RAICES, a bit of trivia—and a wonderful neighbors’ potluck supper

Our Geerman dinner

This weekend, independent bookstores across the country raised something like $30,000 by donating a small percentage of their sales to RAICES—Refugee and Immigrant Center for Education and Legal Services, an organization that strives to help immigrants from South and Central America now stuck in our appalling detention camps for asylum seekers. In my horror at conditions in those camps, here’s a fact I didn’t think of: the U. S. policy not only disrupted stable governments in Central American countries as far back as the 1960s, helping to install dictators, but we have more recently been actively deporting hardened criminals back to their country of origin. Which means that we have sent a lot of criminals to countries like Venezuela, where the governments are not stable enough to deal with them. The trauma these criminals inflict on native populations is beyond horrible. There’s another answer to the question of why they persist in coming here. No, they can’t stay and make their own countries better—they are powerless victims. Perhaps we should recite Emma Lazarus’ poem again together in unison—"Give me your huddled masses, yearning to be free.” If you want to donate to RAICES, you can find them online.

Trivia for the day is a new word I just learned: sewist, a combination of the words “sew” and “artist” but definitely not a seamstress, who sews for practical uses and for profit. I think this means fabric artists, which includes artists who create clothes, wall hangings, banners, etc. Sure sounds hard to pronounce to me, and internet definitions are at pains to distinguish the word from sewer which has nothing to do with beauty or sewing.

For some time now Tuesday night happy hour with neighbor Mary Dulle has become a cottage tradition. She brings her own cocktail, knowing I only have wine, and we both provide snacks. A couple of years ago Tuesday night was neighbors’ dinner at a neighborhood grill, but that gradually fell apart, and Mary started coming here. Jordan usually joins us, and conversation ranges over politics and health care but often settles on food. Mary and I both like to cook, though she is much more accomplished and dedicated than I am. Turns out we are both of German ancestry and love German food. So we decided to have a German potluck supper.

Last night was the night. Mary and her husband, Joe, joined us for supper. She brought the makings for Wienerschnitzel, which she cooked on the spot, and I provided hot potato salad, herring salad, and red cabbage. Needless to say Jordan, Christian, and Jacob would not touch the herring salad (which will probably turn up on my Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog) or the red cabbage, but the hot potato salad is one of Christian’s favorite dishes. We had a lovely time at dinner, talking about old friends in common (some ears should have been burning), politics, food, and whatever. Lots of laugher and lots of good food. Chocolate cake with ice cream for dessert. One of the most stimulating dinner conversations I’ve had in a long time, and I thoroughly enjoyed the evening.

Really blessed to have such good neighbors.

Living the Good Life

The other night at a party a friend half my age sat down by me, and when I asked how he was, he said, “I’m living the good life.” An unusual response from a man the age of my children, so I asked him what he meant. “My family and I have our health. We have roof over our heads, a pretty nice roof, and we have more to eat than we ever possibly could. And my wife and I have good careers.” I agreed with him: the good life.

I have long been aware that by his standards I too live the good life, but I’ve often taken the thought further in my mind. Why am I living this blessed life when people are losing their homes to horrendous wildfires? When people in Syria are dying, caught between warring armies? When people in Africa are starving to death? Did I go through those trials in a previous existence and work my way up to the good life? I don’t exactly believe that the Lord chooses some of us to live in almost luxurious comfort while other endure endless privation and hardship. Sometimes it makes me feel more than a little guilty, and it spurs me on to give—what I can financially and in service and goods. But none of us can ever do enough. The thought is in the foreground of my thinking as we prepare for yet another family Christmas.

I certainly was living the good life today. Went to a breakfast potluck for the Book Ladies, a group I’ve belonged to for at least thirty years. Usually we meet once a month at the Old Neighborhood Grill, but today we were invited to a member’s home. We had our meal in a wonderful solarium that was festively decorated for the season, and we dined on wonderful dishes—green chile egg casserole, cheese grits, a cake, sausages, fruit—and we had a book exchange, one of those were you could “steal” a book someone had already chosen.

I went from that wonder almost directly to a Christmas luncheon with two friends. We went to Rise, the restaurant new to Fort Worth but known in North Dallas for its souffles (and for being a favorite of George and Laura Bush). The Fort Worth incarnation is almost a carbon copy of the Dallas restaurant and, I suspect, the one in Houston—heavy, ornate wooden doors, a massive centerpiece that tables are gathered around, and glassed-in porches (quieter and my choice for a meal).

