A good president, a sick dog, and another day

 

Irene was the subject of my radio interview today--
or was it Florence? We kept mixing the names up.

Here I go again, probably preaching to the choir. But I am struck again today about President Biden’s strength and what he has accomplished—jobs up, covid deaths down, international reputation back up, and a lot of smaller, less headline-making stuff. Today it’s the death of the Al Qaeda leader who was responsible for so many American deaths—a targeted take-out that did not kill any civilians, including his own family. When Biden pulled our troops out of Afghanistan, many vilified him, ignored his statement that there were better ways to fight that enemy than losing men and money in an endless war. This weekend, his theory came home to roost, without much fanfare. Because that’s the kind of guy he is. Low key. Quietly getting things done.

I see so much on Facebook about how he’s the worst president we’ve ever had, he’s too old, he’s tearing the country apart, etc. Where were these people during trump’s four years? A post today compared him to Jimmy Carter, who was labeled another poor president. It was meant to be derogatory, but I think the comparison is right—they are both quiet, low-key men who feel no need to blow their own horns and who don’t want to play the loud-mouth political game, but they accomplish so much for America. Too many Americans are blown away by the bluster and braggadocio of someone like trump or even Bush or Clinton to see real quality when it hits them in the face. I think that was a problem with Obama, and it's a problem wth Biden. I read today, with gratitude, an article that explained that Biden is not too old. Compared to “the former guy” in everything from policy to athletic ability to weight and health, he’s light years younger than the man who is actually two years younger. The article concluded, “Biden has a history of being counted out until he sweeps away the alternatives. It's too early to count him out.”

And those people on Facebook who post about ageism and worst president? They are inevitably so angry. I cannot count the times I’ve been told I need mental health help. Today I suggested I would welcome healthy discussion and was met with the wide generalization that all Democrats are corrupt. Does that mean Republicans are lily white? I see signs across the country, glimmerings of common sense and hope. I think the mid-terms will be most interesting.

Meantime, back at the cottage, Sophie is still sick—or she’s mad at me—or a bit of both. I tried, on someone’s suggestion, to crush pills and mix into her food. This was yesterday at noon. Big mistake. She went on a hunger strike and did not eat again until late morning today when, after consultation with the vet, I shredded some chicken in broth. She ate two helpings but ignored all other offerings.

Tonight, with neighbors here for happy hour—an event that usually enlivens her—she just lay around. As if to prove my theory, she refused to come to me when I encouraged her but jumped right up on the couch by Jordan. I just cooked a bit more chicken in broth, but I may be creating a monster who will never again eat dog food. Jordan made her a turkey sandwich, mayo and all, but she tried to hide pills in it. Then, at Prudence’s suggestion, she put it at the edge of the coffee table, so Sophie would think she was getting away with something. She moved one quarter of the sandwich but ate none. If she is still refusing to eat tomorrow, I’ll ask Mary to take her to the vet.

For me, it was another day of no writing, except what was going on in my head. This afternoon I had a one-hour radio interview with the city cable station in San Marcos. The interviewer, Priscilla Leder, had sent me questions in advance, and I spent all morning crafting answers to them. It was time well spent. If I hadn’t done it, I’m afraid my answers would have wandered into vagueness. As it is we did get off topic some, but it was all good conversation. I hope at least two people heard it. That’s the way too many days go—I do things related to writing but little actual writing. Except in my head at three o’clock in the morning, when I wrote volumes about both Helen Corbit and Irene in Texas.

Perhaps tomorrow will be a nice calm day, except my Jamie is coming over, and I plan—shhh!—to surprise him with squash casserole which he loves. He asked for a family dish, green noodles, for supper, even though he doesn’t like mushrooms, which are essential. “If they are sliced real thin,” he said, and then, with a big grin, “let’s make it together.” So my knives are sharpened—thank you, Lisa—and I’ll let Jamie slice the mushrooms.

Stay safe and cool, everyone.

