cause me great agony. Suddenly one day, in quarantine, I realized that I was perfectly content. I didn’t have to step down that curb and fear losing my balance, drive on the highway, take self-service elevators, or a thousand other little things. I could stay home to write, read, and cook. While others gnashed their teeth over boredom and freedom and the like, I was a happy camper, more relaxed than ever.

The other day my oldest daughter said when I have had both shots, she wants to come to Fort Worth so that she, Jordan, and I can go to Neiman Marcus for lunch. I hesitated—I haven’t been to a restaurant since March 12 last year, and now, vaccinated or not, I’m not sure I want to go. But I will. As the saying goes, I’ll put on my big girl panties and go with my daughters—and enjoy it. But getting back into life beyond my cottage and yard is going to take some doing.

Real Women Write is a good book. You’ll see yourself, and you may come to understand others. It’s available through Amazon.

The frustration of Texas storms

 

So frustrating to get all geared up for storms…and nothing happens. Last night, forecasts were full of dire warnings about severe weather between midnight and four a.m. I went to bed much earlier than midnight—I seem to have changed my sleep patterns these days—but got Sophie all comfortable with a Benadryl so she’d sleep and not be scared during the storm.

I won’t exactly say I lay in bed awake, waiting, but I did find myself awake about one in the morning, wondering about the storm. We got rain but nothing more … and Sophie slept soundly on in her favorite chair. Not that I wanted a destructive storm, but I would have welcomed a little heavy weather. It didn’t happen.

In ordinary years, we would be in the midst of Stock Show weather. The annual stock show, formally known as the Southwestern Exposition and Stock Show, almost always brings snow, sleet, freezing rain, slick streets, and cold, cold temperatures. So this year, with no stock show, maybe we’re being spared the bad weather.

But Fort Worth misses out in a lot of other ways. The Fort Worth Stock Show and Rodeo, the oldest continuously running livestock show and rodeo in the country, has been held annually in Fort Worth since 1896. In those days, they tied the cattle on a river bank for judging—short squatty cattle, not at all like the sleek animals we see in the show ring today. Over the years the show has provided millions of dollars in grants and scholarships and continues to provide hundreds of thousands of dollars annually to encourage and educate future leaders of agriculture and livestock management.

This year’s show would have brought over a million visitors to Fort Worth—competitors, exhibitors, tourists, vendors, and so on. But it would have been a super-spreader event, and directors reluctantly made the decision to cancel.

So what are we missing besides bad weather? Horse, cattle, and hog shows and auctions, rodeo events and entertainment, judging of everything from pigeons to rabbits, the FFA barnyard with its baby animals, and all that food—turkey wings and funnel cakes and corny dogs. The exhibition hall with its displays of everything from farm equipment to fashion remains closed and empty. The barns are silent, echoing, as are the FFA dorms above them.

So yes, the failure of the storms to materialize is frustrating. It symbolizes a bigger absence—we have no stock show this year.

Here’s to a bigger than ever event in 2022.

Creeping into 2021

The woods are lovely, deep and dark--Robert Frost

The world looks a whole lot brighter to me on January 3rd than it did January 1. I see sunshine and blue sky and bare branches—the leaves have all, finally, come down. Still I have the feeling of creeping into the new year instead of bounding joyously. Maybe it’s the internet meme advising going in “real slowly. Don’t. Touch. Anything.”

On New Year’s Day, the internet was full of the usual joyous wishes, this time made more poignant by a lot of gleeful farewells to 2020, the worst year in modern memory. But I am not at all sure we have put the problems of 2020 behind us—the pandemic is infecting and killing record numbers of our families, friends, and neighbors, and trump is protesting he will not leave the White House, even as he continues to try for a coup on January 6 when the electoral ballots are officially counted. And he is openly calling for violence in our nation’s capital on that day. I read one account that the Proud Boys or some of similar inclination would target the halls of Congress in an effort to attack congressmen who don’t back trump’s delusional campaign. It’s enough to scare anyone, and I, safely removed in Texas, am scared—for our country and our democracy, let alone our worldwide reputation.

