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.

The simple is not always so simple

 

I thought of another generation of cooks today—my mother and perhaps your mother or grandmother. I thought I could remember Mom just putting a pot of stew on in the morning and letting it simmer all day while she did a myriad of other things. Oh, maybe she stirred it or checked to see that it was simmering and not boiling, but she didn’t spend the whole day working on that stew. Or at least that’s what I think I remember.

I made stew today, and it occupied the better part of the day. First, I had to cut up the stew meat. Most of the butchers at Central Market are men, and I’m making a stereotyped conclusion here, but I bet it’s their wives who make the stew at their homes. If so, why don’t those wives teach those men that for stew you want one-inch cubes, not hulking three and four inches? I always have to trim any time I order stew meat.

According to the recipe I was making, the meat had to marinate an hour—in black coffee. Trust me, I’ve done this before and it was great. What I don’t remember is that it was this labor intensive. Maybe that’s a function of age. I readily admit it takes me longer to cook a meal these days. Anyway, while it marinated, I caught up with some of my daily life online.

Then I had to drain the meat, dredge it in seasoned flour, and brown it. All of this had to be done in batches—three to be precise. That’s not exactly something you can do while multi-tasking. Finally, I got it all browned, beef broth made, and had the meat simmering in a pot of broth, a bit more coffee, and a touch of vinegar. Then I washed the dishes I’d dirtied to that point—I am fanatical about cleaning as I go, because I can’t stand a messy kitchen.

The meat simmered, I proofread the newsletter I’d been working on and ate an open-faced cream cheese/watercress/avocado sandwich. I should have toasted the bread—would have given the whole thing a touch of crispness it needed—but I hadn’t initiated the new toaster oven yet, a complicated process for which I want moral support.

I let the meat simmer for a couple of hours and then refrigerated it while I took a nap. Great debate in my own mind—could I leave it sit for an hour and a half or refrigerate it? I did the latter, but I think it was needless—when I pulled it out to put it back on the stove, it was still a bit warm.

By this time, it’s well after four, so I rough chopped a huge onion (recipe called for two medium), counted out twelve baby carrots and stirred those into the stew. Next, peeling eight small but not tiny red potatoes—take my word for it, they are hard to peel and my mother would have slapped my hands if she’d seen how much potato I wasted and all those little bits of peel I left untouched. I halved those, and they went into the pot. I tasted the beef at this point, and it was pretty chewy. Long story short, I let the whole thing simmer until seven o’clock, when I tested gain—meat was pretty tender, potatoes were nicely soft, test carrot was still pretty crunchy (when I got one for dinner it was nicely mushy, which Christian dislikes).

At seven I called Jordan to come get their dinner. Told her Christian could pick out the carrots though he might not need to, Jacob could pick out the onion because I’d left it in big pieces (so much easier for me), and she could pick out the potatoes. Me? I’m dished up a soup plate full of everything and ate it with relish. Maybe it was worth that long day. And maybe there will be leftovers for tomorrow night, and I won’t have to cook. I’m hoping the Lord will understand that I missed virtual church today because although I was not feeding the multitudes, I was feeding my family. Important to me, even if in these days of quarantine, we cannot eat together.

Two more weeks of rodeo, and then maybe we can get back into some kind of normalcy. I’m also reading that the omicron surge is about to peak and should subside by the middle of February. Fingers crossed. Warmer weather would also ease the discontent of quarantine. I could have company on the patio—including Jordan and Christian—and that would cheer me so much. The cold makes me feel trapped. It’s supposed to warm up this week, maybe enough for outdoor dining. I have a tentative lunch date if it does. The good news is that at five-thirty it was still daylight. We are headed in the right direction. In many ways.

It’s not Monday anymore, is it?

 

Y

Yesterday I had every intention of writing a blog but somehow the evening got away from me. But I would have begun by saying that I love Mondays. They always seem like a bright new beginning to me, and I am curious to see what good news they will bring. Mondays are almost always busy email days too, and I sometimes get 200 messages. It’s as though everyone else, like me, discovers that there’s a whole world of work out there to be done. Since I like being busy, following up on things, responding, etc. I am a happy camper.

I have a morning ritual. I start the day with emails, which include some columns I subscribe to—some writerly, some politic, a few about food—and I read those, plus personal emails and click through all those that pretend to be personal. I especially dislike the ones that pose as polls when all they want is your money. These days I get a lot from the Republican National Party asking how I like Biden and Harris—I know exactly what they hope for, but I always say I like them a lot. Then I get some that ask if I’m leaving the Republican party, and when I answer Yes—no need to tell them I can’t leave what I never joined—it flips me right to their fund-raising site, with pictures of trump all over.

Moving on to junk mail—I check it daily, usually 30-some emails, many I can click right through but some I move to my inbox—National Memo, Wake Up to Politics (written by a college sophomore who’s been doing this for ten years and is an impressive, mostly impartial, common-sense voice), and my very favorite, Kitchn, where I mine a treasure trove of recipes.

Then comes the separate email account I keep for writing organizations. Having two accounts is confusing, and sometimes I goof and write to family or a close friend on this account and they write back in alarm to ask if that’s a new address. I don’t respond to every email in this account, naturally, but enough that I keep my voice active. It’s good for me image as a writer and for my ego.

Yesterday it took me until noon to get this far, although in all fairness I admit some new “brush fires” came up, especially dealing with my neighborhood newsletter. But the last thing on my morning list—and really sometimes I am through it by ten—is Facebook. I don’t read new postings until late in the day, but I do check notifications and respond where appropriate. See why I don’t have time for the great American novel?