My busy day

 

In recognition of National Sons Day,
here are the two main men in my life. 
Can't believe I've known them fifty years.
With apologies to Christian, Brandon, and my four grandsons
all of whom I love dearly.

Somehow I, who has weeks with no daytime plans, overbooked myself for today. I started the day with a ten o’clock doctor’s appointment for a wellness check. I have reached this advanced age without a wellness check, though my good friend Jean proudly reported a couple of weeks ago that she had passed her cognitive test (she’s probably seven or eight years younger than I). I had the fleeting thought that I hoped no one gave me that test, and then I forgot to worry about it.

But today, in the doctor’s office, I was confronted by it. The nurse, now an old friend after many years, administered it, and we had some good laughs along the way. The test was a series of questions she asked, ranging from “Are you depressed?” to “Can you dress yourself?” and “Are you eating well?” Because of what I had just weighed, I wanted to say, “Yes, apparently too well.” But the memory part was the intimidating thing. She read off a name and address, asked me to repeat it several times, and then said she would ask me a series of questions and would then, five minutes later, ask me to repeat the name and address. For the life of me, I can’t remember what questions came in between but they were innocuous, and I passed. And then I correctly repeated the name and address. The nurse and Jordan declared I made an A+. Then came the questions about my ability to care for myself—those are always frustrating because you only get to say “yes” or “no,” and I always want to say, “Wait! Let me explain!” Anyway, I passed, and the doctor seemed to think I was doing okay too. So a flu shot and a stick for bloodwork, and we were out of there.

We were in the doctor’s office longer than expected, and I was in a yank to get home because Melinda, who worked with me at TCU, was bringing lunch. I had ordered sandwiches from a local shop, and she picked them up on her way from a dental appointment. The visit was great, the sandwiches a disappointment. The bread on her veggie sandwich was swimming in so much grease, she couldn’t eat it and only picked at the ingredients; my salmon croquette was slathered with sauce and in what I thought was a ciabatta roll—really hard to pick up. I ended up eating the croquette with a fork. Cole slaw was crisp and fresh but not particularly flavorful.

The visit on the other hand was great. It’s been well over a year since we got together, and we caught up on families and friends and almost ignored the subject of TCU Press, our common stomping grounds, except for a bit of gossip. Fun.

But I practically rushed her out the door because I needed a nap before a four o’clock taping of the radio show I mentioned yesterday. There was an equipment snafu at the beginning, but the show overall went well. I could say most of what I wanted to say, mainly that The Most Land, the Best Cattle: The Waggoners of Texas, is less a history of the ranch, for which I am sure many records survive, down to the penny, but a history of the Waggoner family, for which few authentic records survive, and some of them are closed to research at the family request. They are in the Red River Vally Museum in Vernon, Texas. Beyond anecdotal evidence, many things are left to supposition, like why Electra Waggoner Biggs was so anxious to sell the ranch that she wouldn’t wait to divide it between herself and the other direct heir—Bucky Wharton, grandson of the first Electra. Lots of unanswered questions remain. But I am moving on.

To my chagrin, my busy day ended with a whimper and not a bang. I had signed up to register voters, via my computer, from 5:30 to 8:30. I admit I was dreading it a bit—I don’t like working phone banks, but this seemed different, urging people to vote without treading on the delicate subject of who they would vote for. I logged on to the site but the brief training session was complicated enough that it went by me in a flash, and I gave up. It is, however, a cool program that offers you a script. For instance, if you ask if a person is registered, the screen flashes a panel of buttons for you to choose from to reflect the answer: Not registered, yes registered, not sure, want to register, etc. You click the appropriate answer and move on to the next segment of conversation. I’m sure once you knew what you were doing, it would be fine.

But, tonight, I didn’t know. I think a huge part of the blame—and, yes, I feel guilty—is that I am really tired after a long, intense day. As I write this, I feel myself starting to doze off. So maybe it’s best I backed out, but I really wanted to be part of the effort for fair elections, and I saw this as a much better opportunity than the redistricting the Republicans want to do. So I wrote and apologized. Don’t know if I’ll try again on a calmer night or not.

