My non-cooking cooking weekend and a doggy discovery

 

Panzanella (Italian salad)

Shh! Don’t tell Jean, but that dinner I was too tired to cook for her last night—white bean soup and panzanella salad—was delicious tonight. Like my mom’s migraines, my ennui of yesterday was a one-day affair, and while I won’t say I bounced back, I think I sort of hopped—awkwardly. And thanks to Jean, I had a loaded baked potato for lunch—the one she brought from Jason’s last night was huge, and I was not yet ready to eat heartily then. Today I was ravenous. (I just took a picture of the panzanella and sent it from my phone to my computer—it arrived with the captions, “pan smells.”

Slept late this morning, went to church online, made croutons for the salad (not as difficult as I anticipated, but the crust on Central Market sourdough is so good but so tough), and made the soup. Then I had to have a nap, but that’s not unusual for me.

Church was interesting. Russ Peterman has been preaching sermons based on various hymns, which delighted me because I can still recite the word of the old hymns I remember from childhood and in my mind I can hear the melody (somehow it doesn’t come out well when I try to sing, and I am in awe of choir members my age who lift their voices in praise). Today’s hymn was “How Great is Thy Faithfulness,” which I don’t remember but I learned today is a beautiful, soaring piece of music. The sermon dwelt on the fact that we are not promised eternal happiness on earth, but we are sure of God’s faithful love when tragedy strikes.

I remembered a tsunami that killed thousands one year in this century. A friend who was a nonbeliever asked me how I could believe in a good god who let such happen, and I posed the question to our then-minister. He said, “Shit happens, but when it does, God is there to help us.” That was essentially this morning’s message, and since this year a lot of “sh*t” has happened to those I love, I found it meaningful.

Just as I finished making the soup this morning, my induction hot plate began to sing to me—an ominous sign. It had gone berserk. In the six years since I have relied on one, this is the second to fall apart. It leaves me without a way to cook, except the toaster oven. Fortunately tonight Jordan took the soup pot inside and heated it. I have ordered a new hot plate—it should arrive Tuesday. I understand a good friend is already pledged to bring us dinner tomorrow night—good timing.

Tonight I discovered a dog rescue group I didn’t know existed: Doodle Rock Rescue intrigued me. It seems to me yesterday but I am sure is a lot longer that labradoodles were new to the dog world, expensive and rare. Now they and all the designer variations have become so common that they are a glut on the market and many need rescue. It speaks to a lot of things to me—prime among them owners who do not take dog ownership seriously, not recognizing dogs a living beings who love, hunger, know pain and fear.

Of course I would love another doodle—Sophie is a bordoodle, a deliberate cross of a border collie and a miniature poodle. I don’t think she would take well to another dog, and after the recent expensive adventure with her health, I don’t think I can afford another dog right now. But I am so glad there is an active rescue organization for these dogs. This overbreeding, if that’s what it is, has apparently not affected the price of kennel-bred dogs—I just checked the kennel where I got Sophie eleven years ago, and the price has tripled—it was high enough then.

My good friends Sue and Teddy got a Bernadoodle (Bernese mountain dog/standard poodle) about a year ago. Mina is a lovely girl, full of energy, happy, and loving. Just this week, looking for a buddy or Mina, they rescued a labradoodle, almost a year old, a male who has the same high energy and loving disposition. He was raised in a loving home but the owner was unable to care for him because of illness. Sue, Teddy, and Mina are over the moon with joy and I’m a wee bit jealous.

Springfield doodles

The joy of a good doctor’s report

Me, almost two years ago, when I got to go home from rehab

Two years ago this month I had massive hip surgery—it wasn’t just that my hip needs to be replaced. The hip had deteriorated to the point there really was no joint left. Dr. Jeffrey McGowen had to invent the surgery he did, so that I now have lots of metal parts in a join that looks like no other.