Tonight, I just meant to throw in a few comments about Monday mornings and move on to quarantine, but I got carried away (as I too often do). Quarantine is much on my mind. A close friend wrote to say she hated to see me spend the rest of my natural-born days in isolation. I responded that I’d hate to cut my natural-born days short by risking infection. And there you have it—those who will risk and those who won’t. I have discovered that the ones who will go on about life as usual are middle-aged (my kids' generation) or my grandchildren’s age. My contemporaries are like me—cautious, quarantining, sheltering in place. We’re too old to risk it—we don’t have as much time to recover, and statistics are not in our favor. Many of us have chronic conditions which would complicate an infection. And perhaps we’re a bit more susceptible, though I have a great deal of confidence in the vaccines. I did contact my doctor, and he advised me to follow the program I am. Which means I don’t see family except glimpses through the window or masked talks across an open patio as long as they attend high-risk events (the stock show).

So when I whine about isolation, bear with me and know that it is my own choice. I’d rather be safe than sorry. Tonight, friend Mary, who has not been any place except the optometrist, came for happy hour. We masked but gave it up in favor of eating and sipping wine. In a few days, my Canadian daughter (the one who was concerned about my natural-born days) will bring me lunch and we’ll eat on the patio. A friend is coming for supper tomorrow, but I know she too has been quarantining. I will continue to pick and choose who I see.

Would I love to have you come whisk me away to Wishbone and Flynt or the new Fitzgerald (in the old Café Aspen spot I loved so much)? You bet! Am I tired of my own cooking? Yeah, that too, a bit. But I’m okay, almost content, and optimistic enough to think this surge will pass, and I can get out again. Thanks for understanding. And I think I speak for a lot of old folks.

My pity party

Feeling like whining tonight. I, who have crowed about not minding quarantine and maybe becoming a recluse, have to eat humble pie. Isolation 24/7 with just a dog—okay she’s sweet and responsive but she can’t discuss books or menus—is wearing on me. Since my family went to New Orleans, we all decided they should quarantine away from me for five days—and then mask for five more days. See the irony there? They got a trip, and I got the isolation, while the three of them are together in the house. Plus friends that ordinarily would come to visit are staying home for reasons that range from caution to possible exposure. So here Sophie and I are, and she’s not taking it any better than I am.

Yesterday, we were busy with emails and package exchange. Jordan or Jacob would bring a package and set it on the step by my kitchen door. I’d retrieve it, and then replace it with the bag of stuff I had to go into the house. At one point I suggested using a small stool—with packages on the step I had to lean so far down from my seat in the walker that I was in danger of tumbling out headfirst. The stool was a big help. Today there was not as much traffic, but I did get a package from Amazon I was anxious to have—a new electric toothbrush since mine died. And tonight Jordan came out to retrieve a half red onion and a small can of green chilies. When she wrote that request, she said, “I hate this.”

My cottage needs her. The remnants of the party that never was are still taking up space in my work area. Most of them go back in the house, and I have no space to store them, so they wait until she can take them. The buffet that serves as a chest of drawers in my bedroom is covered with Christmas stuff, and I need her help to put it away.

Although it seems like forever, we’ve only been at this two days, and I admit I’ve gotten lazy. My bed is pulled up but not really made, and, yes, at nine o’clock at night I am still in last night’s jammies. I did put away the contents of several packages that arrived. The toothbrush interior package turned out to have been opened—someone had zipped of the perforated strip that held the top together and then closed the gap with clear tape. Makes me think the package had previously gone to someone who returned it, but I’m sorry—I don’t want a toothbrush that’s been examined by other hands. I’m returning it. And I cleaned out some files, started a grocery bag (my very efficient method I’’ve used for years) for 2021 tax stuff, and put new files in the rack by my desk for 2022. And today I sent a proposal for my Helen Corbitt project to a publisher who I really hope will be interested. By the time I got it all together, the proposal was, in my eyes, a thoroughly professional piece of work. So I’m not totally lazy, but there’s a strong drift in that direction.

Computer woes of the minor variety have chosen this time to visit me. I read a Facebook post I thought well-put and shared it, only to have Facebook tell me such content violated their community standards. Wait! If that were true, why was it on there for me to share? Last night I tried to respond to an email on a list on which I’m active—and the message bounced back several times. I respond on that site all the time without a problem. Tried my other email account—same thing. The president of the writers’ group suggested another avenue, which I tried with success, but it bugs me that my usual  way didn’t work.

And then Amazon book reviews! The Most Land, The Best Cattle: The Waggoners of Texas has five-star reviews except for one three-star, which dragged my average down considerably. So I wanted to see who objected and why, but it is a well-kept secret. I can’t find that one review anywhere.

It’s no wonder that I recently realized that I frown a lot. Actually I realized it over the holidays when family took pictures. There I am in too many of them with that furrow above my eyes. And since I’v become so aware of it, I can feel myself doing it all the time. Then I make a conscious effort to relax those muscles. I wonder if there are yoga-like exercises for facial muscles. I already do them for my feet and recently discovered some exercises to relax and strengthen the hands, which I really need. Why not the face?

Enough. I’m going to have a glass of wine and read about what Barbara Pym ate. Tomorrow will be a better day.

Here we go again

 

Set-up for a cancelled party,
I think it makes a nice still-life.