And that was my busy day. As I’m falling asleep over the keyboard, I’m off to bed.

Monday's child

 

Tonight's light supper
copying my mom's salmon supper

Monday’s child may be fair of face, as the nursery rhyme tells us, but she also is hard at work, at least this one was. At least that’s the way it was around my cottage today. The wonderful Zenaida came to clean, do my laundry, and change the sheets; the yard guys came, and Sophie worked hard barking to warn them that she had their number and was on guard dog duty; and I spent most of the day working.

My main task today was marketing chores for Irene in Danger—getting the ISBN (international standard book number) for print and digital editions, writing a blurb, and writing a news release. I had fun with the blurb and came up with two versions—I’d love to know which one you like best for the back of the print edition and for the page listing on Amazon and other sites. Here are the two:

Want a French recipe? Irene will teach you to make salad niçoise. Want murder and mayhem? Irene seems to attract both. With one week until her wedding, Henny James is convinced Irene’s arrival from France will ruin the biggest day of her life. One week to save Irene from the trouble she brings with her and save the wedding. Recipes included.

And,

Irene Foxglove is back in Chicago, Henny and Patrick are getting married in a week, there’s cocaine floating around, and someone wants to kill the diva chef. Once again, Irene brings murder and mayhem to those around her, and Henny must save her. Good thing she has Patrick for help.

I’m thinking the first will go on the back of the book and the second on a news release, but I’d love some reader input here.

Writing the news release, I got caught up in reading review of the first book, Saving Irene, and found a coupe of people for whom that was the first book of mine they’d read but they said it would not be the last. Music to my ears. And I found one reviewer who made me laugh:

Saving Irene was my first introduction to the work of Judy Alter and the fact that I found myself talking back to the characters (Sorry, Henny, but no legit Italian cook adds oil to pasta unless they're making aglia e olio) says a lot for how real they felt to me.

Since I am into book news this evening, here’s the big event of the week: after what seems like years, my book on the Waggoner ranch, The Most Land, the Best Cattle: The Waggoners of Texas, will launch this Friday. I was thrilled to get an endorsement from cowboy singer and entertainer par excellence Red Steagall. Here’s what he said,

The majesty and intrigue of a ranch is of course invested in the land and livestock. But the true soul of a ranching property rests with the humans involved, both staff and owners. Judy Alter has done a magnificent job of explaining and describing the amazing family of the world-famous Waggoner Ranch, all under one fence

Tomorrow, Tuesday, Priscilla Leder will do an hour-long interview with me at 4:00 o'clock about the book on Radio Station KZSM out of San Marcos TX. To tune in, click on https://kzsm.org/ and then click play. I hope I won’t stumble over my words.

Thanks for letting me quote and brag and get carried away with myself and my books. I promise to be more circumspect in future posts. Meantime, this evening, a nice surprise. My longtime friend, Subie, called and was at loose ends for supper. I thought, with a slight sinking, she wanted to go out whereas after a day at work in my pjs, I had decided against getting dressed and intended to fix myself a light supper. I offered her three choices—creamed tuna on toast (no groans, please), salmon croquettes, or a cold salmon platter. She said any of those sounded great—my kind of dinner guest! —and I fixed two small salmon platters with pickled cucumber, hearts of palm, avocado, tomato, and hard-boiled egg. After I talked to Subie, I quickly put the salmon in the fridge to chill, put two eggs on to boil, and, yes, I put on cargo pants and a T-shirt. Not much of an improvement but better than pjs.

We had a lovely evening, lots of girl talk that ranged from family and food to politics. I’m ready for an early bedtime. Tomorrow is shaping up to be twice as busy as today.

A truly lazy day—or was it

 

A sweet picture of Colin
even if it is our backsides.

