My “Megan weekend”

 

I

Me, having just unwrapped the painting of my children.

I have long maintained that when you have four children, having them all together is pure bliss, but also when you have time with one of them alone, it’s very special. I had that with Megan this weekend and enjoyed it thoroughly. When she visits, she’s always alert to taking care of me—probably more than I need, but it’s a nice, safe feeling. She’s cheerful, great company, and willing to indulge in odd requests.

After a semi-family dinner at Joe T. Garcia’s Friday night, Megan slept in at the hotel in the Stockyards where she and a friend stayed. And I spent Saturday morning working, which was fine, even good. But about noon, Megan moved here for Saturday night. She brought my belated Christmas present—a painting made from a photo of my four children. The artist is a friend of Megan and Brandon. I have met her several times and seen her work more often, including a Christmas card she did of Megan’s family. I had asked Megan to inquire about commissioning a painting of my four, but she never said much, and I sort of put it aside. So the gift was a wonderful surprise. It now hangs in my combination living area/office for everybody who comes to the cottage to see. I am beyond delighted with it and catch myself frequently turning to look at it.

Megan and me at Central Market
Thanks to a kind passerby
for taking the picture.

I got an early nap and then we went to Central Market for my weekly shopping. That’s a real treat for me, because my shopping is usually curbside pickup—Jordan doesn’t have time for my lingering shopping, and she hates the parking at either Central Market or Trader Joe’s. Megan had no deadline, so we shopped and browsed and took pictures and laughed a lot.

Jordan had left for a work trip to Hawaii (poor dear!) but we had happy hour with Christian and then had dinner at Don Artemio’s. We’d been there before and really toyed with the idea of one of the other interesting restaurants where we’ve not been, but we decided to go back to Don Artemio’s. Dinner was terrific—tongue tacos for me and tuna tartare for Meg, preceded by the guacamole with bits of roast beef. The staff was courteous and kind about my transport chair and our waiter friendly, chatting about wine. He introduced me to a wine from the oldest winery in North America—from Mexico, of course. A bit too acidic for me, so I settled for a chenin blanc/chardonnay blend. Back home, a late-night visit with Christian, and we all stayed up too late.

This morning, I’m ashamed to say, it came down to biscuits and gravy or church. Megan and I went to Hot Box Biscuits to pick up and came back to the cottage to attend church online. She had been pleased when our minister, Dr Russ Peterman, gave the invocation at the rodeo Friday afternoon and wanted to hear more. As for the biscuits, it was fun to drive downtown with Megan, because it’s almost like she never lived here—she is totally lost and has no sense of direction. So we drove down South Main so she could see the development, the restaurants and other small businesses. She said she really needs to come home and drive around the city, and I told her I’d love to do that. I am so settled in my cottage, that when I get out it’s sometimes a foreign world—when did they build that? And who tore down the house that was there?

Finished sandwich

Building a sandwich

Tonight I cooked for Christian and Jacob—Dagwood sandwiches. Who remembers Dagwood
and his famous sandwiches? He was a character in the long-running comic strip, “Blondie,” and he was noted for his multi-layered sandwiches with a variety of meats and condiments Tonight mine had turkey, ham, bacon, provolone, cheddar, onion, pickle, mayo, honey mustard dressing, and horseradish sauce. Delicious, and fun to build. If it looks a little lopsided in the picture, that’s because my cottage slants ever so slightly to the north, and the sandwich shifted in the oven as the cheeses melted. Tasted great nonetheless, rich, but great.

I’m pleased to report Sophie is back in almost full steam—we decided the proof came when she stole a biscuit and gravy off Megan’s plate on the coffee table this morning! But there are other signs—she’s very demanding about what she wants, and she’s been barking at squirrels. She is ravenous all the time, and we can tell she’s gained weight. Her personality has returned, and although she can be a pain, we are all delighted. She’s our favorite pain!

All is well in the cottage tonight, and I will have sweet dreams, putting aside for the time all the troubles that beset our world. My current peeve is that I am weary of people who say things will never change—guns everywhere, police brutality, etc. It will change if we make it—and we must.

I hope you have sweet dreams too.

The guard has changed

 

Me and Megan at Don Artemio.
I should have taken pictures of the food.

The Burtons are home, exhilarated but a wee bit fatigued, Megan is on her way to Austin, and routine has settled over our compound. I’m about to fix tuna salad for lunch—what could be more routine?

