A sort of nothing weekend

 

Usually I plan ahead and see that there are good things on my calendar for weekends, but this weekend? Nothing! It’s a bit of vanity to realize that one reason was that I couldn’t wash my hair. Sounds silly and frivolous but I think it’s true. I had that thingie removed from my scalp on Friday, and the doctor said to wait two days to shampoo. That was Friday late morning, so does Friday count as one of the days? I decided to err on the side of caution and wait until Monday. But my hair had Vaseline in it from the procedure and was generally a mess, and I was self-conscious about it. Tomorrow I am going to wash it first thing in the morning, and I expect the world to be a lot better.

We hoped to hear about the new dog we are interested in today—hear as in an invitation to greet and meet. But it didn’t happen. The wheels of dog adoption, like a lot of other wheels, move slowly. Having adopted four children, I should not be surprised at this slow procedure, but I guess I expected pet adoption to be easier. It’s probably a good thing for pets that it is not. The foster said she wasn’t able to get approval of my application today, so we wait (I am already conditionally approved). I was afraid that the poor boy was so attached to his foster that he wouldn’t want to be uprooted, but Jordan found out that agencies rotate dogs, not letting them stay too long with any foster for just that reason. I suppose that also cuts down on foster fail, where fosters fall so in love with the dog, they decide to be the permanent adoptive family. We did hear that the boy we have our eye on has been in foster care for two years, which makes me so sad I want to rescue him immediately. But we have also heard that he is afraid of “everything,” and that gives me pause. I had an experience with a fearful dog at Christmas when my granddaughter’s dog was afraid of my walker. And I want a dog with some spirit. So I am uncertain.

Weekends are usually good cooking times for me but that too went awry this weekend. I planned last night to make cod in a butter/lemon sauce, so with my grocery order I requested a lb. of cod. I got a quarter lb.—enough for no one else but me. We had garlicky chicken thighs in an anchovy/lemon sauce. Good, but I wanted to cook the fish, partly because I like fish and partly because I’d like to add more of it to our diet. Jacob has been wanting spaghetti, so tonight I made a recipe called Weeknight Bolognese. I can’t recommend it. I chose to make it on Sunday so I could cook all day, but the recipe really didn’t take that long—except for browning two-and-a-half lbs. of ground meat (beef and Italian sausage). I got wide pappardelle noodles, but the sauce wasn’t as rich and thick as I wanted. In fact, it was thin. Good flavor, but not what I want in an Italian sauce. And I thought it was way too much meat in proportion to the sauce. Jacob didn’t say anything, but I noticed he didn’t eat much. I’m going to plan soon to make an old-fashioned, Italian nonna kind of Sunday soup that cooks all day. Honest we could have used the bottled Rao marinara sauce Jordan bought, and it would have made me happier.

It's ten o’clock, and I have just had my second nap of the day. I relish my afternoon nap—it’s become a part of my routine, and I think it healthy. But when I fall asleep at my computer at eight-thirty, it’s a clear sign that I am not engaged in what I’m doing. So that too will have to change. I find I almost never want to go back and pick up where I left off—clearly I abandoned them because I wasn’t that interested. So I’m on a mission to find a book that absorbs my attention and calls me back.

All of this leaves me with a lot of resolves to kick up my interest in life. Fortunately, I understand that these dull, down periods are a part of life and are regularly more than balanced by periods of high activity and engagement. It’s up to me, so I resolve to be a new person (again!) starting tomorrow. Now who’s got plans for next weekend?

 

 

An almost perfect day

 

No high drama, no hilariously funny situations, no exhilarating moments—just a day spent quietly at home with my nose in a book. It’s cold outside, Christian is fixing supper, I had leftovers for lunch, and nothing demanded my immediate attention. I even indulged in eggnog for breakfast—a habit I picked up in Santa Fe over Christmas, and I know better than to let it become regular. But there’s that big bottle Jordan bought staring at me every time I open the fridge.

Yes, I slept late, and yes, I “went” to church on my computer. And yes, I had a long afternoon nap. The only other thing I did of any consequence was to proofread the forthcoming edition of my neighborhood newsletter—at midnight last night, I was still scrambling to get last-minute articles and changes to the designed, so today I feel pleased that there weren’t more corrections than the scattered ones I found.

I’m reading Death at Bishop’s Keep, by Robin Paige, a pseudonym for my friend Susan Wittig Albert and her husband, Bill. They team wrote it, which is of great interest to me because I can’t imagine letting anyone else into my imagination as I crafted a novel. Susan tells me they edited each other’s work but, eventually, there had to be one editorial voice to achieve a consistent narrative style. She was the final voice editor.

Bishops Keep was published just after the first few of Susan’s signature China Bayles series, which intrigues me because I would think her writing style—the way she uses words—would have changed over thirty years. Critics often use the word “matured,” but that isn’t quite it—her style was never immature, but I think perhaps today it has a bit more subtlety. Part of that, of course, has to do with subject matter. It is perhaps easier to be subtle about current manners and ways than it is to go back over a century and recreate the social atmosphere of which most readers are innocent. And which sometimes now seem so—what? Trivial? Useless?

The time of Bishop’s Keep is late nineteenth-century England, the dwindling down of the Victorian era. Essex, to be specific. The book is a lot of things that don’t ordinarily attract me—British for one thing, life and restrictions among the landed gentry for another, the upstairs/downstairs/below stairs conflicts. But Kate Ardleigh, an American heroine—outspoken, independent, intelligent, and bent on being an author, which was unheard of in the day, especially in England—wipes out all my objections. Sir Charles—the English nobleman who dabbles in crime detection and the new science of photography—intrigues Kate to the point that she occasionally thinks maybe spinsterhood isn’t for her after all. It’s almost all standard Agatha Christie stuff (albeit a bit earlier) but it has me hooked, and I have spent a happy day mostly buried in the goings on at the Keep, surely a troubled household. My fascination is in large part due to Susan’s skill with character, even British, and structure.

These days I find I am more and more selective about what I read. Thanks to Amazon’s sample reading program, I often dip my bookmark into three or four books and withdraw it in disappointment. I long for that book that calls me back, tempts me away from the work I should be doing, keeps me up late at night. That’s probably why I read so much mystery, but even within the genre, I find disappointment. So I rejoice when I find such a book. Granted, that enchantment doesn’t always happen in the first twenty pages—you must persevere.

Bishop’s Keep is the first of, I think, twelve novels, and I’ll probably go on and read some of the remaining ones, though I'll not commit to all--maybe that's what happens to most series. (China Bayles, with twenty-seven books in print, is an exception). Once I am hooked on characters and their fictional world, I want to stay with them. So thanks, Susan, for a good reading experience and a lovely, self-indulgent day.