By early afternoon I would have told you today was a truly lazy day. I was thinking about clever lines for the blog, like what I used to say my kids would put on my tombstone: either “Hurry on, now” or “Go on now, I’m busy.” But times have changed, and I have learned to putz (Yiddish for piddling and doing nothing). I once wrote an article entitled, “Learning to Putz,” but the word also denotes a part of the male anatomy in Yiddish, and the editor changed it to piddling. Nonetheless I didn’t learn the lesson until the last few years.

But today I would have told you my accomplishments for the day were:

--sleeping late and getting going slowly

--going to church remotely

--reheating last night’s polenta for lunch

--refilling the soap containers in the kitchen and the bathroom

--lingering over Facebook, reading posts I would normally ignore

           But then in the late afternoon, everything happened at once. To begin with, Colin called, took remote control of my computer, and walked me through storing my passwords in a password protection program. After my recent scare about the dark web and compromised passwords, I was delighted to finally get this done. Jamie and I had installed it but neither of us knew what to do once it was installed. As I suspected, it’s like any other computer program—once you do it, it’s straightforward. So now, bit by bit, I have to load my passwords. Besides, it was a bonus to see my child on Zoom and talk to his face rather than the phone—I dislike Facetime because I always look like an old hag, but Zoom is not quite so bad.

Another sweet picture of Colin
even if I do look like that glass of wine
wasn't my first
Note his T-shirt

Then when I settled back to scrolling through Facebook notifications, I got an email from the reviewer who will interview me Tuesday about The Most Land, The Best Cattle: The Waggoners of Texas, which launches this coming Friday. She had lots of good questions, and I jotted down some answers, hoping as we talk, I’ll expand on some. The key point to me is that the book is not so much a ranch history as the story of a family. The reviewer, Priscilla Leder, out of San Marcos, Texas said she found the story fascinating but sad. That’s kind of how I feel about it too. Way back when, I had a bit of a personal connection to the Waggoners or at least to sculptor Electra Waggoner Biggs, and that story is woven into this book.

Then Jordan came home from her weekend away and we visited and kind of caught up.

So there went my laziness. It’s going to be a busy week.

 

Another blessed rainy day

Apparently, it rained a lot during the night, because it was wet and humid this morning, but blessedly cool. Don’t laugh—I put a shawl over my shoulders while I worked at my desk this morning. And I loved it. The kind of day you want to curl up with a good book—or with your computer.

I tried the routine thing again this morning. No laundry to fold and hang and put away, but it was still almost 10:30 before I settled down to the Work-in-Progress. Maybe I shaved a little off yesterday’s time, but not much.  I timed how long it takes to do my exercises at the grab bar—and I’m embarrassed to tell you what a small portion of my day it takes. No excuse for not doing them every day.

Once again, my radio program jinx proved true. I was scheduled to be on a Red River Radio (blog talk radio) show today from 5:00-7:00 p.m. Having goofed once before on time zones, I studied the directions carefully—clearly CDT was different from EDT. So at four I settled down at my computer to get a few odds and ends done before the show—only to discover an email from the host asking where I was. I hastily called in. It worked out okay—there was already one other guest author that I knew would be there plus two more I wasn’t expecting. I’m wondering if they weren’t call-in guests. One of them read a poignant piece about the death of a child, but I wasn’t sure if it was fiction or memoir. Moving, nonetheless. Coming late to the party, I never was sure if the one of the others was a poet or novelist and didn’t learn much about the author who I knew would be featured.

I did read a passage from The Color of Fear, and I got to talk a bit about my mysteries, so all was not lost. But I’m still embarrassed about being late.

Christian wasn’t home for supper tonight, so Jordan and I experimented with a dinner we thought he wouldn’t like. We didn’t much like it either. It was a crab/artichoke hearts/mayonnaise spread on bread, topped with tomato slices and sliced Monterrey Jack and broiled. I instantly knew several ways I’d improve it—toast the bread first was a no-brainer. But it was rich, without a real taste of crab, and not really worth the trouble. Not going in that cookbook I keep talking about.