My week of kids ended with a dining adventure last night. Megan and I went to Don Artemio, the new, upscale steakhouse and tequila bar that has Fort Worth agog. I am by no means knowledgeable enough to critique food from central Mexico (the only other Don Artemio is in Saltillo, near San Miguel), but I can tell you what I liked and what I was uncertain about.

Megan was absolutely fascinated by the décor and the “feel” of the restaurant, especially the thousands of hand-made Saltillo bricks that make up walls, deliberately just a kilter off. The industrial ceiling with its ducts is dark gray, and the colors throughout are muted, perfect foil for the blue-and-white molcajete that several dishes are served in. At one end of the large space, sound is baffled by an intriguing installation of yarn and wood that looks a little like one loom after another.

We split the guacamole with chicharrones of ribeye, and it was wonderful. Megan loves hot, spicy things; me, not so much. In fact, not at all. So for me the guacamole was perfect—creamy, smooth, and flavorful without a bite but a perfect contrast in texture and taste to the tiny bits of delicious steak. I am also always cautious about ceviche because it often contains shrimp, and I’m allergic. But this was salmon and whitefish in pungent lime sauce. Tasty, but the fish was diced so fine! I’d like the pieces a bit larger.

Megan had a salad of grilled hearts of palm, tomato, avocado, and panela cheese, which proved to be a solid block of a mild cheese—all with a chili vinaigrette. Most people scorn tongue, but I grew up eating it and like it, though my acquaintance is almost entirely with corned beef tongue, as served in our local deli. The menu last night offered tongue tacos (Taco de Lengua) with salsa verde and tequila-cured tomato, onion, and cilantro. I asked the server about the dish, and she said it was one of their most popular. Belatedly, it occurred to me that was probably a clever way for her to encourage me to order it. At any rate I did, and it was superb—rich tasting. The meat had been braised overnight. The salsa was too hot for me, but I put some of the tomato on one of my three tacos and later wished I’d put it inside.

A most satisfying experience. We were too full to even consider tres leches cake or ice cream, but I had a second glass of good chardonnay and Megan had another margarita. Then we drove around the Monticello neighborhood a bit, with Megan remarking that she knew the part of Fort Worth she grew up in and the area around her high school, but there are large chunks of the city that are strange to her. We had planned to do a quick drive to Mule Alley because she wanted to see the Drover Hotel and other developments in the stockyards, but we ran out of time. Megan’s a lawyer and got stuck on a call so we barely made it to the restaurant for our reservation. I told her that tour is a good reason for her to come back soon.

The Burtons were here when we got home, demanding to know why we’d been out so late (nine o’clock). They were full of stories of Cabo with a crowd of birthday celebrants. Megan and Jordan pored over pictures (I figure I’ll see them later) and laughed as they always do when they’re together. Christian gave up and went inside, and I soon announced I was going to bed. This morning there was no sign of life from the house—oh I did see Christian let a dog out—until ten o’clock when Megan came out. The two sisters had sat on the front porch and finished the bottle of wine Megan brought.

Happy times—and now I hear Helen Corbitt calling me.

Soph says goodnight.
A girl needs a pillow for her head.

Family matters

 

This was supposed to post last night, but I could not get a WiFi connection all evening—so frustrating.

Same group plus
2014
Kegan front right

Any mother reading this knows how special it is when one of your “away” kids comes to visit, however briefly. I am blessed to live with one of my children, and I wouldn’t for a moment diminish the very special relationship that Jordan and I have. But when one of her siblings is here, it’s a different kind of joy.

Colin David, my oldest, and his family stopped in Fort Worth at lunchtime on their way to Colorado for a week of skiing. Wait! It wasn’t his whole family. Almost fifteen-year-old Kegan was with Colin and Lisa, but Morgan, my sixteen-year-old granddaughter, was on a band ski trip to DisneyWorld. First ski trip one of them has missed in all the many years they’ve been going on this annual spring break trip. Morgan is no doubt excited and not missing the slopes all that much—her boyfriend is also in band, so they are getting the trip together.

Morgan at
DisneyWorld

We were also missing Christian and Jacob. Jacob had to play eighteen holes this weekend—I gather it was coach’s orders—and his tee time was right at lunch time. Christian went to caddy and drive the cart, though I guess since Jacob has a learner’s permit, he could now legally drive it. But he and his dad talk about his game and share other good stuff. It’s a great guys’ outing for them, though we did miss them, and Christian mourned for one particular sandwich he wanted.