An email from a small online writers’ group yesterday suggested that I sum up what I’ve learned from almost a year of quarantining. I had to think long and hard about that because I’m not sure I’ve learned anything except that old bromide, “Life isn’t necessarily fair.” The COVID-19 virus is whimsical in who it affects, who it kills. Many who have been infected followed every single caution from the CDC on prevention—and yet caught it. Others, seemingly indifferent or unbelieving, went about unmasked, gathered in large groups, and did not, so far as we know, contract the virus.

And the sense of fairness or collegiality has totally disappeared from politics. Joe Biden won a landslide, and yet he’s having the most difficult transition into power in the history of our country. At every turn, trump and his followers are working to thwart Biden’s solid plans for the future, for a return to government as most of us would like to see and know it.

My biggest fear is that president-elect Biden will not be able to work miracles, and the country will turn optimism into anger. He cannot work miracles—what’s been done to our country will require long, slow rebuilding. I think Biden is going into the new term with clear vision and solid plans, but he can only do so much. A lot will depend on the outcome of the runoff in Georgia on Tuesday. But either way I think “real slowly. Don’t. Touch. Anything,” is good advice.

What I personally have learned is that I’m okay with quarantine and isolation, as long as I have work to keep me busy and occupied and a few people in my pod. But right now, I am between projects and don’t seem to be able to focus on a new one. I find it frustrating, mostly because I think I came into this world with an ingrained work ethic, and I’m not comfortable not working. To top it off today my internet connection is down, and “unable to connect.”  This too shall pass if I can only muster a bit of patience.

As I reread what I’ve just written, it seems pessimistic to me, even reflecting a bit of depression. I hope that’s not true. I hope it is realistic. I also firmly believe there are things each of us can do to make the future better—find meaningful activity, continue to stay as safe as possible and follow health guidelines, write to your politicians or call them—tell them when you think they’re right and why you think they’re wrong (in Texas that opens a whole new can of worms!).

I’m not giving up on 2021. We are in a time of great change, and we have a lot to look forward to—the vaccine (if we every figure out who can get it and where) and a new administration. I expect good things—I just don’t expect instant miracles, and I don’t want anyone else to either. On Facebook someone commented, “We aren’t out of the woods yet,” and someone else replied, “We’re not even all the way into the words yet.”                        

Labor Day Blues

If you are social distancing and masked, as I hope you are, this is a different kind of Labor Day. No community picnics with speeches by politicians, no concerts, maybe some fireworks on television. Annual parades across the country have been cancelled due to the pandemic. Maybe you’re shopping the sales online. However you’re marking this day, please stay safe.

Labor Day began back in the 1880s to honor working people—the first parade was in New York City in 1887, and the day became a Federal holiday in 1894. The last quarter of the 19^th century was a time marked by clashes, often violent, between labor and the robber barons who thought they ruled the world during the Gilded Age. It was also the era of the rise of labor unions, designed to protect laborers by stabilizing wages, limiting working hours, guaranteeing days off, and other measures so that men, women, and children had more to their lives than dawn-to-dusk work in sweatshops, factories, and the like. In some ways, those clashes of values are reflected again in our society today—we haven’t come as far as we thought or else we’ve slid backwards.

Perhaps the most notorious labor riot was the Haymarket which occurred in Chicago in 1886 after bombing disrupted a peaceful labor rally at the McCormick Reaper Works in support of the eight-hour day. Police killed one laborer and injured several others as they tried to disperse the demonstrators. Someone threw a bomb, and between that and the resulting gunfire seven police and at least four civilians were killed. Dozens others were injured.

A German immigrant, August Spies, was so angered at the police brutality that he rushed to the offices of an anarchist newspaper, Arbeiter-Zeitung, and issued a call to arms for workingmen. A second rally as held in Haymarket Square. Spies spoke, followed by his colleague Albert Parsons, a former Confederate soldier turned anarchist. The mayor of Chicago was even on hand to ensure that things remained peaceful—but he decided all was well and went home too early. Police tried to disperse the crowd, another bomb was thrown, and gunfire and chaos followed. Several police and civilians were killed.