I did write my thousand words for the day this morning and felt good about them. A sudden twist to the story jumped into my mind last night. I sometimes fear that the novel will be all one sudden twist after another. I shall read carefully to make sure those twists all hold together and are headed someplace.

Now time to read someone else’s writing.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

A working day

Not much remarkable about today It’s hot and dry in North Texas, as though we’re making up for the remarkably cool and wet August we had. It’s not quite middle-of-the-summer, drown-yourself-under-the-sprinkler hot, but it’s enough—mid to high 90s during the day, upper seventies at night. Tonight, we sat on the patio briefly, and it was pleasant. No bugs bit me, at least I think that’s the case.

Working day. Realized last night that I had let an important character in the work-in-progress be murdered, and then had not given him a proper funeral, which would be sort of a test for the main suspect. So back I went to insert the funeral, but without a plan. I told myself that old lesson of writers: just get some words on paper. You can edit later. Already I have ideas to go back and inset tomorrow. For me, it’s always a good feeling to have something concrete in mind when I sit down to the keyboard.

So between my ideas for moving the novel ahead and a radio interview—plus a doctor’s appointment—my day tomorrow is planned. I’m hoping this interview will break the jinx. It’s with Red River Radio, which to me means North Texas and Arkansas, but the interviewer is in California. I’m prepared this time—I know it’s 5:00 p.m. CDT. Good thing I checked, or I’d have called at 3:00 p.m., probably gotten no answer, and given up. This hostess asked for a list of ten questions in advance—should make it easier (I hope).

Tonight was also a cooking night. I made stir-fry but had misgivings about it. My stir-fry has vegetables that Christian doesn’t like—squash and mushrooms leap to my mind. But I cut up lots of roast chicken with him in mind. As it turned out, something came up and I ate a solitary dinner, which was fine. I left it as a vegetarian stir-fry just for me and loved it. It goes in my cookbook, which grows oh so slowly. And at this point, the cookbook is unbalanced—lots in light suppers but very little in entrees and only one recipe in desserts. I confess: I am not a dessert person. If it’s chocolate, my interest goes up; in rare instances, a fruit pie, cobbler or crisp calls to me.

Are you feeling what I am? That we go about our daily lives with whatever characterizes us, from joy to boredom (always your choice), but that we are playing out our petty lives against a larger and very uncertain backdrop. North Korea remains a threat, and daily there are suggestions that Mueller’s investigation into Russia’s interference in our election was severe, suggestions that will supposedly lead to a choice for Trumpf between impeachment and resignation. Meanwhile, he remains himself, tweeting about his golf ball knocking Hilary down—a tweet that put his unofficial disapproval rating on the internet at a high.

And the mood of the country remains belligerent. I read today of a young man sentenced to 30 years for killing an Arabian immigrant who raped his seven-year-old sister. The writer thought this a terrible miscarriage of justice, but what makes it that? The rapist was Arabian? We can’t operate with discriminatory laws like that. The victim was seven? Oh that would be so easy to justify, and the punishment should be severe. But it wasn’t the young man’s place to take vengeance into his own hands. One prays that prison life will be merciful to him and that he will get early parole, but we cannot simply praise him and send him on his way. He has to take responsibility for his action. Neither discrimination nor immigration should be part of the case.

Meanwhile, it’s raining and snowing in the northwest, and the fires may finally be dampened. José missed Florida and remains over water, but Maria is gathering strength and heading for poor battered Florida. Pray for our country, and then go out and do one good thing, just one, for someone else.

A day of trivia

There’s nothing like being completely relaxed and confident of your safety, as Sophie demonstrates in her favorite chair. I’m thinking of switching chairs around, so that the two matching club chair wear evenly from her attachment to them. This thought became more insistent today when I crawled into my unmade bed to nap. Did you ever sleep in a beach bed? One with sand that you could not brush entirely away? That’s what this felt like—gritty, only there’s no sand around. It was grainy old dirt from the back yard. My bed is another of Sophie’s favorite spots. She’ll teach me to make it earlier in the day, though my mom taught me to let a bed air out before you pulled the covers up.