Hospitals don’t let you lollygag around these days. I’ve known hip surgery patients who went home the next day. I stayed five days and then, over my weepy loud protests, went to a care facility where I spent ten endless days feeling sorry for myself. But the therapist there was wonderful, and by the time I left I was using a walker—baby steps at first but a little better each day. My joy at being home didn’t last long—I had around the clock nurses and physical therapy in my cottage three times a week for two months. I guess I always knew recovery would be an ordeal—I just didn’t realize how much of an ordeal.

Round the clock care was an experience in itself—we had such a wild variety of women through my door to care for me. Some were wonderful; some not so much so. As my oldest daughter said of one, “Something’s wrong when you know more about the caregiver’s symptoms than the patient’s.” Another complained that our food was bland and went foraging in the fridge to see how she could liven it up. One young woman seemed to have a magic touch—she was gentle and encouraging, and in the doctor’s office, she knew exactly how to get me to stand when the nurses couldn’t. Personal troubles kept her from her schedule to often that we finally gave up on her. Son Jamie confessed recently that some of my caretakers were so taken with my dog, he feared Sophie might be taken by one of them.

After some weeks, I could spend days alone but was coerced to having someone with me at night. Then, finally, came the night I could stay alone. The independence was a great triumph for me. A couple of months later, the physical therapist, whom I liked a lot though she was a taskmaster, stopped coming. I exercised on my own and didn’t realize how far I still had to go.

My next big milestone was driving my car. It had sat unused for two years and required a lot of work to get it in running condition again. I had to demonstrate to each of my children that I could get myself and my walker in and out of the car alone and that my driving skills had not flown away. Today I run a lot of errands by myself but have promised Jordan that I will always have someone help me in and out of the car—if nothing more than standing by to see that I don’t fall or get mugged. You’d be amazed at how helpful people are, how willing to give curbside service.

A milestone I’ve not reached and am not striving for: walking unassisted. My walker is almost a permanent attachment. Dr. McGowen says it’s much preferable to falling, which could render me permanently bedridden.

I saw Dr.McGowen today. A year ago, when he said, “See you in a year,” I rejoiced. Today, he said all the parts of my new hip are permanently in place and won’t move around, so he’ll treat me like a regular hip replacement patient and see me in five years. He said, and I quote, “I couldn’t be happier with the way things have turned out.” Me too, Doctor, me too. Dr. McGowen turned my life around. The first day he saw me in his office I was in severe pain, couldn’t walk, was over-medicated (both prescription and self-medication) and was generally losing my life or at least any quality it had.

Today, I feel better physically than I have in years, and I am probably happier than at any time in my life, except maybe when my babies were young. I am not just tolerating aging, I am enjoying it, finding new interests, new strengths. And pretty much I owe it all to Dr. McGowen.

Want to see a video about my recovery and my visits to Dr. McGowen? See it here: https://www.thpg.org/texas-hip-knee-center/pages/about-us/doctors/dr-jeffrey-mcgowen.aspx  (It’s not the most flattering picture of me, and I look a whole lot better and younger these days because that was when I was still recovering, but the video shows you what a wonderful thing Dr. McGowen did for me.)

This isn’t a testimonial. It’s a plain, public thank you, and a statement of gratitude on my part that I have my life back.

A cold, gray Boxing Day

Sophie worn out by life  in Tomball

No, Boxing Day is not a day to throw away all the boxes your Christmas gifts came in. It’s a traditional British holiday, maybe just meant to extend Christmas one more day. It’s primarily a day to spend relaxing with family and friends—and who doesn’t need that after the climactic and hectic pace of Christmas Day. For some in England, it’s a day for fox hunting, though one would hope that sport is fading out—for the sake of the fox. More bizarre, some hardy souls swim the English Channel—or try to. And there’s football, horse racing, and, to borrow from America, shopping.

In this country, we don’t pay much attention to Boxing Day, but its still a day of recover. In Tomball, it dawned gray and foreboding today—and only got darker as the day went on. When I’m here in the Tomball house, my favorite seat is at one end of the dining table—from here I can look to the left and see the swimming pool and, beyond, a field; straight ahead I can see the tiny lake that the house sits on. I love the view in all weather but maybe most in summer when the kids are in the swimming pool. Today it was a striking vista but not an encouraging one. It was a perfect day to work at my computer.