When you begin the day by getting the tea bag string so tangled with the spoon, you have to use scissors, you get a hint it might not be your best day! Yesterday I cancelled the small open house I’d been planning for New Year’s Day—come and go for black-eyed peas, ham, and good luck. Only at most twenty people and, I prayed, not all at once because twenty people would crowd the cottage beyond conviviality. The guests were my closest friends, people I knew would be vaccinated, masked, careful. Even so, one good friend wrote that they would come only if they could stay outside, and a neighbor couple sent heartfelt regrets. Still another friend said she was relieved and they had planned to stay on the patio. A grandmother planning a trip to see grandchildren said she was refusing all social invitations as she kept herself virus-free for the visit. As a final blow, the wonderful woman who was going to “spiffy up” the cottage that morning reported she has tested positive.

This was particularly poignant for me. For fifty years or more, I gave an annual tree trimming party with sixty or more guests. I began cooking and freezing things in November. The week of the party I laid dishes out on the table with little notes in them of what went in which dish. (When he saw that, Christian said to Jordan, “You and your mother have a screw loose.”) It was a big deal party—cheese ball, caviar spread, smoked salmon, an annual tradition that I looked forward to and so did my guests. I haven’t done it in at least six years—hard to cook like that when you need a walker, and then in the cottage there was no room.

So this was to be a mini-recreation of tree trimming, and I was excited about it. I’m a bit surprised that instead of sadness, I feel relief. I wouldn’t want anyone to get sick because they came to my cottage. I will say planning a party that doesn’t come off is a great way to straighten your living quarters—Jordan and I put away a lot of the clutter in the cottage, most of it in places where it will not appear again at least for a while. And I sure have stocked up on liquor, including that really good eggnog with the nog in it.

I did offer curbside pickup on the patio for black-eyed peas in the late afternoon on New Year’s Day. I expect it will be a tad too cool for much patio sitting.

I am sad, relieved—and a bit angry. For myself, I am going into quarantine again, just when I’d been working to convince myself I didn’t want to be a recluse. Having stayed home for almost a year, it was hard to get into the routine of going out again. But I was enjoying restaurant dinners and the like—and now, boom! Yesterday alone, there were a thousand new cases in Tarrant County, and the total for the last week is something like 5,500. If people had listened to the science and not the politics and followed the advice, vaccinated, worn masks, kept social distancing, the omicron would not have had so many hosts.

I honestly don’t understand anti-vaxxers and, yes, I am angry at them. They are so self-absorbed with their indignation that they fail to see their folly could not only kill them, it affects the rest of society. We’re all in this damn boat together. It was philosopher John Stuart Mill who believed that individuals should have absolute freedom except when their actions could harm another or the community in general!

This morning I put a pot of peas on to cook (you don’t know how badly I wanted to fill out the alliteration with pickle instead of cook!). Tonight I’ll still be in my jammies, and I’ll cook my favorite comfort food—salmon croquettes. TV? Probably not. Rather a good book, I don’t know if I will last until midnight or not, but I will treat myself to a nightcap of eggnog. I’ll be perfectly happy, but I hope that my New Year’s Eve doesn’t set a pattern for the year.

A Scottish blessing, traditional on Hogmanay (the last day of the old year): “A good New Year to one and all, and many may you see.” And there’s an Irish custom you should know. I’m told it’s traditional to open the door to be sure the old year leaves! An especially good practice this year.

Temptations of the reclusive life

 

Tonight, there is a “meet-and-greet” for Jared Sloane, the city council candidate from my district in Fort Worth who I have chosen to vote for and support. Some may remember reading about his visit to me last week. After great debate with myself, I am not going to the event. Christian asked last night if he’s taking me, and I said, “No, you’re representing me.”

My inner debate was about getting out and resuming my life vs. comfort. The reception is on a front porch in my neighborhood; one of the hosts assured me it was two steps up to the porch or up the slanted driveway. When I thought about it, I realized that maneuvering my walker up even two steps would be awkward and, briefly, attention getting. I could imagine conversation stopping while Christian and I labored to get me up those steps. Then on a porch, people would undoubtedly be standing, visiting, as they do at a cocktail party. I can’t stand that long, so I’d sit in my walker and, as a friend said, I could talk to everyone’s navel. It all sounded awkward.

But there is of course a larger issue. I am too comfortable, too content at home. I lecture myself—and then I wonder if I’m okay with it, why is It wrong to want to stay home? I am fortunate that my isolation is broken not only by family but by guests. I keep busy writing, reading, and cooking. Oh yes, I’d like to eat in restaurants, but I’m still cautious about that, preferring patio seating, not ready for a restaurant with a hundred per cent occupancy. And I guess I’ll get back to in-person church, but it’s so easy to go to church at home in comfortable clothes. But otherwise, the wider world doesn’t call to me, and I can’t figure out if it’s my need for mobility assistance or an increasing tendency to be a recluse.

The very word “recluse” has a negative connotation for me, with echoes of Miss Havisham from Great Expectations. When I think of recluses, I think of women (why not men?) who withdraw from the world and become embittered and lonely—and I don’t think that’s who I am. I have a lively (some would say too lively) interest in the world, especially politics. I enjoy all my online connections—well, most of them—and, with a nod to all who slam Facebook, checking it every morning is one of the ways I start my day.

I do think my mobility problems complicate the issue. I finished a round of physical therapy today, and the therapist complimented me on my progress. The problem is not mechanical—my new hip works well, my legs are strong enough for a woman my age. No, it’s atrial fibrillation—my heart doesn’t get enough oxygen to my muscles, and I get winded easily. Four weeks ago, walking sixty feet did me in. Today I can walk about a hundred—but that’s not even a city block. And I must go slow and take such deep breaths I sound like the puffing of the little engine that could. It’s no wonder sitting at my desk is easier. And going places is a lot of work.