What about you, dear reader? What book has simply carried you away from your ordinary world, captivated you so that you crave every reading minute?

Silence and simplicity

 

Such a lovely evening last night. I thought it would be colder than it was, so I made a pot of chili. A good friend came to share it—plenty left over for tonight. She is the kind of friend who lets me dump about what’s on my mind, from personal problems I know won’t travel any farther to the political thoughts—and outrage today about the Texas abortion case—that we both share. She brought the gorgeous poinsettia above. I’ve never seen one like it and am particularly fascinated by the one white leaf with the red splotch in the middle.

But late last night, when all was still, Sophie was asleep in her crate by my desk (her favorite place) and I could hear her gently breathing, the Christmas lights still on, I sat with a glass of wine reading the Truman book that has me so interested. And I thought to myself it was one of life’s rare moments of real contentment.

I haven’t been writing lately, except blogs and business letters to take care of all kinds of loose financial ends, but it occurred to me this morning that I was being lazy, and I really should get back to the work-in-progress, another Irene episode. Just when I was scolding myself for slacking off, I went to virtual church, and our minister, Russ Peterman, preached about silence and simplicity and how we get so frantic at this holiday season that we miss the real meaning of whatever holiday we celebrate. We need, he said, to create space in our lives to pause and take a breath, space for stillness. And I thought, “Wow! That’s what I’ve been doing. It’s okay.”

I had originally thought, when I backed off from keeping a compulsive schedule, that I’d pick things back up after the holidays. Now I’m back to that thought. My family will all be together—between fifteen and eighteen of us—and there are things I need to do, lists I need to make. But there are also a world of things I want to read, including that Truman book, and now I feel at ease to do them. This morning I slept late, really late, and about the only thing I did that might be called constructive was to make a batch of chutney, which is not turning out as it should. Otherwise, I’m reheating the chili and going to spend the evening with good old Harry.

This may be the new me. But so far, I’m liking it. Have you taken time to create a space in you life?

What are you reading?

If someone asked you how many books you read in the last year, could you answer? And if they pushed further and asked which three were your favorites, could you answer? I found myself answering those questions recently—and because I read Kindle digital editions almost exclusively, I had a fairly handy answer in my Kindle account.

I know some people scorn digital editions and wax eloquent about the feel of the book in their hands, the smell of a newly opened book. I understand all that, but I usually read at my desk—for goodness sake, I eat at my desk, phone there, practically live at my desk when I’m awake, so it’s not unusual that I read there, especially late at night. But I find putting a book on my desk and bending my neck to read is awkward and gives me a stiff neck. (No, I don’t know what I did all those years before Kindle). I also find the type is too small in some books and too crowded together. On my oversize monitor, text is straight in front of me and clearly legible.

As for reading in bed, forget it. I have never been comfortable doing that. When I go to bed, I go to sleep. Reading in bed would really give me a stiff neck.

Some people keep a reading journal, listing books by date, author, plot, and personal reaction. I think that’s a great idea, and some days I think I’ll start that. But I haven’t.

Back to the questions I answered. Shepherd.com is a website founded by avid reader Ben Fox to help people find the books they want to read. Fox solicited memberships from authors and readers and began listing books by favorite topics. We were asked, for instance, to dream up categories and list our favorite three books, so I listed my favorite Outrageous Cozy Mysteries.

When a call came to list my favorite three reads in the last year, I simply went to my Kindle directory and scrolled through what I’d read. Here are the three I picked: https://shepherd.com/bboy/2023/f/judy-alter. It interested me that none of my favorites made the list of books most often cited. Here’s that list: https://shepherd.com/bboy/2023. I think I’m a bit proud that my books weren’t on the popular list. To me, it means I’m following my own personal tastes and not being swayed by what’s popular. You won’t be surprised that my list is heavily into food-related books. You’ll also find I read forty books last year—that was an estimate, and I expect it’s on the low side.

Several people in an online authors’ group also submitted to this list, and a bit of correspondence with them convinces me that I need to go back and give a second chance to a couple of authors I’ve previously decided against. One is Richard Osmond’s retirement center series where a group of four meet to discuss murder—and find themselves in the midst of real murder investigations. There are four books in the series, starting with The Thursday Murder Club. I started that once, guess I didn’t give it enough of a chance. So I will go back to it.

The other author I’m told I’d enjoy is Janet Evanovitch. I have real reservations about that, but it’s been so long since I read about Stephanie Plum that I’m not sure why. My memory tells me I thought it was over the top crude, but I do know that the grandmother in that series has lots of loyal followers. So I’ll try.

My one Janet Evanovich story: she spoke to a capacity crowd at TCU one night quite a few years ago, and my assigned job was to stand by the door of the ladies’ room so that she could have a moment of privacy between her talk and book signing. So there I stood, barring the door, when a woman came up to me and said, “I know who you are.” Well, yes, I preened a bit and thought, “She’s read my books.” No such case: she said, “You run the cash register at the Star Café.” She’d apparently caught me at what was then my Saturday night gig in a café owned by good friends. So much for fame.

So, to wrap this up, right now I’m reading, Guilt Strikes at Granger’s Store, the ninth Samuel Craddock mystery by Terry Shames. I really recommend this series. It will probably go on my favorites list next year.

In all that is so sad in our world these days, this struck me as particularly sad: I saw where a teenage girl had finally brought down the “magnificent’ buck she’d been stalking for years. She talked about what an honor it was for her to kill this buck. I know people who hunt for meat, but hunting for honor and glory strikes me as so wrong—and for a teenage girl. Besides, if she’s been stalking him for years, the meat will probably be tough and stringy. Why couldn’t she have let him live his life in splendor. Color me a soft heart.

 

What I thought I posted last night

 

Oops! I thought I posted this last night, but apparently all that came through was the image. So now I've changed the image and will try again. The picture above is my oldest granddaughter several years ago reading in the rain--never too young to be a devoted reader.

Shepherd.com, a readers’ browsing site, has asked authors to choose and describe the three favorite books read in the past year. I liked the challenge and immediately began reviewing the books on my Kindle (if I didn’t read it on Kindle, it didn’t make this survey—my memory is not that good). First the site wanted to know how many books I’ve read since October 2022. The Kindle count seemed low, but I know that I average a book a year, so I took a guess at forty. Then for each book, the site wanted to know if I listened to the audio version of the book and if I read it as part of a book club. I never do either of those things, so that was easy for me.