Colin worked hard on setting up my Apple watch, trying to get it to connect the phone to my hearing aids—it won’t do it yet, but he discovered that the Apple people are researching that. And we haven’t figured out all of the cardia monitoring function, but some. It’s a steep learning curve, but I’m confident I’ll master it. I wore the watch to sleep last night and was grateful, because my phone was dead and I was without the flashlight function. Hadn’t found that on the watch—though I now have—but the watch gave short bursts of light which helped me stumble my way through the dark.

I did odds and ends at my computer—writing a couple of thank-you notes and taking care of a couple of business matters. But mostly I worked on my Alamo manuscript and edited three chapters—feeling quite proud of myself. Lots of cutting and pasting, challenging work.

Of course, on this dark and dull day I got a good nap.

Oops, a dogfight over a plastic toy. Sophie was trying to take it from Grace—trouble is it was Grace’s toy and Grace is at least twice Sophie’s size, a big and solid dog compared to Sophie’s 30 lbs. After much squealing on Sophie’s part and growling from Grace, they are separated. Time for bed.

School daze coming to an end

As school winds down, my grandkids check in. These are my Tomball children with their mom, Lisa (Colin's family). So proud of them. They are fortunate to go to a school in Tomball where their mom teaches 7^th grade math. Morgan will be 12 over the summer and going into—oops, I’m not sure. Sixth grade, I think but maybe seventh. Kegan is ten, and going into fifth grade. Didn’t hear a report on Morgan’s grades, but Kegan made straight As and Es—I assume the latter is a behavior grade.

He’s my long-haired grandson. When I was in the rehab facility, he came to visit, and a nurse asked, “Is that your granddaughter?” (In addition to the long hair, he is slightly built and has fine, almost delicate features). I replied proudly that he is my grandson. Colin later said Kegan is used to that misidentification. He is a dedicated and talented soccer player and wanted to grow his hair out so he could have a man-bun, like the European soccer players.

Morgan hasn’t shown such dedicated interests, as far as I know, but she is great in the kitchen and apparently likes to cook. She’s a neat mix of half tomboy and half girlie-girlie. I’ll find out more about both kids this weekend, because that family will come up for Maddie’s graduation and take me to Frisco. I haven’t seen the Tomball Alters in quite some time, so I’m really excited about their visit.

I had my last physical therapy session today. Walked around the cottage—I can make a circle from my desk, down the hall to the bedroom, over to the kitchen, and back to my desk--it's not very far. I held on to the therapist’s hand, and she insisted on the cane. I can walk almost normally with the walker; without it my legs are stiff and awkward as though I had some muscular condition. Really frustrating, but I guess the only thing to do is keep at it. The therapist bragged on the progress I’ve made since she first saw me, and when I suggested it was due to her, she said, “It’s yours. Own it.” We had a sort of sentimental parting—the kind where neither of us were going to show how touched we were. Why do we do that to ourselves?

It's been a social week so far and promises to continue that way—lunch today with a longtime friend I don’t see often. We went to a restaurant on Magnolia, and I had lobster bites. Which meant I thought I shouldn’t have lobster sushi roll tonight at the Tokyo Café. Betty and I went. It has long been a favorite of ours, and we missed it when fire closed it. I have only been once since they re-opened, now several months ago, so it was good to be back. Food and service are always good, but the main dining area is high-ceilinged with lots of slick surfaces—hard to hear.

A good day but nothing spectacular to report. I’m working myself up to a blog on how I feel about all the people who saw 45 has irreparably damaged the country. Meantime, busy days and a family weekend are on my horizon. I’m filled with anticipation.