Now that quarantine restrictions are breaking down, another aspect of my life is changing. Jordan, Christian, and Jacob are all resuming the busy social lives they had before Covid confined us to quarters. I have been spoiled having them here for dinner almost every night, but I sense that changing. Many nights when they are gone, I invite a friend to visit, sometimes for happy hour, sometimes for supper. In fact, this week my calendar is full every night (including a Zoom lecture I want to hear—Zoom has been a blessing during quarantine).

I am grateful that I am, as I advised a friend, walking on the sunny side of the street. Instead of complaining about being desperate to get out, as some of my friends did for months, I’m grateful for the comfort of my cottage and the good things about my life. But my mental picture of Miss Havisham still nags at the back of my mind.

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?

Breaking quarantine

 

Kathie and I, with Carol taking the picture

Last week many pointed out that a year ago was the last “normal” week, although we didn’t know it. This week is the week of “We went out to dinner for the first time in a year!” Of course, in Texas for many of us, that dinner window isn’t open very far. Tonight, the mask and distancing requirements expire, so it’s the last night to go safely for a while, unless until we reach that vague goal of “herd immunity.”

I remember the events of a year go quite clearly, and, yes, I sensed the huge change that was coming in all our lives. That last weekend—it would have been about the 7^th or 8^th of March—both my daughters and two grandsons accompanied me to San Antonio for a meeting of the Alamo Society and the launch of my then-new book, The Second Battle of the Alamo. San Antonio had actually been one of the first cities to declare a health emergency, and we knew it, debated whether or not we should make the trip. Hearty encouragement from the president of the society finally won us over. Jordan, Jacob, and I took a Vonlane bus to Austin, picked up Megan and Ford, and went the rest of the way by car.

It was a memorable, if expensive, weekend. We stayed at the historic Menger Hotel where both history and age were obvious. Our suite was straight out of the Fifties, with avocado green kitchen appliances and walls and drapes and who knows what all. But we had wonderful dinners both Friday and Saturday in restaurants with nary a mask in sight, visited with a good friend, the kids did the River Walk, and it was great. We gave only fleeting thought to that strange virus, though I was surprised two weeks later when Megan expressed relief that we were all still healthy. When I asked if she worried, she said she thought about it.

But for me, Thursday March 12 was the last “normal” day. I spoke to the book club group of the Arlington Women’s Club at a lunch meeting—a talk that went well if I can judge by audience laughter. Subie and her sister, Diana, went with me and also gave favorable reports. That evening, Carol and I had dinner at Lucille’s and remarked that it was quite empty. It was the last dinner in a restaurant for either of us—until tonight.

I remember the next morning I almost called neighbor Mary to see if she wanted to go wander aisles of Central Market—something I love to do and Jordan does not. Suddenly I remembered: we couldn’t do that safely anymore. And for us, that’s when curbside ordering kicked in—remember what a mess it was at first?

So tonight, Carol and I went to Lucille’s and met Kathie Allen. I had called ahead to confirm their mask and distancing requirements and was told what I expected—they are in effect tonight but will be gone tomorrow. I was a bit apprehensive. As I told Carol, it felt a bit like a first date. But it turned out to be a lovely evening. We went early—5:30—wore our masks and found a restaurant with maybe half the tables marked “closed.” There were few people there, but all came in with masks and removed them to eat. Serendipity: it was Lobsterama, so I had lobster cakes with spinach; Carol, allergic to shellfish, had cedar-planked salmon with spinach; and Kathie, strongly opposed to cooked spinach, had fried shrimp and sweet potato fries. We talked and laughed and shared stories. We had seen each other during the year but not often enough, and it was good just to be together—and to be out in the world.

Will I do it again? Depends. With Texas tomorrow open one hundred percent, no masking, no distancing—no, I won’t go willy-nilly to a restaurant. But occasionally I may call ahead to ask about covid protocols, and if the answer are satisfactory, I’ll go. Many restaurants are caught in a bind—they’ll lose business either way, if they require masks or if they don’t. I don’t think Governor Abbott thought through the implications of his order for first responders and people in the service industry. But, hey, we’re wide open for spring break. Think of all those crowds of young people at the beaches, spending all that money. What’s your priority? At least tonight I am encouraged that there is an end in sight to quarantine.

 

 

The gradual disappearance of quarantine

 

Quarantine seems to be slowly disappearing at our house, and it has nothing to do with Governor Abbott’s ill-advised announcement, though I predict, unhappily, that is what will happen in Texas--gradually we'll just move away from any and all social distancing and mask wearing. And it's a damn shame that our governor is so determined to go counter to science and all the best advice out there. I admire those businesses that say they will stick to the CDC protocols, but I wonder how long that will last. IF you're in Fort Worth, you might want to look at a Facebook group titled Fort Worth Save Food and Shopping.

Closer to home, I've noticed that we have fewer family dinners in the cottage and more “leftovers” or “dinner on your own” nights. Several things account for this: Jordan’s allergies have really been bothering her and tonight, for instance, she said she had no interest in the Norwegian hamburgers I had said I’d make (leaves me with a chore for morning, since the hamburger is defrosted and needs to be cooked); Christian seems to have a few more evening events as part of his work than he did in the early days when he scheduled absolutely no social events; some nights, when we’ve cooked for several days, we really do need to eat leftovers and clear the decks.