Here are the three books I read and why I liked them:

Dinner with Ruth, by Nina Totenberg

Nina Totenberg spoke to three of my deep interests in this first-person account: politics (the inner workings of the Supreme Court), memoir, and food. I was fascinated by the up-close look at Justice Ruth Ginsberg in her later days and drawn by two conflicts: should Justice Ginsberg have resigned because of failing health and given President Obama a chance to appoint a justice, and where should Totenberg have drawn the line between responsible journalism and friendship. Memoir is currently a popular genre but difficult for some to define, and I am constantly looking for examles that go beyond self-flattery. This book gave a lively account of Totenberg’s own career along with her friendship with Ginsberg. The food—and lively company—at Totenberg’s dinner parties were fascinating.

The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux, by Samantha Vérant

Recipes and gourmet menus alone make this book worth savoring and keeping, but I was charmed by the setting—an ancient chateau in France that is a tourist lodge with two restaurants, a vineyard, and wonderful gardens. Sophie, a disgraced chef in New York, flees to her grandmother Odette but finds responsibility and a whole new way of life. The contrast between her two worlds—New York and France—is nicely done, as is Sophie’s own inner conflict. The cast of minor characters brings delightful variety—two grannies are Sophie’s main assistants, along with an old, alcoholic man who is a genius with desserts. If the hint at romance is a bit formulaic, I overlooked it because I was so charmed by the people, the place, and the food.

The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscan, by Lori Nelson Spielman

I was fascinated by this tale that weaves together an ancient curse on an Italian family, a fierce nonna who has ruled her granddaughters, and an aunt who has been ostracized by the family. It’s hard for us to understand the power of of an ancient curse, but these women have lived with it their whole lives. They flaunt tradition and travel to Italy, with its lush gardens and marvelous food, from their stark Brooklyn neighborhood back to Italy. Refusing to accept the curse, they reveal its source—and the reason the aunt was banished. There’s a strong feminist note here, along with lessons in growth and self-confidence--and love. A slow start, but I loved this book.

And waiting for me tonight is a clever cozy mystery with just enough suspense: Stone Cold Killer, by Lena Gregory.

Nothing better than Saturday night with a good dinner (chicken tetrazzini tonight—remember that relic of the Fifties), a glass of wine, and a good book. What are you reading tonight?

 

 

 

A day gone amuck chases away the doldrums

 

If a day could go amuck, this one did. I could have happily lingered in bed this morning. Sophie was asleep and not desperate for food, and I was comfortable, trying to recapture a pleasant dream. But I had things to do—groceries would be delivered at ten, company was coming for happy hour and supper. And there was a to-do list on my desk.

Along about nine-thirty I realized I’d never gotten a confirmation from Central Market nor the cheery email which says, “We’re working on it.” Checked my computer and twenty-seven items were still in my cart. Rescheduled the order for late afternoon.

Then Jean emailed that she had picked up some kind of bug and would not be leaving her apartment today. I was sorry but of course grateful she didn’t bring us whatever it was. Then the happy hour guests cancelled—a long story, but it meant I had to quick cancel one errand I’d asked Christian to include on his morning run.

And finally, Jordan came out and said she and Christian hadn’t communicated well and they wouldn’t be eating with me tonight because good friends were having a birthday dinner party for their daughters. There went my plans for good appetizers and crab nachos for supper. I hastily refroze the crab. Maybe we’ll have it tomorrow, maybe we won’t. I should learn that I am alone in my compulsion to plan ahead!

So what do you do when you’re home alone for dinner on Saturday night? You fix a cold salad plate with a small can of salmon. And use some of that huge container of guacamole I ordered this morning.

And so is the fact that I wrote 800 words this morning, may do more tonight. I’m not sure if the day going amuck chased away the doldrums or not, but I wrote those words in less than an hour. Of course, I’ve not re-read them. They may all need to be deleted, but for the time they moved the story ahead.

I’ve been thinking a lot about writing today, and I’ve decided I’m a bit defensive about my writing. On a small writers’ listserv that I really value there’s been a thread about magical realism, one of those literary terms I never can quite grasp (I don’t think anyone talked about it when I was in grad school). A couple of posts really helped me grasp it, especially one linking the movement to the spirit world of Latina culture and citing Gabriel Garcia Marquez. So this morning I was all primed to enter my two cents worth, as the author of cozy mysteries, but overnight the thread had taken a deep turn into mythology, Greek and Norse and other, and Jungian archetypes and the like. Here’s a confession: that stuff is too deep for me.

I may have dealt more seriously with history when I was writing about women of the American West, but these days I am a storyteller. I write to give readers a good story, something to engage, amuse, puzzle them, and something to distract them briefly from the daily grind. Entertainment writing. I make no claim to plumbing the depths of the human psyche or tracing the origins of certain behaviors, or changing a reader’s life. That is not to say that a good mystery can’t weave in elements of the spirit life or insights into humanity—it should, but that’s not the reason for the story.

Right now I’m reading an older Murder, She Wrote, subtitled Highland Fling. I picked it up because of the Scottish setting. Turns out the setting involves a lot about the history and punishment of witches in Scotland—surely an element of the spiritual life (if a negative one) and mythology of its own, when you think back to the sixteenth century and the brutal punishments inflicted on suspected witches (specifically in this book, a pitchfork through the heart and a cross carved into the throat—pretty brutal for a Jessica Fletcher’s story). When a contemporary murder imitates that, Jessica must find the villain (if you’ve read any of the books, you’ll know the pattern.) To me, it’s crackling good reading, with just enough history, Scottish culture and landscape, food and brogue to lighten the mystery, and it’s fun. When I finish this blog, I’ll go back to it.

One of my core beliefs is that we each must leave the world a bit better than we found it, and sometimes that worries me in relation to my writing. I think of it as light stuff, not world-changing, and maybe I should be putting whatever skills I have to better use. My friend, Susan Wittig Albert, a prolific and popular writer, assures me that by bringing readers pleasure, I am contributing to the well-being of the world. Her China Bayles mysteries always have an underlying social theme, whereas my Irene stories don’t. But I’m working on that.

Enough rambling. I want my salmon supper and then I’ll settle down with Jessica. Wonder what tomorrow will bring?

Stay happy and cool. Sweet dreams.

 

Thunder gods, congressional flubs, and a good book

 

The thunder gods bowled and had a party over my house this afternoon. I haven’t heard such sustained thunder in a while. It brought lightning but no hail and a nice, fairly gentle rain. My Canadian daughter, who came for supper, said at her house—less than two miles away—they got heavy rain and winds, and Jordan, who was maybe two miles in a different direction, saw two trees that looked like they were split by lightning. We talked about how funny it is that we lives so close to each other and still get such different storm experiences, and how glad we are to be so close to each other.