PS. Just after I wrote the above, Jordan, Christian, and three friends descended on me, with four dogs--Sophie, the two Cavaliers, and a 12-week golden retriever puppy. Sophie gets so excited she tears around the cottage frantically, and she and the pup barked and barked at each other. The pup kept barking at the Cavaliers, but as Jordan said, "They don't play." It was delightful pandemonium and brightened my evening.

How did you sleep last night?

Did you sleep well, or did you wake frequently during the night? How long did it take you to fall asleep? Studies have found that older people often take longer to fall asleep and wake more frequently during the night. There are all sorts of answers out there—it’s a change in the brain, it’s not normal, oldsters need as much sleep as youngsters.

I’ve given up on the studies, but I know that I often wake during the night. Two solid hours of sleep for me is good, four hours is a bonus. I go to bed early because I get so tired, but then I wake early and know I can’t stay in bed longer. And it’s not just the siren call of the bathroom. My deepest sleep, the kind with memorable dreams, comes in the morning. And, contrary to many older people, I don’t wake up tired. I suspect that when I think I’m not sleeping, I’m really dozing.

I remember telling my mom when I was a kid, that I itched all over. “It’s a sign you’re about to go to sleep,” she’d say serenely. Wrong, Mom. I don’t itch these days, but I am often restless turning from this side to that.

The whole point of this diatribe on sleep is that I slept so well last night, went right back to sleep every time I woke up, and felt refreshed in the morning. I could have stayed in bed longer, dozing, but the home health care aide was due at 8:00 so I had to get out of bed. For a retired person, I am disappointed that often there are compelling reasons for me to get out of bed. The mornings when there aren’t and I could snooze are when I wake up unable to stay in bed longer. Go figure.

Somehow lately on Fridays I sense an approaching holiday and slack off. Today I worked some but not with the concentrated, sustained effort that is usual for me, and I distracted myself by cooking—a cucumber/avocado salad for lunch, a cheese spread for happy hour guests. And suddenly, as usual, I was terribly, overwhelmingly sleepy at two o’clock. It’s like there’s an alarm in my brain that goes off every afternoon at the same time.

When I first was recovering from surgery, I slept hard for an hour in the mornings and anywhere from one to two hours in the afternoon. I would literally fall asleep over my keyboard. Those days are gone, and I maybe sleep for 30 minutes in the afternoon—enough to banish that terrible sleepiness—and then maybe I linger for another half hour. I kind of miss those deep daytime sleeps, but recovery is so much better.

Today I am indebted to friends, as I often am: Betty did some grocery shopping for me, since Jordan and I didn’t do our weekly shopping (she was busy with the golf tournament). Tonight, Subie and Phil came to feed the dogs and take me to dinner. We ate my cobbled-together cheese spread and then went to Pacific Table for seafood. I love the Caesar salad with fried oysters. And we had a good visit. A thoroughly pleasant day.

Now I’m sleepy. And it’s not even ten o’clock yet.

Walking, walking, to….anywhere

I dream about walking all the time. Last night, I suddenly walked across a room, said to a friend, “Look at me!” and walked everywhere thereafter. My steps were sure and strong. In reality, I can take two faltering, shaky steps without the walker, and that’s all. My surgeons is not worried about this at all, says someday I’ll find myself in the kitchen and the walker is elsewhere and I’ll walk (I didn’t ask how I got to the kitchen if I didn’t have the walker with me.). He should know, and I suppose he’s right, but four months after surgery I’m impatient.

The surgeon also advises against a cane. He says a cane doesn’t give enough of a support base, and if you fall, you have to rely on your wrist to stop the fall. Most of us don’t have wrists that strong. I used to use a cane as a security stick before the fall, but it does no good now, so I take comfort in his advice. A friend had extensive back surgery last week and walked her cul de sac (with a walker) yesterday. I know I couldn’t do that less than a week after surgery, and it makes me feel timid, scared, inadequate. Jordan repeated the surgeon’s words, “Do not compare yourself to others. Your surgery was different from all others.” But the comparison is inevitable.