The riot set off a nation-wide wave of violence, and police rounded up foreign-born protestors and labor organizers. In Chicago, seven men were sentenced to death—ultimately four were hanged, including Spies and Parsons, one committed suicide, and the remaining three were pardoned. It was not a pretty episode in the country’s history.

My research for the historical novel, The Gilded Cage, led me deep into the conflict surrounding the Haymarket Riot and indeed into the whole labor movement era in Chicago. Spies, Parsons, and their families became minor characters in the book. The Gilded Cage was published in the spring of 2016. At the time I had no idea how relevant that history would be to us in 2020, but today that bit of history speaks to me as an object lesson.

So today, if you’re having a family-only barbecue in the back yard or—as I will be doing, eating leftovers, raise a glad to the working men and women of the late nineteenth century who fought so hard to secure protections for those who work in nine-to-five jobs, often physical hard jobs.

And I hope you find some fireworks on TV because, well, there just ought to be fireworks!

 

The return of the family

It’s not quite the prodigal son story, but all is well in our little compound again. After five days at Hyatt Lost Pines Resort outside Bastrop, Jordan, Christian, and Jacob are back home. I hate to confess it, but I always feel a bit off kilter when they are gone. Reminds me of the story about the little old lady (I resent that designation!) who went for her first plane ride. When asked about it afterward, she said, “It was all right, but I never did put my full weight down.” When the Burtons are gone, I don’t quite put my full weight down. And now you know why I was so glad to have son Jamie here for two days.

Lost Pines has been the Burton family August destination for several years, a trip Jacob always looks forward to. It’s got everything from fishing and kayaking to lounging by the pool. This year, Jordan tells me it was quite safe—only booked to twenty percent capacity; staggered times for guests to be at the swimming pool. (Since she's a luxury travel consultant, she knows about such things as how resorts are coping with safe distancing.) The pictures they sent sort of murmur “tranquility.” This was the first year Jacob is old enough to kayak alone, and also the first year he didn’t have a buddy with him.

On the way home they had lunch with Megan and family and toured the new house. Their report is a rave, and I am anxious to see it. According to Christian, it is “very modern,” which the old house, on the same spot, was not—anything but. I am delighted that they are settled in and happy.

Tonight I’ll cook a welcome-home dinner (after Jordan picks up the groceries at Central Market)—chicken enchiladas, a recipe I found online. It’s got Rotel and hatch chilies, and I’m hoping its not too spicy for me. I ordered the mild version of both of those ingredients. And it’s got lots of sour cream and cheese—sounds just a bit rich.

If you’re on Facebook, perhaps you’re enjoying as much as I am the postings on the timeline, “View from My Window.” Spectacular views from all over the world, with lots from South Africa, Norway, New Zealand, and Australia. And of course some from the U.S. I have hesitated but this morning I snapped a shot of the view from my window in Fort Worth. Not too shabby, just not as dramatic as the mountain and ocean views I’ve been admiring. I’ll probably post it. What do you think?

My saying for the day comes from my friend, Chloe. She too is “of an age” as am I, and she too is strictly quarantining. She lives alone, having lost her husband during the past year, but has family close by who visit her frequently. Still, like many of us, Chloe feels the pull of the life she has had to give up. In recalling a memory, she wrote, “back when I was someone else.” I think that’s how a lot of us feel. Before the pandemic, we were someone else. The question, which our minister touched on this morning, is what or who will we be when it is over. Chloe Webb, by the way, is a sacred harp singer and the author of Legacy of the Sacred Harp.

What’s wrong with America?

Don’t get me wrong. I love my country, and I’m proud to be an American. This pandemic has brought out the very best in some Americans—I see it in my neighbors reaching out to each other, I read about random acts of kindness, and hear stories thata reinforce my belief that most of humanity is basically good, kind, and caring.

But it’s hard during an unprecedented crisis to see so many people picketing and protesting because their rights are being infringed upon. They demand their freedom! They want to get a haircut, sit in a restaurant or a bar, go to the theatre, live life as they’ve always known it. They don’t seem to recognize that these are not normal times and all of us have to make some adjustments.