It seems to me that rain often is all around us but skips, as though it deliberately avoids our property. All week we’ve had promises, only to have them dwindle to nothing. And all week, I’ve been home, safely in the cottage. So wouldn’t you know that this morning, when I needed to go out for an appointment, it began to rain. By the time we headed out—Christian taking me for a Covid vaccine—it had slowed to a drizzle.

I have a new hero. Ever since trump’s first impeachment hearing, I have been a fan of Adam Schiff. The more trump mocked him, the better I liked him. But now, after Republicans in the House maliciously censured and falsely him, he is my new hero because of the grace and humor with which he bore what was meant to be a devastating put-down and turned out to be nothing more than a bad joke. Schiff’s entire speech is well worth reading, but here are his opening words: “To my Republican colleagues who introduced this resolution, I thank you,” he said. “You honor me with your enmity. You flatter me with this falsehood. You, who are the authors of a big lie about the last election, must condemn the truth-tellers and I stand proudly before you. Your words tell me that I have been effective in the defense of our democracy, and I am grateful.” No anger, just the right amount of humor, and a lot of grace. What a man, or they say in his faith, a true mensch.

Schiff showed his dedication to truth in another instance this week when he questioned John Durham before Gym Jordan’s committee to uncover weaponization of the government, whatever that is. Durham had been appointed by Bill Barr five long years ago to investigate the “false” allegations that trump accepted Russian help and conspired with Russians in the 2015 campaign. This despite the Mueller report which resulted in legal charges, some convictions, and definite indications of that collusion.

The Republican-led committee had egg on its face after Schiff and others questioned Durham, who seemed unable to come up answers more definitive than, “It would seem so,” and “I would call it ill advised.” He had obviously not read the Mueller Report, and there was some doubt he was familiar with his own committee’s report. Gosh, Gym Jordan, tell us who’s next? I’m breathless with anticipation.

It's not been a good year so far for Republicans who control the House. So far they’ve had two men come to fisticuffs—Mike Rogers and Matt Gaetz, both Republicans, during the long, drawn-out voting for speaker. Now two female representatives have had a catfight on the House floor—no need to guess. It was Marjorie Taylor Greene and Lauren Boebbert, both wanting credit—wait for it—for the motion to impeach Biden. Greene even managed to call Boebbert “a little bitch.” In the background a man, perhaps spineless Kevin, can be heard saying, “Take if off the floor, ladies.” Such a lack of class in our elected officials really troubles me.

But a part of me wants to laugh too. The custom in the House is to refer to a male member as “the gentleman from ????” and a female member as “the gentle lady from ????” But the spectacle of McCarthy calling on Greene with, “Does the gentle lady from Georgia wish to speak?” sends me into giggles. She is neither gentle nor a lady. Still I mourn for our country.

And it seems though the House has sent several bills forward, they have all died in the Senate. So now, they have taken one concrete step: to censure Adam Schiff on the basis of facts already long ago disproven (shhh! don’t tell them—maybe they think it’s a secret). And they are building toward another ludicrous piece of legislature: impeach Joe Biden. What rock do these people live under?

No wonder with all this idiocy dominating the news, I’m glad to retreat to the world of fiction. I’m reading and enjoying, Murder at a Scottish Wedding, by Traci Hall. Lots of wonderful Scottish brogue (dialect, not shoes), some unexpected characters who don’t follow the guidelines of the cozy formula, and romance that doesn’t end all tied with a bow. I like the unexpected!

Take care out there—wicked storms are afoot tonight, and hot weather will be in many locations at least trough the first of the week. Sweet dreams!   

An epiphany

My sweet Sophie

Several years ago I had a friend who had an epiphany every other day. No, not the religious meaning associated with Christianity, but the simpler definition of a sudden realization of momentous importance to your life. Such realizations often come in a very ordinary moment, like doing the dishes or mopping the floor. I’m not sure what I was doing—maybe napping because I seem to do a lot of that lately. But I suddenly realized that I have been in a funk without knowing it. I need, as they say, to get my groove back.

It began with my inability to settle down and read any book through to the end. Nothing grabbed me, spoke to me. For the last two weeks, I’ve started and abandoned maybe ten books, everything from mysteries to food-oriented nonfiction, some well-reviewed, others by authors I usually enjoy. I really did begin to worry that I was becoming a dilettante.

Then I realized I have not settled down to one writing project since the publication two months ago of Irene Deep in Texas Danger. I’ve dabbled with a memoir, though now I do have 6,000 words, but it is slow going, bouncing from my blog to remind myself what happened and back to the memoir to fit events and feelings into the story. I also started a new Irene story, Missing Irene, and wrote 4700 words before I put it aside. I’ve even been a bit lackadaisical about blogging. Perhaps the only thing I follow through on is cooking meals for family and friends.

So I started thinking about why. That’s how my mind works—I want to know why, what’s behind something. I’m not depressed so why am I not settling down to what I consider my work. Well, these are, as we all know, troubled times, and I feel obliged to keep up with what’s happening and, more than keeping informed, often comment on it. I think that’s the conscience of my father speaking through me. But if Greg Abbott signs a bill wiping out the water break requirement for construction workers, I think the voting public needs to know about it. And if Justice Sam Alito jets off to luxurious resorts with a rich businessman who has business before the Supreme Court and then denies knowing the man, I think we need to know about it. Right now I’m in suspenseful agony worrying about those people in that lost submersible (I once went in one, though it hovered just below the surface—my children thought at the time I was extraordinarily brave but in retrospect I think it was those Carribbean rum drinks). Never again. But I am appalled at the heartless attitude some people are taking. My prayers are with those five souls.

And emails—I get 150-200 emails a day. Last night my friend Mary told me she was cleaning out her emails. She had a backlog of something like 250,000. I was absolutely appalled. I never go to bed with an unread email, and once I read it, I either answer, discard, or file. I deal with it. Back in the day when business was transacted on paper, the mantra was if you pick up a piece of paper, never just put it back down: deal with it. The same applies to emails, to me, though I realize not everyone is as compulsive as I am. My emails keep me in touch with friends, other writers, blogs, and miscellaneous pieces of news. I enjoy them.