Tonight was not one of those nights of plentiful leftovers, and I was getting ready to fix myself creamed tuna when Jordan called to say Christian would pick up dinner. He brought sandwiches from our favorite place—Great Outdoors—and guess what? I ate that whole big chocolate chip cookie.

But I miss the company when we don’t have family dinner, miss catching up with what’s going on, talking about current events—yes, we do that a lot, and Abbott’s ears should have been burning this week. After a longish day of working at my computer, I look forward to the companionship, so I’m going to work to see that family dinners don’t go away completely. One tool in my arsenal is recipes. Tonight I found a Tater Tot casserole, and I think I heard Jordan say that Christian was interested in such.

On the flip side, I did get a lot done this week—finished proofing Libbie and wrote a blurb for a book I’d earlier critiqued for the publisher. The book was an interesting study of a loosely organized group of Houston housewives who were artists and sold their work from members gardens in the 1970s. They were part of the Silent Generation (@1924 – 1942) as am I. These women, caught between the traditions of the past and the imminent onslaught of feminism, found their voices through art, which was especially remarkable because in that day women and art were not thought to mix. If a woman painted, it was a hobby to keep her busy and produce craft-y things for her house—nothing to be taken seriously as art. Yet in one remarkable day, these women sold $10 thousand worth of paintings. I found their individual stories particularly fascinating, and I labored a bit over getting the blurb just right.

Today I wrote my monthly column for Lone Star Literary Life, the online newsletter with everything about Texas books. My column is technically about mysteries, but I can sometimes push the boundaries a bit. Today I included a shout-out to Gabrielle and Leon Hale. It’s not every day that a husband and wife publish simultaneously. Leon’s book, See You on Down the Road, chronicles his retirement from his long-running column in the Houston Chronicle, begun in 2014 when he was ninety-three. It’s full of his wry observations on life as he approaches his hundredth birthday this spring. Babette’s A Wall of Bright Dead Feathers is a collection of short stories about ordinary people caught in transformative moments in life. And it has one of the most spectacular covers I’ve seen on a book in recent memory.

One might think at my age and with a solid list of publications, if not bestsellers, to my credit, I would be beyond needing writing classes. But I have signed up for a class on memoir. For several years—a good number really—I’ve danced up close to the idea of memoir and then backed away. I can’t seem to wrap my head around it, despite several folders of notes and excerpts squirreled away on my computer. So I thought this class might help me organize my thoughts, figure out what I want to say, find some way to assess the meaning of my long career. I have been so blessed to work with books—writing them, publishing those by others—and I somehow want to tie it all together. Now I have to read some more memoir, though when I went through the titles on my Kindle, I found there were quite a few. Not surprisingly, many were culinary memoirs, with maybe Ruth Reichl as my favorite author.

One benefit of my long evenings alone is that I get to do a lot more reading. I’m reading and enjoying a culinary mystery (no surprise) titled Hummus and Homicide, by Tina Kashian, set in a Mediterranean restaurant in a tourist town on the Jersey shore. Excuse me, but I’m going back to my book.

My quarantine funk

 

I, who haven’t minded quarantine and indeed sometimes enjoyed it, woke up yesterday in a funk for no good reason. It just seemed to me that yet another long day stretched before me, with nothing different than the day before or the day to come. One of my sons always answers my calls with, “What’s up?” and lately my reply is “Nothin’.” That’s how I felt.

Things didn’t get better. I locked myself out of a computer account and had to call for help. That was an omen for a day when I got nothing done. Oh, I posted to my cooking blog and I sent an Angelo’s roast to our Jewish brother-in-law/uncle as a Hanukah present from all the Texas Alters. But it seemed like I got nothing done and spent to much time putzing around on the computer.

I tried a recipe I’ve been saving—actually it was a non-recipe, posted on the New York Times Cooking Community Facebook page by a chef/friend of mine. It’s one of those that seemed complicated because I’d never done it before. And because I should have had the ingredients all ready before I started. The result was creamed spinach with flavors of onion, garlic, and chicken broth. I’ll do it again.

And late last night I wrote 500 words on my novel. A prolific and famous writer recently confessed that 500 words a day is her goal. If she makes that, she’s happy; if she makes a thousand, it’s a bonus and she rejoices.

Today dawned a much brighter day—until I tried to give Sophie a Benadryl for her coughing (allergies). The drawer was stuck. The drawer which only incidentally holds Benadryl but also cooking utensils, baggies and the like, and all the everyday dishes. I went back to bed to contemplate this problem. Color me proud—I opened it the half inch it would go, kind of poked around with a spatula, and then gave a good tug. It opened! I think the culprit was an Oxo tool that’s supposed to open jars but doesn’t—I put it in the bottom drawer where it can do almost no harm.

Things didn’t get better. My son sent me some money through a payment service called Zelle, which I knew nothing about. Mind you, this son banks at a branch of the same bank I do, so he could have just transferred funds. Dutifully I tried to register, but it seemed to me I was opening an account with the bank—and I already have several. So I called the bank, and a consultant patiently walked me through the process until we got to where they needed to send me a verification code. It didn’t come, so I tried again. It didn’t come. The consultant consulted her boss and finally decided I should have Jamie cancel it and use PayPal or a direct transfer. It was a whole lot of work and time for forty-two dollars that I didn’t get.

I guess my story isn’t as bad as my friend who had a rat in her house—her first clue was a big bite out of a banana and another out of a sweet potato. Then she actually saw the critter. So she bought a new, modern trap—and caught her finger in it. Had to go to the doctor for antibiotics. Then she called an exterminator. The report this morning is the rat is dead and the finger is better.