I am in full sympathy with those who call for re-opening businesses, because they cannot survive economically without a paycheck. We have to recognize how many American live paycheck-to-paycheck. But in my mind, staging protests is not the way to accomplish that goal. And as we gradually re-open (too fast for me), workers lose all my sympathy (not that they care) if they do not wear masks and take other safety precautions in this time of plague. It’s called being a good citizen, a good American.

Those who protest that masks infringe on their rights and do so while armed with assault weapons are beyond contempt. I want to say to them, “Get over yourself.” That is the most selfish act I can imagine, because they not only assert their so-called independence and reveal their inner weakness, they endanger the rest of us and put an extra burden on front-line workers. And that's not the kind of America the armed forces we will honor on Memorial day fought and died for.

A colleague posted a memory about WWII when the world, principally England, lived in blackouts. No sliver of light could show as a target for Nazi bombers. America had blackouts too, though fortunately without bombers. I was a very young child in Chicago during the war—let me emphasize very young—but I remember my uncle was a warden, and I used to go with him to be sure people were complying with the blackout and to warn those who weren’t. Today, some selfish souls would claim the blackout infringed on their rights, and whoever warned them would be at risk of being shot. Bring on those bombers!

I just finished reading The Day the World Came to Town, by Jim DeFede. It’s an account of 9/11 in Gander, Newfoundland, when thirty-eight jetliners, carrying thousands of passengers, were marooned there by the shutdown of American air space. The people of Gander put their own lives on hold and willingly shared their homes, their clothes, their linens, their food, and their goodwill with people from all over the world. They loaned their cars, bought toys for the children, cared for the animals who had been on board. They counseled with distraught parents, worried about the children from whom they were separated in what was a scary time for both adults and children. World tension was at a high, but you’d never have known it in Gander and surrounding small towns.

Nobody protested, nobody talked about their rights, nobody scorned the passengers as “foreigners”—one African American woman was probably the only black person on the island, and she drew attention less because of the color of her skin than because she was a tall and commanding figure and her hair touched the small of her back.

Friendships were forged, some to last a lifetime. One woman discovered that the daughter of a host family lived in the same town in the American South as her own daughter. Thousands of miles away, the two daughters got together, and the Newfoundler was able to reassure the American daughter about her parents’ safety.

Among the stranded passengers was an internationally known European fashion designer, Werner Baldessarini. When a Saudi prince offered to send a private jet to rescue him, Baldessarini turned it down. He did not feel he should be given special treatment, and he had made friends among the other passengers. He wrote:

There was no hatred. No anger. No fear in Gander. Only the spirit of community. Here, everyone was equal, everyone was treated the same. Here, the basic humanity of man wasn’t just surviving but thriving.

Those words echoed in my mind long after I finished the book. I wish every American, but especially the minority who are making themselves so prominent, could read them. And then again, I’d say, “Get over yourself. We are all in this together.”

PS: The events at Gander are the basis for the successful Broadway play, Come from Away.

Online wedding

Well, the pandemic brings new experiences every day. This morning I went to an online wedding—not Zoom but an app called GoToMeeting. My niece, Emily Alter, and her fiancé. Max Krol, were married at 10:30—9:30 a.m. in Texas. They had planned an elaborate destination June wedding in Turks & Caicos, which made the Texas Alters rejoice. Colin and Lisa actually lived on Provo, one of the Turks & Caicos islands, and I visited them there. It would have been familiar territory.

But COVID-19 interfered. Air travel began to look more and more unwise, and they were unsure about the resort they were working with. Common sense prevailed, and they cancelled everything. Emily has been an R.N. on an orthopedic floor at Lennox General in Manhattan for several years, but with the pandemic, her unit was converted to care for COVID-19 patients. We are all extremely proud of her and more than a bit worried for her. Obviously, she had no time to plan a wedding.

Enter the City of New York. Mayor De Blasio and Corey Johnson, Speaker of the New York City Council, conceived of a plan they called Project Cupid, and Governor Cuomo signed it into law. The online marriage license program is a way of encouraging love during the time of pandemic. Previously New York residents had to appear in person to apply for a marriage license. Under this program, the whole thing can be done virtually—documents submitted, payments made under a secure electronic program. The signed marriage license is delivered electronically. The program is available in eleven languages and translation assistance is available if needed. One more wonderful example of the things being done by caring and kind people these days. They truly outweigh the outrageous rebellion and selfishness we see from some.