I come from a family of nappers. We believe in good, solid afternoon sleep. My dad walked a mile home from his office for lunch every day, took a 20-minutes power nap, and walked back. My power nap today stretched into an hour-and-a-half of solid sleep. In my own defense, because such a long nap makes me feel lazy or guilty or something, I will say that I didn’t sleep well last night. But I dreamt heavily this afternoon. My family was caravanning in several cars—no idea where we were going, but we were in mountains. And I ended up in a small pickup, going at a high speed down a steep mountain road, with son-in-law Brandon driving. It was not hairpin curves but a road that clung to the side of a mountain and wound around it. B is and was in the dream a good driver, but the dream was so intense that I lay in bed for 30 minutes, trying to get rid of it. I think it may having automatically converted my heart back to a sinus rhythm!

I am a bust at radio interviews—there’s no way around it. After confessing the mix-up on my last interview and detailing the preparation I’d done for today’s, nothing happened. I called the designated number two minutes before the show was to start and got a recorded message that the show had not yet started; please call back within 15 minutes of show time—did that mean 15 minutes before? After? For the next 17 minutes, I called at least 17 times—and got the same message. Emailed the publicist who said to let it go; she’d find out what happened.

My rant for the day: every day I think the man in the White House cannot do anything more outrageous, but he exceeds my expectations. Now he’s demanding a rush to a tax bill because it is urgent after the hurricanes. I’m sorry, but how were the rich damaged, other than a few wrecked Caribbean second homes? It’s the poor, those who live at the edge of poverty, who were pushed over that edge. The bill does nothing for them, not one blessed thing. The NBC coverage of the devastation on Tortula only emphasizes where America needs to put money—and it’s not in the pockets of the rich.

And I’m puzzled as I can be by the news of the deal Senator Schumer and Representative Pelosi made with Trumpf about DACA recipients. Trumpf alternately denies it and confirms his support for DACA recipients. How do we know what’s true?

I’m now following the daily newsletter of high-school student Gabe Fleisher, and I’m in good company—a lot of well-known political journalists also read “Wake Up to Politics” every morning. I’m hoping young Gabe can do what others can’t and get us the straight of the story.

Not a rant but a sad obituary: I know many of my friends disagree with my stand that we are being hasty in dismantling Civil War statues, but I am saddened by today’s removal of the General Robert E. Lee statue in Dallas. Fellow mystery author Janis Patterson put the case best here: https://ladiesofmystery.com/2017/09/14/privacy-responsibility-and-general-robert-e-lee/  Read it and weep, because I really believe we will come to regret this haste to change history, which cannot be changed. A GIF on Facebook also says it well: We will change nothing by taking down statues until we can change what’s in people’s hearts.

Reading out loud

Do you have any idea how hard it is to read your own writing aloud? Some people do it with easy grace, but I am not one of them. I’m to do a radio interview tomorrow that includes at least ten minutes of me reading from Pigface and the Perfect Dog. I’ve chosen two passages—one the opening scene and the other a chase scene, sort of—and printed out the passages in large type. And I’ve practiced three times—each time, I stumble in a new and different place. I’ve decided I’ll just have to laugh off the stumbles. I’ve practiced breathing at appropriate intervals. I’m not sure what else to do in preparation except be nervous.

Years ago, I remember when a Texas college was going to pay me handsomely to read an entire, long short story (oxymoron) to an audience. Shyness and anxiety overcame me, but I practiced on a friend who had a theater background. Her important advice was to slow down, way down. When we read too fast, the pitch of our voices can become unpleasantly high. So that’s another thing I kept in mind in my practice sessions.

My track record with radio shows is not great. The last one, I forgot about the time difference between Texas and Florida and was late, very late, in calling in. They graciously put me on in the second half of the show, but there was so much static on the line I couldn’t understand the questions and managed bumbling answers at best. I checked the time of this show carefully, and the instruction sheet says 11 a.m. CDT, 9 a.m. PDT, which makes me think the show is in California. Wish me luck, please.