The news didn’t add to my day. When my kids were at “that” age I did everything I knew to squelch bathroom humor. And I know today we’re a bitterly divided nation with many of our cultural norms—like common courtesy and good manners—thrown aside. But have we sunk so low that the fact that a lawyer passed gas (you may supply the f-word) in court is a news headline? I am not a fan of Rudy Giuliani, and I think it’s sad that a man who was once admired as a leader has debased himself, but if that happened, I’m sure it was something he couldn’t help and an embarrassment. Ten years ago, everyone would have just looked tactfully away and never mentioned it.

And one final bit of absurdity: I was reading a cooking magazine and came across directions for making a hyper-realistic eggplant cake. Who wants a cake that looks like an eggplant? I want my chocolate cake to look like cake! If I want eggplant, that’s a whole different thing.

I think I should go take a nap and start this day over. Stay warm and safe.

Falling into bad habits

 

My family has left me on my own for supper on this drizzly Sunday afternoon. I’m not particularly blue about it, because I have a dinner plan—I will open a can of that good salmon I get straight from Oregon, put a lot of lemon and a bit of sour cream on it, and run it under the broiler. But I realize how quickly I would fall into bad habits if I totally lived alone.

Jordan has a cardinal rule: you don’t eat dinner in the clothes you slept in. But I am still in those clothes—a bright tie-dye T-shirt that the Tomball grandchildren made for me years ago and a pair of pants that could pas for slacks if your standards aren’t too high. But on the positive side, I have cleaned up, my hair is washed, and my bed is made. I’ll probably eat supper a lot earlier than we would eat if we were having family dinner.

I’ve just talked to Megan in Austin and of course we hit on the fact that all 17 Alters were supposed to be at her house for Thanksgiving. It’s not going to work out that way. They are recovered from covid and have disinfected their house thoroughly, including using those special lights hospital use. The problem, for me, is the trip down there. As soon as you tell me we can’t stop, I will have to make a bathroom stop—as Megan pointed out, a woman with a walker doesn’t have the bathroom options a man does. My sons do not feel that they have quarantined well enough to be with the family, so we will be four separate family units. It is more than a little sad to me.

It really is a gray day and chilly with drizzly rain predicted. I’m grateful that Jordan has decorated the cottage for Christmas, and I have two bright spots of light—a glass block with Christmas lights inside it that I’ve had for years and Jamie’s table-top artificial fireplace that glows with realistic flames. Or, depending on how you look at it, depicts the fiery eruption of a volcano. Scientists have now proven that putting up lights will make you happier, and these days I think we should give scientists all the credit we can. So I’m glad for that bit of scientific knowledge..

Beside that scientific boost, I’ve had a longtime habit justified in print. For years, when entertaining—a formal dinner or the huge tree trimming parties I used to give—I put the serving dishes out days in advance and put a little note in each to remind me what I intended to put in that dish. After she married and began to entertain on her own, Jordan did the same. Christian was astounded and finally told her, “You and your mom have a screw loose.” (Megan would be the first to let you know that gene for organization skipped her.) Today in his column, Sam Sifton mentioned putting the dishes out early and putting a sticky note in each. Need I say more?

A couple of nods to nostalgia: when I was a kid, my mom used to mix cornmeal with milk or water (I don’t remember which), pour it into a loaf pan and let it harden. Then she’d slice it, fry the slices, and serve them to us for breakfast with lots of maple syrup. We called it fried mush. These days, we have a fancier name for it—polenta—but you can put lipstick on a pig and it’s still a pig. I made tamale pie with polenta for the family last week, and it reminded me how much I liked fried mush. So when we ordered from Central Market, I got more polenta, and this morning I fried a couple of slices in butter and slathered them with real maple syrup. So good. I was a kid again.

My other nostalgia trip even pre-dates me. But Sam Sifton mentioned in his column that this is the 125^th birthday of Hoagy Carmichael and offered a link to Carmichael doing his 1930 classic, “Georgia On My Mind.” And there was Lauren Bacall in the still photo accompanying the music, looking intently at Carmichael who looked up sideways at her. Classic 1930s jazz. I loved it.

And speaking of anniversaries, I thought this anniversary of the assassination of JFK went by with little public notice. Too bad, when we are embroiled in one of the worst political threats our democracy has ever seen. It would be soothing to go, even briefly, back to the days of Camelot.

I kind of got carried away, and I apologize for this long blog. Stay safe and well—and cozy tonight.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

Just like old times – a dinner party!

 

The serious golfer on a Sunday morning

Jordan and Christian hosted a dinner party last night, and I was invited! Only two guests, both of whom Jordan knows are following the quarantine rules though one goes to an office. Best of all she knows they are two of her friends I’m most fond of—Amye Cole, who went to high school with her, and David Barnes, her “brother from another mother.” I had seen Amye once when we were at the lake but have not seen David since quarantine began. Missed his wife, Kelly, who was out of town.

We began with drinks on the patio, but the mosquitoes were fierce. Jordan had even done what I frown on and sprayed Yard Guard. Temperature was pleasant, but we soon headed inside. We talked a lot about food and a lot about dogs and skirted politics. One of the guests is Republican, though I suspect not a trumpian Republican. Still we avoided the issue until I got up to leave and Christian said, “I thought we were going to have a hot political discussion.”