I was unsure what form the wedding would take, but by 9:30 Jordan, Jacob, and I were at my computer (Christian had a work appointment). Turns out the ceremony would be conducted by the family rabbi who married Emily’s older sister and brother. The rabbi estimated that, with quite a few households logged on, there were close to a hundred people in attendance. Lots of bantering back and forth preceded the ceremony. The bride’s father wore a white shirt and bow tie but joked he couldn’t stand up because he didn’t have pants on. My oldest son and his family were all spiffed up, Colin and Kegan in sport coats but I suspect they too had shorts on the bottom.

My Tomball family in their wedding finery

 Megan tuned in from their Austin apartment while Brandon logged on from his parents’ home in Midland where he was on a belated Mothers’ Day visit. The rabbi took center stage and joked that this was Uncle Mark’s way of avoiding the expense of a Caribbean wedding. But he turned solemn for the actual wedding, which included the ritual of exchange rings and the traditional stomping of a glass by the groom. Afterward, the bride and groom cut a cake, and one-by-one people chimed in with their congratulations.

It was a day for happy tears. Last night I was awake awhile in anticipation, but I expect to have sweet dreams tonight. And I’m still in a bit of wonder at what can be done with technology.

Storms, salads, and a workday

Everything outside my cottage is almost eerily still right now, the ornamental grasses that I so love barely stirring. In the distance I hear occasional thunder that I am sure will move closer quickly. There were wild storms to the north of us last night with good-sized hail, and tonight storms are predicted for us. High winds, possible hail, possible flooding but little danger of tornadoes—praise be for small favors. Sophie is terribly apprehensive and sticking to my like glue. Jordan has laid out a candle and matches for me, made sure I have a flashlight, though none of us can find the good big one I had. It’s foolish in Texas, I know, but I sort of like that feeling of anticipation.

Today was the workday I wish I had every day. Sophie got me up a little before eight—our newfound routine with the crate works well, except that last night I didn’t latch it tightly and she worked her way out. (Tonight, with storms, I won’t crate her, because I know she needs to be close to me.) Anyway, she woke me a bit before eight, and I drank my tea while checking email, two professional lists, and Facebook. Yes, I am a Facebook devotee and ready to do battle with anyone who scorns that social medium. I learn a lot from Facebook, being careful about sources (okay, sometimes I slip up). And I’ve made new friends, re-hooked with old friends.

Today, on another list—professional for mystery writers—I contacted a woman who lives in Chesterton, Indiana. May not sound like much to you, but when I was a kid, we had a primitive summer cabin (really! No plumbing or electricity) at the Indiana Dunes State Park, on a high bluff looking down at the southern tip of Lake Michigan. We had to carry our clothing and groceries in through a mile in the woods, but I cannot describe adequately how wonderful that cabin was nor what great memories I have. Chesterton was the charming town where we went to shop. Author Nancy Nau Sullivan tells me it still retains a lot of its charm today. What a nice surprise.

Back to my workday—after checking social media, I spent the morning and early afternoon writing. Achieved 1,721 words today. Since I’m pretty much a first-draft writer, most of those are probably keeper words. But by two-thirty, I’d written my words, had my lunch, and was free to spend the rest of the day as I wanted, without offending my work ethic. So I read, explored specialty pages on Facebook—the New York Times Cooking Community and one called Reminders of Growing Up in Chicagoland. I didn’t end up with time to read much today, but that also is part of my ideal day. I am reading a novel that doesn’t really grab me and yet I’m determined to finish, which may account for my not working it in to my day. But I have two waiting that I am anxious to read.

To go on with my day: I nap somewhere around two-thirty and get up around four. No, it’s not sound sleep, but it’s a good time for me to doze and dream and plan—and write in my head. Then I catch up with Facebook and, most evenings now during the quarantine, I cook, and the family has dinner in my cottage.

Tonight it was Cobb salad—cut up a rotisserie chicken, fried some bacon, added cherry tomatoes, quartered artichoke hearts, crumbled blue cheese, sliced avocado. All dressed with leftover herb sauce I’d made the other night for salmon. Although I've written about Cobb salad as a composed salad, this one ended up more tossed. Still so good.