I do worry that it’s lack of confidence that keeps me tied to the walker. With it, I’m more confident than I was without it before surgery. Which to me means I could probably walk better if I’d just let go and do it. But when I do, the results are shaky, and I’ve been cautioned so often about the terrible things that will result if I fall again. It’s obviously not a case of pick yourself up and try again. There might be no second chance.

Feeling puckish tonight—love that word. I think it’s the rainy weather. Tomorrow will be better—the weather and my mood. A bright spot tonight: Jordan and I are eating leftovers—bean salad on toast and cucumber/avocado salad. But she, sweet thing, planted and nurtured some leaf lettuce for me, and I will make wilted lettuce, like Mom used to. All I had to say was “wilted lettuce,” and Christian said no thank you. Irony: he loves green beans seasoned the same way—bacon drippings and vinegar. He’s not home tonight for supper, and Jordan has promised to try it.

An Odd Mixture of a Day

Church, physical therapy, and a salmon dinner. That strikes me as an odd mixture, but it was a happy day. I’ve been going to church more and more interested in going lately, which seems to me yet another sign of recovery. Today it was an encouraging experience, because several people stopped me to comment on my progress, ask how I was, just generally check in. I got a couple of hugs and a lot of fellowship. Christian, trying to make our way to the exit, finally said, “You’re the most popular woman in church this morning.” Jacob was with us and was detailed to walk with me to the corner, while Christian went ahead for the car. I am here to tell you that the west wind was really cold. I have had the heat on in the cottage today.

My physical therapist came this afternoon. I was surprised when she scheduled a Sunday visit, but I think we both thought PT was over, the insurance wouldn’t approve the doctor’s latest request. After a two-week hiatus, they did, and here she was. She’d been making me walk on the cane, and I expected disappointment, even argument, when I said no more cane. The doctor said so! Instead, she readily agreed. She said if I’m uncomfortable with it, then we won’t do it. We’re concentrating on upper body strength. Nine visits left on this prescription.

Ellen, the PT, made my day when I asked her if I seemed different than when she first knew me, back in February. The question was prompted by all the people who say they see a remarkable difference in me. She put it in terms of my aura. When she came, she said, my aura said, “I’m sick. I’m old.” Today, she said it proclaims that I am healthy and younger—not young, but still I’ll take what I can get.

Twenty-five years ago, I had a good friend who called me his adopted sister. A gay man who would never have children of his own, he adored my children and taught them to drive and ride horseback. He was family. He was also, he was sure, a psychic, and he talked a lot about people’s auras, though it was always in terms of the color of their auras. Ellen didn’t mention that today. What do you think your aura says about you? What color is it?

Tonight, Christian fixed a wonderful salmon dinner. There’s a story there. He has always said he didn’t like salmon, but one night when I fixed it for Jordan and me (and steak for him), he tasted it and liked it. I had done it with anchovy butter. I tried to talk him into miso salmon but he was set on grilling and said miso doesn’t adhere to the surface well enough to grill. He did a marinade of soy, sugar, garlic and I guess oil, and he undercooked mine just the way I like it. With potatoes, corn, and salad, it was a scrumptious meal. I’m finding that Christian and I have fun talking about food, though I’m trying hard to educate both of them about such small things as why you buy corn in the full husk and not semi-husked in a cello packet, why you don’t buy generic honey or olive oil, etc. It’s sort of an uphill battle, makes Jordan defensive, though Christian is a bit more willing to listen.

I’m at a crucial point in the book I’m reading, so good night.

My Dancing Shoes

I bought dancing shoes last night. Okay, they’re not—they’re shoes to start me on the road to dancing again, good, serviceable shoes that support my ankles, lessen my tendency to walk on the side of my left foot, and help my feet heal, particularly the swollen left one. They are, forgive me, plain, ugly shoes. Serviceable. That word keeps going through my mind.