But my point here is that it takes me most of every morning to deal with what’s come in on my computer overnight, and by the time I do I am often distressed, tired, angry, whatever. And then I turn to my writing. I need to reverse things: write first, social media later, but old habits are hard to break. Maybe I turn first to emails because I’m expecting something wonderful, like a letter from “The Millionaire.” (His money wouldn’t go very far today).

And then, it’s been a rough year for my family. We’ve lost Christian’s mother and for a while I was afraid of losing my brother. His recovery, if it is that, is slow, and I am still worried about him. I spent a difficult two months thinking every day with my beloved Sophie might be the last. She is doing so much better now, but there are ongoing medical concerns. And the Burtons had to say goodbye to one of their dogs. Maybe I’m just reeling from family trauma. And now it’s summer in Texas, hot and uninspiring.

I don’t think, however, pinning a label on anything fixes it. It’s up to me to dig myself out of this hole. I’ve done it before, and I can do it again. So watch for me, I hope, to be more dedicated about my work, to take fewer really long naps, to get my act in gear.

Oops, it’s time to cook dinner for the family. But I think I feel better already. Thanks for listening.

 

A book recommendation, recognition of a literary icon, and the search or an absorbing read

 

Some time ago I wrote about outrageous cozy mysteries—those that require the reader to suspend disbelief because nothing so far-fetched, improbable, outrageous could happen in real life. If these stories were onstage, they might be called slapstick. I cited Lois Winston’s Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun, first in her Anastasia Pollock Crafting Mysteries. Amateur sleuth Anastasia learns her husband, supposedly on a business trip, dropped dead at the tables in Las Vegas, having lost every penny they had and with a mobster after him for gambling debts. Anastasia inherits the threatening mobster, her mother-in-law who is a card-carrying, outspoken Communist, and a parrot that quotes Shakespeare. An editor at a crafting magazine, she finds a body in her office chair, firmly attached by glue from a hot glue gun. See what I mean by outrageous? (Of course I included my own Saving Irene in the list.)

This week I read the latest of Anastasia’s adventures, A Crafty Collage of Crime, published today. Twelfth in the series, the book takes her on a honeymoon to Tennessee’s wine country where she and her superhero (really, he can almost stop bullets) husband stay at a winery owned by three whacky sisters who are true-crime addicts. When the sisters’ husbands start turning up dead, the local sheriff welcomes Anastasia’s help—seems everyone knows about her because of a true-crime podcast featuring her. Anastasia is the only one who doesn’t know about the podcast. What follows is a hilarious mix of tourists, wineries, an ex-con, crooked real estate deals, a corrupt politician, kidnappings, and cryptocurrency. It’s a wild and improbable pace and lots of fun. The action is sprinkled with Winston’s talent for the comedic. For instance, she refers to her first husband as “the Dead Louse of a Spouse.”

If some days it seems the world is too much with you, I suggest you read A Crafty Collage of Crime. You’ll probably want to go back and read the rest of the series. Anastasia is irresistible. 

In other book news, no one who follows the news, particularly in Texas, can have missed that Cormac McCarthy died this week. Texas Monthly solicited statements of praise from ten authors, everyone from Stephen King to Annie Proulx (author of Brokeback Mountain). He was a Texas icon whose literary reputation stands with our greats—Larry McMurtry, John Graves, even J. Frank Dobie. If Dobie established southwestern literature as a genre, McCarthy took it in a new and dark direction. McCarthy’s prose is amazing, his landscape passages breath-taking, and I know his reputation will endure. Someone who knows Texas literarature well once speculated on what Texas authors will still be read a hundred years from now—he didn’t mention McCarthy, but I’d add his name to the slim list.

All that said, I never read one of his books through. McCarthy saw a darkness in humanity that was too much for me. Violence, corruption, and always the shadow of mortality hung over his works. Perhaps the violence of his vision accounted for his reclusive lifestyle. I am glad to recognize his importance in the canon of Texas literature (and earlier that of Appalachia) and I regret his death, but I cannot call myself a fan.

Obviously, from the recommendation above, I like lighter reading. Yet this week, I’ve had a hard time settling down with a new book this past week. Perhaps I’m picky. One stretched the limits of satire too far for me, another was too slow for even a cozy mystery, still another threatened to delve into Nazi brutality and, like McCarthy’s dark vision, I can’t go there. And then there was one that quoted Gertrude Stein (an apron is an apron is an apron) and waxed eloquent on the sensuality of cutting into a pumpkin. No thanks. I’m prowling my Kindle for all those books I haven’t yet read.

What are you reading?

Sunday, ah Sunday!

 

My simplified Salade Nicoise
Sorry, Julia Child, no olives.

Somehow Sundays are do-nothing days. It’s not that my routine is any different than any other day, but something inside me knows it’s Sunday and doesn’t want to buckle down to any serious work. Today, I “went” to virtual church, cooked supper for myself, did a couple of small, list-making chores, and spent an incredible (and wasteful) amount of time playing on the web.

For instance, my son-in-law sent pictures of the Mahr Building in Telluride, once a bank and the very first bank that Butch Cassidy ever robbed. It’s been almost thirty years since my version of Butch’s story (really Etta’s story), Sundance, Butch, and Me, was published, and I really don’t need to do any more research on Butch who, in my view, was a Robin Hood character and did not die in Bolivia. Nonetheless, I followed that rabbit hole for a bit—that’s what Sundays are for: odd little bits of knowledge and investigation.

I have been reading or trying to and am beginning to worry about myself. I am a picky reader and I have tried four books and given up on all of them. One, set in 1947, had flashbacks to a female spy in WWI—she had been tortured and I didn’t want to read about that, although the main plot interested me. Another was a murder set in Provence, according to the title, but it proceeded at far too pastoral a pace; a third proposed to take cooking out of the realm of domesticity and make it a respected occupation. I opened it eagerly, only to find a series of short stream of consciousness entries about the physical sensations of cutting through a pumpkin. Scratch that. The final book, which I opened with enthusiasm, was almost a spoof on romance and cooking. It’s a popular book, one I’ve heard much about and thought I should read. At first, I read it with pleasure but then I began to wonder how long the author could sustain the literary conceit on which it was based—a very unlikely (and not particularly likeable character) in a kitchen. Not quite halfway through I decided I was done. So I am an author in search of a good book to read.