Ordering soufflé leaves you lots of time to talk while the souffles cook. The menu says, “You may wait on your soufflé, but your soufflé won’t wait on you.” Betty and I had creamed spinach soufflé, while Jean had a southwestern chicken. We split a sweet raspberry soufflé for dessert—two sweet for me, and too much soufflé in one meal. But we had a wonderful time.

I came home besotted and sluggish—a nap cured me, but I resolved for the umpteenth time to eat modestly over the holidays.

Christmas spirit and a gleeful dog

When my ex-husband and I moved to Fort Worth in 1965, we had few friends by Christmas and the holiday loomed as a little bleak, though I think that my brother and his family came down from Missouri in a converted bus that year. Still, to make Christmas joyful, I threw a small tree trimming party. Our friends were then like us—physicians in training and pretty much broke. It was a modest party.

The tree trimming idea actually traces back to my childhood. We would go as a family to pick out a tree; my father and brother would put on the lights and retire; my mother and I were left to put on the ornaments. The process had none of the joy that I thought trimming the tree should have, so a party was my attempt to create that joy.

Over the years since then I have hosted a tree trimming party almost every year. Those parties grew until there were sometimes fifty or sixty people, and I began cooking and freezing in late November. The week of the party I’d lay out the serving dishes, each with a tiny slip of paper to remind what was to go in what dish. It was a lot of work, but the kind of work—and anticipation—that was fun for me.

Alas, those days are over. Last year, my first year in the cottage and the kids first year in the house, we were all too frazzled with moving and my health problems. This year, I couldn’t face all that cooking. I had neither the facilities for doing it nor the ambition, the latter an admission I hate to make.

Tonight, with the tree already trimmed, we had a small potluck gathering for neighbors, a group we’ve been close to. The beauty of potluck is that you get a wonderful array of treats, and we had a bountiful table. The downside is that Jordan wanted to use china and silver and got out all the good stuff, which now must be washed. Still, it was a lovely warm fun party, and I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it. Who knows what next year will bring?

One of life’s joys, to me, is to be greeted by a joyous dog. Sophie got left in the cottage—she just gets too excited with even a small crowd of people, and with people coming and going I was afraid she’d slip out the door. The look on her face when I left was pure devastation. During the evening, which ended nicely early, someone let her into the back yard, so she greeted me when I came out the door. That little black dog wriggled all over with joy, jumping here and there, running to the cottage as if to lead the way, and then looking back to make sure Jordan and I were following.

Now, Sophie and I are settled in, and after a warm day, I’ve turned the heat back on because it turned chilly outside. I have happy memories of a lovely evening to keep me cozy. And I can look out on my backyard which Jordan has made bright with Christmas lights. Such joy!

See? I told you I’d be more cheerful than last night. Sweet holiday dreams, y’all.

s

Christmas Potluck

 

The Burtons and I co-hosted a small potluck Christmas supper tonight foe neighbors—that means Jordan did most of the work. The house looked festive and pretty, and she arranged a lovely antipasto tray with slider buns, cold cuts, cheese, pickles, olives and all that. Somebody brought a big tossed salad and someone else, a blood orange and red onion platter. Another friend had found a sweet potato recipe in the NYT she wanted to try—spiced with a bit of chile. My contribution was a vegetable ring made with Crescent Rolls and stuffed with broccoli, mushrooms, cream cheese, and cheese (okay I forgot the cherry tomatoes but it was too much filling anyway). It didn’t look as pretty as the recipe picture, but I had a fight with one tube of rolls. Could not get the blasted thing to open and in getting desperate, I messed up some of the rectangles. Still everyone ate almost all of it, so I judged it a success and will keep the recipe—with less broccoli and more tomatoes. We were a small group—still noisy, but I could hear and participate more in the conversation than I sometimes can. Sophie considers all these people her best friends and went from one to the other for tummy rubs and love. A thoroughly pleasant evening.

After everyone left, we cleaned up but I’m not very efficient at it. I can carry an item in one hand with my cane in the other, and after a while my back begins to hurt, so I have to sit down. I did sit in the dining room and remember that it hasn’t been too long since I would shoo everyone out and have the kitchen cleaned in fifteen minutes. My goal is to get back to that. Good as she is, Jordan shouldn’t have to do it all.