They come from a store recommended long ago by the podiatrist I see and known for their serviceable (there’s that word again) shoes. I resisted when the doctor first mentioned, but now I find that tendency to walk on the side of my foot increasing (it’s called pronating). The saleslady, Nita, was skilled, knew what she as talking about. Subie, the friend who drove me there, kept finding cuter shoes, but Nita nixed them—they didn’t offer the right support, they weren’t deep enough for my foot, etc. The ones she showed me were the only ones in the store that she recommended for me at this time, and no, they weren’t the most expensive. Nita held out hope that in six months I can get a cuter pair. She even intimated I might gradually work my way up to sandals.

“You aren’t going to wear these without socks, are you?”

My answer: “Yes.”

She launched into a discussion of how dangerous blisters, etc., are, especially when you have neuropathy and can’t feel them. Dire visions of infection and worse danced in my head.  I succumbed and bought two pairs of diabetic socks (no, I’m not diabetic), which she said would help the swelling because of the way they’re woven. To cheer me she threw in a pair of turquoise laces and a multicolor pair.

Subie meanwhile launched a full pr campaign about how sturdy the shoes are, how much cuter they looked with socks, how much steadier I already was walking while wearing them. All this was good until we were headed home and her car phone rang. It was on speaker, and Subie said “I just took Judy to SAS to get shoes.”

“Oh, sorry,” was the reaction. All Subie’s pr campaign vanished into thin air.

Today going to lunch, Betty laughed heartily and then said how glad she was I’m being so sensible, etc. It was too late.

The best comment came from a young female physician whose birthday we celebrated with happy hour and dinner tonight. “I wear those every day,” she said. “They’re the only thing my feet can stand.”

Another food day: lunch at the relatively new Heim Barbecue, now that the lines have dwindled. I found the chopped beef good, the potato salad and cole slaw outstanding. Still have half a sandwich in the fridge. Then tonight we had happy hour at the Wine Haus (with slices of a decadent mousse cake), followed by dinner at Chadra. Still full from lunch, I had tomato/basil soup and a salad and couldn’t finish either one.

Now I’m toddling off to bed, much work left undone.

Something Old, Something New—Something FREE!

Everyone loves something free—or at least I hope so. My web page was redesigned several weeks ago, with an eye to making it fresh. But recently I realized that some of the content was out of date. My webmaster, a wonderful woman named Lisa (I love her email because it begins with TabbyCat), suggested that old news wasn’t always bad because it shows readers what I’ve been doing. You judge.

But we added two features that I am wildly enthusiastic about: a list of free offerings. I hadn’t realized it until Lisa organized the material, but I offer no less than five either complete short stories or excerpts of novels. So please—download, read to your heart’s content, and maybe you’ll like my historical work or my mysteries or both. The whole idea, dear reader, is to connect with you

And there’s another addition—a list of what’s to come. I may enlarge it with descriptions of the work in progress, but for now I want you to know that I am writing again, after almost a year of very little activity.

On the web page you can read about recent—and not so recent—activities, subscribe to my “only occasional” newsletter, follow my Tweets, check the blog, and read about me and my work. I’d love comments, suggestions, things you’d like to see on the page. Check it out at http://judyalter.com .

What it doesn’t say is that today I’m proofreading, one more time, the second Blue Plate Café Mystery, Murder at the Tremont House. I’ll post It to a site that provides digital books to such platforms as Barnes & Noble, Sony, Kobo and others, some I’d never heard of. And then I’ll be able to say all my mysteries and most of my historical work is (are?) available in digital form. It’s a project that kept being put on the back burner, but this week I moved it forward. Believe me, when it’s done, I’ll crow about it.

And while I’m sharing secrets about my writing life, here’s another: novelist Susan Wittig Albert published a year-long journal, An Extraordinary Year of Ordinary Days, and when she mentioned it on a list today I had a thought: I should write a memoir of my recent year-long journey through debilitating pain, surgery, and now recovery. Separate friends have said to me on a few occasions, “You’re back. I’m so glad.” I really didn’t realize I’d been away, but in retrospect I know I did some things and made some decisions that weren’t me. I did blog fairly consistently during that period, and I may mine that material for a memoir. Interested?