Sundays are also for napping, and I am one of those who remember vivid dreams. I’ve had a couple of doozies this weekend, both what I think experts would call Freudian. In one, I was cleaning out my VW (not far-fetched—it’s nineteen years old and Jordan still drives it), getting rid of a bunch of detritus an ex had left behind. I thought that man had moved out of my head a long time ago, so why was I still dreaming of getting rid of him? The other had to do with my office—everyone was going to Austin for a meeting that we all enjoyed annually, only they had all made plans to travel with others and nobody asked me, asked me where I was staying, acted like they planned for me to go. Even one of my sons, who never had any connection to my office. I’ve been thinking a lot about aging lately, and I think that dream was subconsciously reinforcing what I say every day I know: let go of the past and enjoy the good memories. In this case, let go of the job I loved so much and treasure the memory of all those book festivals and conferences. Makes me a bit nervous about going to sleep tonight.

I’ve been on my own, without company, for dinner two nights in a row, and I’ve taken advantage of that to fix a couple of things I really like. Last night I fixed brinner—breakfast for dinner, consisting of soft-scrambled eggs, smashed baby potatoes, and grape tomatoes. Tonight it was a modified Salade Niçoise with a good anchovy vinaigrette. Enough left for lunch tomorrow.

I think I’m glad tomorrow is Monday. I have some serious writing replaying itself in my head, and I need that new keyboard to get it done!

Maybe more thunderstorms tonight. I hope they are like the one we just had—gloriously loud and noisy, with lots of rain, but nothing destructive—no hail, no wind. Hope everyone else in the area was as fortunate. Sophie, of course, barked furiously as though she could intimidate the thunder. It didn’t work.

Brinner

My interesting life

 

Some of my friends almost visibly wring their hands over me, spending my days at my computer, sometimes not leaving the property for days (I do have plenty of company). Several years ago Jacob asked one of his parents, “What does she do all day out there? Play on Facebook?” He should read this post. It’s true, some days are a bit boring—like when I’m bogged down in a manuscript that isn’t going at all the way I think it should. But today, I’ve been amused by the variety of projects that came across my desk.

Yes, there’s politics—if you know me at all, you know I speak out at injustice, and these days I see a lot of it. Hot topics with me today are the school voucher bill about to be considered in the Texas Senate and the appalling reaction of Texas leaders to two mass shooting within a week. So yes, I wrote to my state representative about the bill some legislator introduced to give trauma training to third graders and install bleed stations in third-grade classrooms. Third graders? I cannot abide the acceptance of violence with no effort at prevention. And tonight I’ll write my state senator protesting the school voucher bill which, to me, is a sop to the rich and part of Abbott’s program to undermine public education, which it will effectively accomplish. The proposed stipend will not enable many more families to choose private education, and unless things are changed, there’s no accountability for how the money is spent.

A year or so ago, I did the basic writing for twelve tile plaques to be placed on the exterior walls of the Will Rogers Memorial Center, chronicling Texas history. Since then, the text for those plaques has been rewritten, edited, amended, and whatever by a variety of hands including those of my good friend Carol Roark who knows far more about Texas history than I do. Today those captions came back to me once again (I think this is the second time), now in final form. Perfect. Would I just check punctuation. So I did, found lots of capitalization problems and a couple of sentences that just didn’t make sense. If you cut out extraneous stuff and take a sentence down to subject, verb, and object, nonsense jumps out at you. So back they went.

And then a newbie writer sent me a copy of her work-in-progress, a historical mystery set in Chicago. I forgot I had volunteered to be a beta reader because I’m always interested in Chicago history. I’m glad to do it, though—along the way others have helped me, and I’m glad to pay it forward.

I also had on my to-do list for today an evaluation of a manuscript under consideration at a university press, so I wrote up my notes, filled out the forms, and sent it off.

And finally, this evening I go an email from the Southwest Writers Collection containing the unpublished manuscript of a young-adult novel I wrote years ago. It had to do with the house of a childhood friend where life, at the time, seemed much more exciting than my staid household. The friend I wrote it for died several years ago, but her older sister wants to read it. So I’ve sent it off and saved a copy for myself, which I’ll read when I get to it.

With all that reading stacking up my project tonight is to finish the mystery I’m reading so I can clear the decks and review the forthcoming mystery by a friend, which I’ve promised to put in this blog, and read that Chicago novel. The mystery is a thriller, which is not my usual fare—I don’t like to be scared or depressed when I read. But this is absorbing. When it gets tense, I just take a break.

The Burtons are at the Paschal golf team’s end-of-year dinner tonight, so I’m on my own. While they eat Italian food, I’m thinking about what I can do with a can of sardines. I have plenty because for a bit every time I put anchovies on the grocery list, Jordan came home with sardines.

Not a bad day. Not boring at all. In fact, a lovely way to spend a rainy day. We had a slow drizzle much of the day—perfect for those new plants that were put in yesterday. Not so perfect for Sophie who has declined to go out except for one quick and desperate trip.

Iceland, here they come—and thoughts on retirement life

 

Shipboard duck dinner

The tour report is not much today—pictures of yesterday’s dinner which consisted of two plates, one of duck and one of lobster. Both were “continental” size servings, though taken together they probably made a substantial meal. I could not tell how the lobster was fixed. Today’s dinner was lamb, Brussel sprouts, potato, vegetable quiche—much more substantial. Jordan reports that they are in the main crossing now, whatever that means.

I finally had to look at a map to see where my child is going. It was not easy to find—oh, I found lots of maps of Iceland, but few that showed its physical relation to other countries and some that did were in foreign languages. I have finally figured it out though—Iceland is quite a way north and to the west of England, closer to Greenland and kind of between the Scandinavian countries and Greenland. The ship now must be in the open water between England and Iceland. I’m not sure when they reach Reykjavik. As I looked, I was reminded of horrendous statistics about what Americans don’t know about world geography, and I plead guilty.

Closer to home, while Jordan was eating those European-style gourmet meals, I was fixing King Ranch casserole, a dish I’ve been making for well over fifty years and can do in my sleep. It’s not even Tex-Mex—the only claim to southwestern cuisine is the half can or however much Rotel you put in. But it’s good. I made it for two friends who came for supper because we couldn’t go out—due to temporary health problems, neither of them can lift my walker in and out of a car, so the only solution was to eat here. Usually with these two, Subie joins us, but she could not tonight. She got a good laugh, however, out of the fact that we couldn’t go without her. I said it may not be too long before I can never go out to dinner because all my friends have gotten too old to lift my walker!

We did have a good visit—Kathie brought great guac, and Carol cleaned the kitchen, put away the food, did everything but wash the dishes, which I accomplished in no time after they left. Like many of my friends, their lives revolve around the Trinity Terrace retirement community—Carol and her husband have just moved in, and while Kathie has a condo in nearby Arlington, her gentleman friend lives at TT and she dines there with him every night, or so I gathered.