Jordan planned with quarantine in mind—she put enough leaves in my old dining table to make it so long that it barely fit inside the dining room. David and Amye sat at the far end, while I was in my familiar place at the end near the kitchen. A nostalgic moment for me, because I’ve sat in that chair and presided over countless company dinners—close enough that I could run to the kitchen if necessary, back when I could run. Jordan calls it my “princess chair.”

Jordan fixed a family favorite. We call it Doris’ casserole, but I have friends who call it American lasagna. It’s a meat and tomato layer topped by noodles, cream cheese, sour cream, and chopped green onions. Then you top the whole thing with grated cheddar and bake. We serve it so often that I knew both Amye and David have had it before. In fact, David asked, “Tell me again how you knew Doris.” But it’s always wonderful—and there are leftovers for tonight. Accompanied by a green salad and  brownies for dessert. I was still full when I woke up this morning.

I am a Zoom failure. I tried to join the after-church Zoom discussion this morning, but I was sideways on the screen and didn’t know how to turn it. I didn’t try the audio because what I thought was  to be a church discussion was several people talking about Santa Fe. It was a bit hard to just jump in. I have to master this, though, because I am to be on a virtual panel at a book festival in early October. That makes two tech failures on my part—I still haven’t been able to untangle my Instagram account and use it.

Thinking and praying today for friends and a family member in California and up the coast. I truly cannot wrap my mind around the extent and size of those fires. Someone posted a picture of a small Oregon town that burned completely down—no more town. Just gone.

Len Leatherwood, a California writer and friend, recently posted a poem, “Curled Up,” in which she expressed a feeling of being curled up, protecting her inner self while watching a world that she distrusts. Waiting for the time that she can uncurl, for a sign that it is safe to come out and live again. She caught my feelings perfectly—these days I feel like I am watching life but not really a part of it, and I’m waiting until I can once again pick up the threads of a life now gone.

This morning, as we recited the Lord’s Prayer in our virtual prayer service, my mind clamped onto the phrase, “Deliver us from evil.” I guess that’ too is how I feel—that so much evil surrounds us. Disease and fire and riots and a scary election. Yes, Lord, please deliver us so that we can uncurl and live lives filled with love, not fear and anger and hate.

Sleeping in the sun

Meal planning—not what you think

Cashew Chicken - dinner last night
thanks to Christian

In the “to do” stack on my desk—and in the back of my mind—is an essay on the temptations of quarantine. You see, I am sort of enjoying quarantine, even while I’m horrified at the illness and death ravaging our country (don’t let me digress). Of course I miss restaurant meals with my friends and the like, but now I have an excuse to sink into the bubble that my wonderful daughter, Jordan, has created for me. I can write, read, nap, and cook—a purely self-indulgent life. And I do see friends—a few, who we know are also quarantining, come by for a BYOB, distanced, masked happy hour occasionally. And I don’t have to do the few things in this world that I really don’t want to do, although I did go to the dentist.

But last night I discovered another plus to quarantine, and I think it will have to go in that essay, should I ever finish it. Jordan and I spent a companionable hour and a half going over recipes and choosing our dinners for the week to come. Yes, we had glasses of wine at our elbows.

When we first started this communal living—Jordan and family (the boys, as we call the father and son) in the house and me in the cottage—we gathered for family dinner on Sunday nights in the house. Other than that, we were on our own. All of us frequently had outside dinner plans; sometimes Christian’s work happy hours kept him out late; Jordan had happy hours for work and pleasure; I had weekly dinners with friends. it was just easier to each cook for ourselves. Sometimes when Jordan would come to the cottage about five-thirty in the evening, I’d ask what they were having for dinner, and she’d shrug and say, “I have no idea.”

But with quarantine, all that changed and the meal planning sessions gradually developed. None of us went anywhere—no more restaurant meals or happy hours. With grocery delivery, it was easiest to pool our lists and place one or two orders a week. These days, masked and gloved, Jordan ventures to the grocery, but we pretty much order from Central Market and pick it up at curbside delivery. A friend goes to Trader Joe’s and always checks with Jordan to see what we need. We do order take-out occasionally, but with a few exceptions we find what we cook at home tastes so much better.

Most evenings we eat in the cottage. Christian and I do most of the cooking, while Jordan does clean-up—and Jacob gets the garbage detail. We’ve all had to make some adjustments—the Burtons don’t like some things that I enjoy. Cold summer soups and squash come immediately to mind. Christian has been slow to come to some things, but is now enthusiastic about salmon, and he liked the Dover sole we did one night recently. I’m not responsible for shaping his palate, but I do sometimes wonder where I went amuck raising Jordan. I, on the other hand, have learned to appreciate more Asian dishes—Christian’s specialty—and I am indebted to him for leaving bell pepper and hot spices out of everything he cooks.

So what took us an hour and a half last night? First of all, my gigantic folder of things I want to try—every time I go through it, I eliminate a few that I know I won’t cook. But it’s still bulging. Then a recipe for red beans and rice (I know—who needs a recipe?) reminded me of a beef and bean dish I cooked when the kids were little, and Jordan immediately wanted that. Luckily, it’s in my first cookbook—Cooking My Way through Life with Kids and Books, so I still have it on the computer. We’ll have it one night this week.

After our planning, we’ll also have Mongolian beef (Christian does a superb job on that), chicken with pesto and noodles, family favorite Doris’ casserole, Asian dishes so Christian can play with his new work. Tonight it’s hamburger Stroganoff, because I need a picture for a guest blog pushing Saving Grace. And Jordan and I will cook together--from my seated walker, it's hard for me to use two hands to scrape a bowl or skillet, and she happily does such for me. It's a good system, and it will be a good week.