You know how I know I’m back? I’m writing again, I’m cooking, and I’m wearing makeup. What more does one need to know.

I invite you to my revised web page: http://judyalter.com

Who are you?

The other day someone on Facebook asked when people knew what they wanted to do with the lives. I thought it sort of an existential question. I don’t think there was any one specific epiphany when I thought “Aha! That’s it!” My life and career gradually evolved, and I’m sure I was well along in adulthood before I realized that being a mom was my most important and satisfying role, following by being a writer and then a publisher.

Last night friends brought up an even more difficult existential question. As one friend used to put it, how do you know when you’re “at yourself?” As most of you know, I have been on a long journey with a broken ankle, a fractured hip that I walked on way too long, a difficult surgery, and what seems to me a slow recovery but probably isn’t. Somewhere along the way I apparently lost myself. On much of that journey I was in a great deal of pain and my life was complicated by hallucinations, induced by medication. I wasn’t myself, but I didn’t realize it.

Oh, I know pain makes you short-tempered, impatient, crabby. I tried to control that, particularly with daughter Jordan who was my primary caretaker and got the burden of all I couldn’t do. And yet we clashed, more than once. I regret that to this dayand will sing her praises forever. But I didn’t know that my friends found me different—not necessarily difficult, just not me.

Last night at dinner, three close friends said, in essence, “Welcome back. You’re you now, and we’re glad to have you.” I’m left wondering where the line is between me and not-me, what was different, how could they tell? Yet I feel an inkling of this because I have more energy, I’m much more interested in my writing and career, and I’m doing a lot of small things that used to make me throw up my hands and say, “I can’t do that.” They’re so trivial I’m embarrassed to share them and won’t.

But I think the upshot is that gradually, day by day, I’m becoming again the woman I was a year ago, and I must have reached some milestone in recent days. So thanks to those friends for alerting me, to family and loved ones for putting up with me. There’s a lesson in this for both caregivers and patients. Several books have been published about caregiving—I think someday I should do one about being the recipient.

Thanks, too, to readers who’ve stuck with me. My gratitude knows no bounds.

A gourmet meal for two

Me on the patio in my new shirt that says

We are All Wonder Woman

I believe it

A fun day, mostly cooking but also some work, and I finished the contest book I was raeding. An old friend (1970s) came for suppeer tonight and I fixed a semi-gourmet meal. Appetizers and dessert were strictly not homemade—a block of Irish cheese with crackers and some addictive sesame sticks that Jordan finds at Trader Joe’s. Dessert was Frango Mints, those signature chocolates of Marshall Field and Company that are sold by someone else now that Fields is no longer. They’re every bit as good as they ever were—order online  if you wnt them. Just search Frango Mints.

But the entrée was something I’ve wanted to cook for a while: a mushroom ragout. My mom used to sauté mushrooms in butter and put on toast, a very British way of serving them which no doubt pleased my Anglophile father. This was sort of an upscale version of Mom's dish with shallots, garlic, rosemary, thyme, white wine, and chicken broth. All that made a rich gravy. The recipe was for four, and I halved it; halfway through I abandoned the direction and began to wing it with amounts. Two things I would change: less flour and less pepper. I could taste just a bit of the flour and that wasn’t good—you shouldn’t be aware of it. The pepper is an oft-made mistake of mine. It certainly didn’t ruin the dish, and some palates might prefer it, but I was looking forward to a more mellow mushroom taste. At first I thought the recipe intimidating but having once done it, it doesn’t ssseem so bad. I’ll do it again.

I laid out everything for dinner about mid-day—plates, napkiins, flatware, dishes for appetizer, salad bowl and makings, seasonings, you name it and it was ready. That’s how I always cooked when I entertained a crowd and it was a joy to do that prep again. It’s half the fun of cooking.

I’ve decided that cooking and writing are in the same category for me—I’m beginning to get my sea legs back. It's all part of my unusually long recovery.  I’ll get a little more ambitious each time I try it.

So what's for supper tomorrow?