Despite the fact that so many of my friends live there, I am still much happier in my cottage, though I often feel a bit defensive about it. Sometimes what I hear about retirement community life reminds me of a college dorm, and I never did like dorm life. I am also claustrophobic enough that I would not want to have to do elevators alone, and I surely would not want to have to take an elevator down to the dog park every time Sophie wanted to go out. She is in and out ten times a day, and it’s much easier just to open the French doors. These lovely spring days, the door is open all the time, with a free-hanging screen over it, and she can come and go as she pleases.

Tonight’s dinner demonstrates another aspect of life in the cottage that I truly value—my kitchen, and the fact that I cook. Residents at Trinity Terrace—and most other retirement communities—have to buy a meal plan and use a certain number of meal points in the community dining areas each month. No matter how much I’ve heard several say they intend to continue to cook, they end up eating in either the cafeteria or the upscale, white linen tablecloth dining room. I’ve eaten there several times and thoroughly enjoyed it—but I would soon tire of it if I ate there every night. Sort of like the pre-packaged meals Jamie so sweetly sent me—I want to do my own meal planning.

And so I did tonight—making a grocery list for the coronation dinner I’ll fix Saturday night—so far just Jean and me, but we’ll have smoked salmon and coronation chicken salad and green pea salad. And then I planned meals that Jordan might like her first couple of nights at home—chicken dishes but not casseroles! —and a dinner for the adventuresome eater who dines with me about once a month and will be here later in the week.

Plus tomorrow is the day for my weekly cooking column, so I considered recipes for that. Want to know about cacio e peppe and why it is considered the ultimate test of an Italian chef? Read about it tomorrow.

Tonight my desk is full of projects—a couple of articles to be pulled from the Corbitt manuscript, a guest blog to write, that memoir to think about. I’m a happy camper. But I also downloaded the newest in the Country Club Murders series, so that’s my project for what’s left of the evening. Color me happy. How about you? Where are you on the scale of happiness?

Ho, hum. Another Super Bowl.

 

Pasta with anchovies, garlic, panko and pecorinoi

What do you do when it’s Super Bowl Sunday night and you’re home alone? Why you fix yourself anchovy/garlic pasta with a Caesar salad. At least that’s what I did. I’ve been curious about what I call offbeat pasta sauces—with sardines or anchovies as the focal flavor. This was good—a bit of parsley, plenty of olive oil, a bit of garlic, grated Pecorino cheese all softened the anchovy taste so that it was what it can be at its best—earthy and flavorful but not so salty or fishy that you wonder why you’re eating it. The best thing about the dish, though was the panko that I sauteed in a bit of olive oil—stirred in, it added a wonderful crunch to each bite of pasta. So glad I tried this. The recipe was for six, which meant I had to pare it down for one, so I obviously may have made a wrong quantity judgment somewhere along the way. I paired my pasta with a butter lettuce salad (no, I didn’t deliberately splurge—it was all Central Market had when I ordered) dressed with Paul Newman’s Caesar which I have recently decided is as good as the classic oil and vinegar. And I put lots of pecorino on the salad too.

Christian came in a few minutes ago to give Sophie her shot, and when I commented that Facebook posts generally indicate that the halftime show was awful, he said that people say that every year. But then he allowed he didn’t much like this one, which was mild compared to some online comments. I turned it on briefly, just in time for halftime, but what I saw was a bunch of men (I guess there could have been women) dressed in what looked like hazmat suits parading around the field in a gait that looked like imitation Neanderthal. I quickly turned it off.

I did another good thing tonight: I made from scratch chocolate chip cookie dough. Haven’t baked cookies, but when we (note the collective pronoun) do bake them we will sprinkle sea salt on the top. I have recently discovered the wonder of sea salt on sweets. That’s because when Megan was here, she bought salted caramels from Central Market—so good. They have become my new obsession. I figure we should have the cookies as an alternative to my expensive salted caramels. Jordan went to Albertson’s for groceries today, and I am still in shock over the tab.

My work-related accomplishment for the day is that I reviewed my web page and realized it hasn’t been updated since June—way too long. So I made notes for my web guru on updating and that’s my next email for the evening. But then I’ll settle down with a new book: probably Deborah Crombie’s new Scotland Yard mystery, A Killing of Innocents. It’s a busy week ahead. Hope for each of you, the week holds good promise.

A reading weekend--and a puzzle

 

 

Today the snow moon peaked about midday. The February full moon was named the snow moon by Native Americans because it occurs when the heaviest snow is expected—little did they know that this year it just missed not the heaviest snow but the coldest temperatures that we hope are now in the rearview mirror. None of that was on my mind this morning at 6:30 when I opened the door to let Sophie out—but there it was: a perfectly round, glowing white orb just about to sink below the roof line of my neighbor’s house. For a moment, the sight and the beauty took my breath away. You can still catch it tonight, no longer perfectly round but so close your naked eye won’t be able to tell.

For years, with my Puritan work ethic ruling my life, I put reading fiction off  until late at night. It was an indulgence, I thought, a reward for having worked all day. But friend and fellow author Susan Wittig Albert, a better and more successful mystery writer than I ever will be, has convinced me that reading is part of my job. When I read someone else’s mysteries, I pick up on techniques, good and bad. I get ideas for what I can do in future works, and I find things that I would never have done or would differently. I know for certain that I read differently today than I did fifteen years ago. More critically, which doesn’t just mean negative criticism but implies a deeper understanding of what lies behind the words

So this weekend I spent a happy two days reading Julie Hyzy’s Artistic License, billed as her debut novel, although at least one book in her White House Chef Mysteries predates that publication. A fan of both the White House books and the Manor House Mysteries, I was delighted to jump into this book—and then a bit disappointed. It started slowly, and Hyzy dwelt in such detail on characters and scenes that I wanted to urge, “Hurry on, let’s get to the action.” In particular, her descriptions of a couple of unpleasant characters—physically unattractive due to their presentation and habits and not God-given features—was so graphic that I didn’t want to read more about them. Felt that way all through the book.

But gradually she introduced both romance and suspense. This is not a cozy in which the reader is as puzzled as the amateur sleuth—this is a thriller, in which the reader knows who the bad guys are, what they want, and what they will do to get it. It’s like watching two parallel lines of action, holding your breath for the climactic moment when they collide. And collide they did, in a suspense-filled passage that almost had me holding my breath. By then, I cared, really cared about the people involved—and that, to me, is the mark of a good writer: making the reader care about the characters. The ending was satisfactory, with the exception of one minor thread let hanging loose.