I know it’s self-indulgent and spoiled of me in these days when so many are suffering so terribly, but I would love to spend each day like this. I often think that I live in two worlds—in mine, where I am safe and happy in the cottage but out there is another where people are suffering horribly and dying gruesome deaths and medical personnel are risking their lives as are the people who make our world go round—delivery people, mail carriers, grocery workers and so on.

It strikes me that why I am so vehement against trump and McConnell and Barr and their cohorts is that daily my sense of moral outrage increases. How can they, how dare they play politics and satisfy their personal grudges and greed at the cost of the suffering and lives of Americans .what is it now—a million cases and seventy thousand dead? More than Vietnam? I can imagine no punishment great enough for their sins against humanity and against democracy. And because of them, I do not sleep soundly at night. But I do speak out, often and loudly. 

Thankful Sunday

Mark and his brisket

So much to be thankful for this sunny Spring Sunday. First and foremost, the New York Alters—both Uncle Mark and Aunt Amy have had the corona virus but are recovered. Mark says nothing heals like a brisket from Angelo’s in Fort Worth—his nephew, my Colin, sent it. And we are all thankful and offer continued prayers for my niece, Emily, who is an R.N. at Lennox General in New York City. In recent years, she has worked on an orthopedic unit but now it has been converted to COVID-19 unit. That’s Emily in the picture above, the one in the foreground without her cap. Every night at 7 p.m. crowds gather in the streets outside the hospital to cheeer medical personnel as they leave their shift.

My mom used to tell me all things end in some good, and that’s generally the message we’re getting about the pandemic. We will never go back to normal as we knew it but will carve out a new normal, which most of us hope will be much improved. One of the encouraging signs pointing in that  direction is the renewal of the earth due to quarantine. Without so many people running around, driving cars, flying planes, the earth is restoring itself—the air is clearer, the waters purer, animals are returning to national parks and other areas where they had disappeared. Thanks to Regina Rosier for one of the most stunning pictures I’ve seen: Lake Michigan’s waters have turned clear revealing hundreds of wrecked ships on the lake floor. Having grown up almost on Lake Michigan’s shores, that’s especially meaningful to me.

A shipwreck on Lake Michigan's floor

Jordan and I “went” to church together, and once again I am super impressed by the creativity our church staff shows in these online services which combine pre-filmed segments—the senior minister preaching, other ministers leading us in prayer and thanksgiving and communion, a special message each week for children—with beautiful photography, sometimes of the sanctuary and other times of the natural earth. Today one scene carried me mentally back to the Smoky Mountains, though I don’t know for sure that’s where it was. For a hymn, they re-ran a segment from November 2018 of the entire congregation singing—for a moment  you felt like you were in the sanctuary again.

A neighbor, mother of one of Jordan’s grade school chums and today’s close friend, sent me a loaf of homemade bread. Jordan sliced it this morning, and we used it for communion for the online service. It smelled so good and reminded me of the bread my mom used to make. I can hardly wait for breakfast tomorrow when I will toast it and slather it with real butter. Jordan made herself a piece of toast at lunch, and the smell was wonderful.

This morning I read an article about how they deal with the elderly during the pandemic on the island of Sardinia in the Mediterranean. One village has had only one case of the corona virus—someone who returned from an overseas trip. The elderly live with their children, not in nursing homes which, as we’ve seen, are petri dishes for the virus. The grown children manage the household, feed the parents, minister to their needs, and visit with them to stave off boredom and depression. It struck me those are all the things Jordan does for me. I just didn’t have to move to Sardinia, and I am beyond grateful for not being in a nursing home—I watched my mother deteriorate rapidly in such a setting. I am sheltered and safe, blessed beyond belief, and eternally grateful.

Lots of gardening going on this afternoon. I think the Burtons are clearing out old supplies, shelves that collect junk, a plastic wading pool once used to house a lonely fish. Jordan has planted flowerpots along my patio, and this week the yard crew will deliver two fountain grass plants and will plant colorful penta in front of the deck. I love Spring in Texas.