My newest yard art
Courtesy the Tomball Alters

Sunday, oh Sunday!

Went to church (euphemism for watching an online service) by myself this morning, since the family had gone to celebrate with friends who joined our church today—a momentous occasion for them, and Jordan made sure that it was well celebrated. I stayed home, made chicken salad for supper, and did a bit of writing. Leftovers for lunch.

This evening our neighbors down the block, Greg and Jaimie Smith, came for happy hour, and the man behind the screen (Jay) and his wife (Susan) joined us. Greg used to do my lawn, and Sophie adores him, so she was in heaven—and he paid her lots of attention. We were all sorry they didn’t bring Levon, their new English shepherd/doodle pup. It was good to see these neighbors we simply don’t see enough of.

Sophie has a sad story. After her morning of joyous and carefree abandon, she began to limp in the evening—Friday, this was. By Saturday morning, she was moving tentatively, like an old lady. Quite a contrast to the happy abandonment twenty-four hours earlier. I called the vet in a panic, but they were totally booked for the morning. I was distraught because I thought perhaps she got a sliver of glass from a broken wine glass, though we worked hard to clean up ever little bit, and also because she was clearly in such misery. I couldn’t bear the thought of her in pain all weekend. To my relief, the vet on duty volunteered to stay late to see her, and Jordan and Jacob whisked her up to the clinic.

Seems Sophie has been tearing up the pads on her paws for some time—she had old, healed cuts, and fresh new ones. Hearing this, I realized that ground cover is probably really hard on her paws, something I’d never thought of. She had a shot and came home with two kinds of medicine. Tonight she is almost back to her old self but sticking close to me, staying in the cottage, and not interested at all in running outside.

After our company left, we had chicken salad for supper, disguised for Christian’s benefit as a chicken casserole. It’s a cold salad that you top with cheese and crushed potato chips and run under the broiler briefly at the last moment. To my relief, he went back for a second helping. So I start the week with plentiful leftovers—a bit of tuna salad, some salmon, a small serving of potato casserole, and a generous helping of chicken salad. So good to have such delicious things to look forward to. I’m told chicken piccata is on the menu for supper one night, at Jacob’s request.

So, high ho, here we go—into what for us is the thirteenth week of quarantine. Yes, we’ve relaxed a bit but not much, and each little bit of relaxation, each new face we introduce makes me a bit nervous. I am still content, though watching the protests and the government response with tenacious—and sometimes indignant interest. For me, the week holds more writing—a short project, which wrote itself in my mind today and I must get on paper, and the novel, which is nearing the end and is more of a puzzle to me. I look forward to all of it. Sometimes I pinch myself about how blessed I am.

The sermon this morning was about hope, and I admit I have abundant hope for the future—for my family, for Texas, and for the country. For the long slow slog out of racial discrimination to begin finally, truly. The protestors will not be ignored—and good for them. As someone else said, “Hold on, folks. It’s gonna’ be a rough ride.” But a good one. I have faith in the American form of government and in the American people (most of them).

Have a good week, everyone. Stay well and stay safe.

A week of moments

Junie Bug amidst the flowers

Sophie woke up this morning—early, sigh!--full of the joy of life and energy, itching to go after the squirrels. She went out, did her business, came back in, and did a dance by my bed, clicking her nails on the wood floor. I watched for signs my neighbor was up before I let her out, but finally I couldn’t contain her. I gave her a stern and strict talking to that had to do with no barking. She stared at me, tail wagging, impatient. And so began her morning outdoors. She ran, top speed, from one end of the yard to the other, from one side to the other. Occasionally I’d see her tail, raised in joy, swing by my patio door so I knew she was all right. But she didn’t bark. Ever. She squeaked occasionally in excitement. But no barking. Finally I called her in about two o’clock, and she voluntarily went into her crate and slept soundly all afternoon. She is such good company—except early in the morning.

It has been a week of moments—we began to stretch the limits of our quarantine, ever so tentatively. A big moment for me—I got my hair cut. The wonderful stylist/friend who cuts it came to the house, masked and armed with all kinds of sanitizers. I told Jordan she looks careless next to the precautions Rosa took.

Then that same night, I left my own property for the second time since March 12. We went to friends for a distanced happy hour on their patio. As one said, it’s a whole new way of entertainment—everyone brings their own wine, glasses, ice, and snacks. The friends we visited, Phil and Green, have a large and beautiful yard. Highlight for me was a tree I’d never heard of—the Vitek. Two of them in fact. Also known as Abraham’s balm or a chaste tree, it is a bushy tree similar in shape to crape myrtles. But the Vitek has lush and plentiful lavender or white blooms with a slight fragrance.

One day my memorable moment was that I took a holiday from the novel I’m writing. I wrote a cooking blog, cleaned my desk and organized a pile of papers that had accumulated, indulged in the luxury of lingering over recipe magazines—Food & Wine and Southern Living. I’m a compulsive recipe clipper, but these days I am trying to be sensible about. With steely resolve, I pass by a lot of things that sound wonderful to me—things I know my family won’t eat (like wonderful summer fruit desserts), things that in another life I would have served to dinner guests. When the pandemic quiets down, if ever, I hope I can get back to entertaining.

In site of all this activity, I added 6400 words to the novel. It’s coming close to an end—I’ve got to tie up all the ends and figure out who did what.

The weekend looms and with it cooking, good meals, patio time, some company. Hard times but good times. I am grateful.