Another thing that keeps this novel out of the cozy category: there is one quite graphic sex scene. Okay mild by erotica standards, but graphic by cozy standards. In cozies, the action stops when the bedroom door closes.

Something I would not have noticed until I started indie publishing my own books. This one, from a small press, had formatting problems. There was no page break between chapters—if one ended in the middle of the page, the next one began right there. And in the text there were no space breaks to indicate a change of scene. So you were reading along in one scene and suddenly there was a line about totally different characters.

Problems aside, reading Artistic License was a win. It provided a weekend of enjoyment and some writing lessons beside. Now I’m excited that I found a White House Chef Mystery that I apparently overlooked when I read the series: An Affair of Steak. (I dislike the punny titles of so many cozies, but I’ll forgive Julie).

Here’s a puzzle: Susan Albert told me Julie Hyzy doesn’t even maintain her web page, so I went prowling. Found a web page, but also found several links that supposedly led to obituaries about her October 2020 death. But none of those links panned out: they either gave me the 404 error message or “This page could not be found.” So I’m left with a question: Did Julie Hyzy die (she would have been maybe late fifties, early sixties) or was it a pen name, a pseudonym that died—and somewhere the person who wrote as Julie Hyzy lives on? Another reason I never wanted a pen name.

 

Lazy Saturday and another cooking experiment

 

My slightly burned tuna puff

Today was just what Saturdays should be—lazy. Sophie and I slept late, had a good afternoon nap, although I dreamt so heavily that something in my dream scared me, and I woke myself up shouting, which alarmed Sophie. She barked and barked, and I had to sit on the bed petting her and telling her it was all right for a long time. Then I turned over and slept for another hour! Sophie’s night hours sometimes leave me really exhausted.

I told myself I should compile the recipe section for Irene Deep in Texas Trouble, but I didn’t do that. I read emails, read the news, and spent a long time reading the novel I’d barely started. I told myself I either had to pay attention to that novel—a romance/mystery so far—or give it up. And of course when I spent some concentrated time reading, I was hooked.

I was also hooked on news about the Chinese surveillance balloon. I had read someone’s prediction that we would be at war with China within a few years, and I fervently hope this didn’t accelerate that. But I am appalled at people like MTG who encouraged ordinary Joe to go out with his rifle and shoot it down. At eleven miles away when the farthest shot on record, by a trained distance shooter, is 4.4 miles—and that’s pretty remarkable. Besides what a lot of these gun-happy folks don’t think about as they shoot into the air, what goes up must come down. So all those bullets that couldn’t possibly hit the balloon would come back to earth and quite possibly kill someone.

MTG wasn’t the only one calling for stupid action. Trump Jr. blasted Biden for not bringing it down. Apparently he didn’t think far enough to think about three busloads of debris landing on communities in America. I truly shudder to think if these people ever again get power to dictate policy. And that goes for Kevin what’s-his-name.

But news and books aside, Saturday was as usual a day to experiment in the kitchen—only I didn’t mean to experiment. I have a recipe for tuna pasties that I’ve liked a lot. It calls for refrigerator biscuits, but sometimes the dough overwhelms the tuna, and I got the bright idea that puff pastry would be better. So I put puff pastry sheets on the grocery list—and didn’t realize until tonight that I had puff pastry shells, not sheets.

Dilemma: the shells are meant to be cooked and then filled. If I had sheets, the filling would bake (and the cheese melt) while the pastry cooked. I sort of fudged—cooked the shells part way, took them out and stuffed them, lowered the oven temperature a lot, and baked them a bit more. Actually I thought they were quite good. My oven runs hot, and even though I never heated it to the 475 recommended on the pastry package, they were a bit too brown, shading over to burnt. I think if I fiddled more with baking temperatures, I may have invented something. I’ll call them tuna puffs.

Meantime I have a whole lot of the tuna filling left!

A pajama day

 

Pajama days, I firmly believe, are good for the soul. I’d been planning this one for several days. Sophie appears to be on the mend, I had no obligations, social or otherwise—the only thing on my calendar was virtual church, and God understands if you don’t get out of your pjs. It’s what’s in your heart, not on your body.

So I was lazy. Slept late, ate leftovers, wrote a few emails, went to church, napped, and finished the Jessica Fletcher Murder, She Wrote mystery I’ve been reading. That Jessica, she sure is one smart sleuth. As I scrolled through Facebook for an idle bit, a friend kept posting links to songs by my favorite singers—Judy Collins, Joan Baez, Joni Mitchell. Lovely way to spend some time on a pajama day.

Tomorrow, I vow I will get back to serious work, but that’s a vow I’ve been making for several Mondays. Somehow life gets in the way—first it was the holidays, then Sophie. Tomorrow is not off to a good start because I have a routine doctor’s appointment at ten-thirty, right in the middle of my best working time. Tuesday, it’s a haircut but fortunately at lunchtime, and Friday another appointment, this with the podiatrist. Plus Thursday I plan to cook a big birthday dinner that may take me more than one day. Is it just at my age or does life always get in the way of the serious things you want to do?

Serious as I think the chaos in the House of Representatives is, I have been amused at the humor on the internet. Two of my favorites: a post that congratulates Kevin McCarthy on his quinceanera, and one that says, “It’s like selling your soul, only the check bounced.”

For my lazy day, I scrambled some eggs tonight—my go-to supper. Only this time I tried a fancy new method. I like soft scrambled, really soft, and this method promised “velvety” eggs. Of course, I cut the recipe in half and substituted ingredients—okay, I didn’t have cream, so I used buttermilk, not a successful substitution. My advice: go on scrambling the way you always do that works for you. That, however, is the fun of experimental cooking—you find some things that work, some that don’t.

My Megan from Austin is on her way to LA tonight for the big game, with her younger son Ford (older son Sawyer does not care one whit about football, which makes him a child after my own heart). Unfortunately there is a ninety-six percent chance of rain tomorrow in Santa Monica, with severe storms predicted for Tuesday. I’ll be glad when Megan and Ford are safely home again.

Last night at a dinner party, everyone was astounded when I said no, I probably wouldn’t watch the game, but I would check the score occasionally. Tonight Fort Worth is truly a purple city—lights on the Seventh Street bridge and several of the downtown buildings, streetlights in several area of town, houses decorated with purple and white (did they just take down red and green and replace?). I do have my TCU T-shirt all ready to wear tomorrow, so I’m at least a bit patriotic.

Here's to sweet, purple dreams tonight, a victory tomorrow night, and a good week as we truly move into 2023. My pajama day has refreshed me, and I am eager to head into the week and attack the projects on my desk. I wish for you the same positive attitude.