This was the first day of my new, take-it-easy policy, and I felt like I was malingering. I was not rushed in checking emails and Facebook this morning, fixing myself some breakfast, taking my time. I caught up on some banking information—really keeping track of tax information. I practiced reading, and I dealt with a few odds and ends that landed on my desk. And I napped this afternoon with no sense of urgency to wake up and get back to work.

I’ve decided for the time being to limit myself to one outing a day—so I cancelled my dermatology appointment and went to dinner with Betty. No problem guessing where my priorities are. We ate at a wine bistro and shared appetizers—deviled eggs and mac and cheese with truffles. Good and small portions, even if the mac and cheese was rich.

Now to spend the rest of the evening reading. This lazy life might become a habit.

A killer lunch and other food matters

In mystery writing, we talk about blatant self-promotion. The phrase tonight for me is blatant bragging—I cooked a simple lunch today for a friend (former student—love bridging the generation gap) who is a chef but now cooks on the line at Fort Worth’s Modern Museum of Art, which has an upscale dining room with a trendy menu. My menu today—fruit medley and open-faced sandwiches with blue cheese and a celery/scallion salad. Super easy—start with a piece of buttered toast.

Interesting sidelight: The recipe called for Pullman bread. I looked it up and on the old Pullman dining cars, they made bread with economy of space in mind—so the loaves were square in shape rather than the irregular shapes we give bread today. They were kept in metal containers, for freshness I presume, and containers could be stacked in the galley of the dining car. Not sure if Pullman bread is available today or not, but it sounded suspiciously like what I call cotton-candy white bread. I chose sourdough, which proves difficult to cut when toasted. We made it finger food, but my salad pieces kept falling in my lap. Need to work on that.

Take that buttered bread and cover it with slices of a creamy blue cheese—I used a Danish blue. Top with the salad: for two, mix 1 cup celery, thinly sliced on the bias; 2 chopped scallions, thinly sliced; olive oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper. Here’s the tricky part: microplane one garlic clove over the salad—we had a large clove and only used about half. At that the garlic taste was strong—we wouldn’t have wanted more. Stir to mix thoroughly.

My fruit medley was cantaloupe, blueberries, and nectarine. For a dessert, I defrosted a thick piece of chocolate Bundt cake—that standard recipe that uses cake and pudding mixes, eggs, sour cream, oil. Heather tasted it and announced that she detected another flavor besides chocolate—it was cinnamon. You grease the pan, then dust with a mix of sugar and cinnamon. After you get the thick batter in the pan, level off the top and sprinkle it with that mix. A family favorite around here.

A nice light ladies lunch, and I had so much fun with it I got out a couple of my recipe files and began sorting recipes. When I downsized my house to move to the cottage I even downsized my appalling recipe collection, but now I’ve got a good start on a new collection. Today though I went through the older recipes I’d saved and was amazed at how many of them no longer interest me. My cooking conditions and my tastes have changed. I’m not sure how to describe the change, but it’s definite. I don’t necessarily go for easier—maybe more unusual, less traditional; lighter, not heavy. After all, I’m pretty sure my days of cooking for huge crowds are over. Makes me only a bit nostalgic. And I know cooking without a stove or oven dictates what I fix.

It’s a sign not only of my recovery but the adjustment Jordan, Christian, and I have made to our new way of life that we are talking about entertaining again, and they’ve given their first big party in my house.

The only other note of the day: I was interviewed by phone for five minutes on KJON Radio in St. Cloud, Minnesota, where I know absolutely no one. Wouldn’t it be nice if I picked up a reader or two? The host was good about making my website URL quite clear.

Now it’s thundering, and Sophie won’t leave my side. Rain all around us but none here yet. One brief power failure sent me into a panic because I don’t know that I have any candles—besides my reading material is all on my computer. Here’s a thought I hate; what if I had to read traditional print? Me, who espouses the importance of doing books in print. Shame on me.