It’s amazing what a small comment can do for your attitude. Greg, the neighbor who does my lawn and thus visits with me almost every week, said, “You’re feeling better, aren’t you? You look like it.” My spirits were lifted, because in truth I woke from my nap today feeling better and more optimistic than I have in some time. And Sophie chose that time to jump up on the bed and cuddle next to me—and she’s not really a cuddly kind of dog. We lay there happily for twenty minutes or so.

Strange night-time prayer but I’m praying the electricity doesn’t go out tonight. It went out twice yesterday, and then last night was out from 1:30, when the clock stopped, until five or so in the morning. It doesn’t bother me, but it’s strange to wake in the night to total silence and blackness, and when I do wake I Iike to roll over and see what time it is, mostly so I know how much longer I can stay in bed. And it’s a nuisance to keep re-setting clocks and TVs.

You know how you get emails that say “sent from my iPad” or “sent from my phone”? This morning I found one asking about the power outage that said, “sent from my bathroom.” Gave me a good chuckle.

The Treasure of Neighbors

My close circle of neighbors celebrated Labor Day today with the traditional potluck cookout. Turned out to be a farewell party for my grill, which the gentlemen—who did the grilling—declared was on its last legs. I told Jay I wanted my hamburger rare, and he said he didn’t think they could do it any other way. Failing or not, the grill—and the men gathered around it—produced some mighty tasty burgers. We had cole slaw, ranch beans, potato salad, all the fixings for burgers, and rich brownies for dessert. A fitting end to summer.

But more important we were all gathered together. I love these people and feel so supported and loved by them. We are a motley crew, ranging in age from nine-year-old Jacob—who goes off and does his own thing—to David Halbower who is in his nineties. Although not neighbors, my daughter, son-in-law and Jacob are always included in the group, as is a former neighbor and her partner—new since the days she lived next door to me. The group includes Jay, who calls himself my other son because neither of my sons live here and he’s the one I call on often to do boy chores; Greg, who keeps my yard and lawn respectable and has a fine sense about plants—to Greg, you never pull a plant out as long as its green; if it’s a weed, it becomes compost. His wife, Jaimie, a wonderful cook, complains that he thinks everything becomes compost. Christian is always ready to do small chores, and I realize I can no longer do big groups without Jordan’s help.  She’s the most efficient hostess I know—but, hey, look where she learned. Subie and Phil are longtime friends returned to FW after a 20-year absence, and I am so glad to have them back and in the neighborhood. Sophie is glad when they visit, because they bring two labs—Phil’s relatively new seeing-eye dog and the one who retired last winter. Santiago is too old to play but wants constant tummy rubs; Porter will run and play with Sophie, and she ends up exhausted. Sue calls me her Fort Worth mom since her mom lives in Ottawa, Canada, and I have fallen in love with Teddy, her love. These people help me keep my house running and my spirits up, all with a lighthearted banter and teasing—and sometimes more household advice than I need.
When they’re all together, I can’t hear any conversation, and I sort of sit back and smile at them, like a benevolent old lady—good gravy! Is that what I’ve become?

I realized again tonight the benefits of potluck—I only had to make potato salad, put out plastic plates and flatware and glasses—yes, we recycle. Everyone takes their own dishes home. Easy peasy, especially with Jordan keeping up with the kitchen as she goes. Kudos to Jay for seasoning the hamburgers and to Christian for cooking them. A lovely evening.

And thanks to all these wonderful people for keeping me in their midst. I’m in awe of my blessings.

A rewarding day

I spoke to the Friday Fellowship at my church today--never mind the fact that I had it on my calendar for Thursday until a friend pointed out the flaw in my logic. The fellowship is a group of older adults who meet weekly for a program and pot-luck lunch. I think I'll keep going back just for the lunch--it was so good. I munched on several kinds of homemade salads and veggie dishes.
These days I rarely speak to groups and when I do, I don't do all the preparation I did twenty years ago, writing out talks in their entirety. I had a really rough outline today--I guess I've done it often enough that the adlibbing part comes naturally to me. To meet me, you'd never think I was a comedian--and I'm really not--but I find a lot of wry humor in some of the ups and downs of my writing career. So that's what I talked about--how I got from believing I could never write fiction to having over twenty novels to my credit. There was a good-sized group, several of whom were familiar with my work, which made it nice. They commented, they asked lots of questions, they contributed favorite books to the discussion. It was great fun.
At the lunch table, one of the women, a longtime friend, said something to the effect that it was a good situation for all of us. They had an enjoyable program, and I got positive feedback. Besides, I sold seven books.
Sure brightened a dull, cold day.