My family laughed at me. I ordered a half a tongue sandwich if the tongue was fresh and not frozen. I wasn’t sure but what Lisa would ask me to take my tongue to the next table. The report came back: no tongue. So I had split pea soup. It was, again, part of my program of eating what my family won’t when I am out. Still I took a bit of joking about my menu choices. And about the fact that I forgot my brain and referred to Jordan’s SUV as a van—in my day, it was a van. Jacob would have been mortified if he’d heard that. Even Kegan said quizzically, “Van?”

Colin is almost fifty-three, and he has been eating at Carshon’s Deli in Fort Worth for all the years of his life. We took him there as an infant, and frequent visits, sometimes weekly, followed all the years he lived at home. Now living in Tomball, he does not come to Fort Worth for his mom’s cooking but for a Rebecca sandwich at Carshon’s. I sometimes wonder: If Carshon’s closed, would I ever see him again? He declares the Rebecca (corned beef, turkey, cream cheese, and I’m not sure what else) the best sandwich in the world. Kegan, who has made frequent trips to the deli following his father, usually orders matzoh ball soup, but today he had a Rebecca. “I want to try something different,” he said. But it stymied him, and he left maybe a quarter of the sandwich. Colin scooped it up in a to-go box, and I wonder which one of them ate it on down the road.

It was an exceptionally good visit. Jordan and Lisa were on my right, where my hearing aid has gone out of battery and the new one hasn’t arrived, so I can’t tell for sure what they were talking about. But it had lots to do with calendars. We may all go to Tomball in July, and there is much planning for who will stay with me in August when the Burtons go to Mexico to celebrate Christian’s decade-changing birthday (I won’t say which one, but I bet you can guess). I am self-sufficient alone, but since I can’t drive, it can get lonely, and the kids are good about taking Jordan’s place.

It was a good food day. Jean came for dinner tonight, and I fixed cod with a buttery crumb topping (Ritz crackers make it really buttery) and sauteed cabbage. The family loves the cod, won’t touch the cabbage, so that was another indulgence on my part. Jean and I thought it was delicious. We had a good visit over dinner, bemoaning the state of the world but also catching up on each other’s doings and what’s going on with good friends.

A nice day, with maybe some signs of spring. You think?

 

False alarm and other matters

Thanks to all for good wishes, but my dental emergency disappeared—does that happen to emergencies? I am crediting it to either the power of prayer or magic—take your pick. This morning, there was no tenderness, no sign of all the unusual stuff going on in my mouth yesterday. Dutifully, being an obedient girl remembering the dentistry of my young years, I called the dentist office. The assistant who answered didn’t seem too interested in making me an appointment. “Well, if you really think . . .” I decided I didn’t really think I needed to see the doctor immediately. I am not fooling myself. I know that it could flare again, but for now, it’s okay.

When I was young, twelve or thirteen, I had a lot of cavities, for which I credit my father. Like him, I  had poor enamel on my teeth. Dentistry then was not what it is today, and the drill was a slow, cumbersome, excruciating thing. My family dentist was a family friend—outside the office he was Uncle Walt—but he was taciturn, which didn’t help my discomfort during many many procedures. Later, I learned to appreciate him with some affection, but to this day I remain sort of dental phobic. Today, at least temporarily, was a huge relief.

So I stayed home, worked, and in a fit of energy, prepared the chicken filling for pocket sandwiches for a lunch guest tomorrow. I’ve had this recipe in my untried repertoire forever, always wanted to try it, decided this was the time. But all the while I thought it was chicken salad in a puff pastry dough. Not until I got into making the filling did I realize it was not salad—it’s a meat filling, like an empanada, only chicken and with more Anglo spicing. By that I mean butter, onion, garlic, mushroom, and thyme. It made the cottage smell incredible, and when Jordan came out hours later, her first words were, “It smells good in here.” So tomorrow I fight with the puff pastry. More wishes of good luck are appreciated.

Tonight, I went to dinner with Jean and good friend Betty Boles. We haven’t seen Betty in a while—she fell, had hip replacement surgery, and various other things, including covid precautions, have kept us apart. But it was good to be back together again. We ate at the newly redesigned Tavern. I’m still not sure about some aspects of the redo, but I love the tile floor—a hostess told us it is marble, which made my mind boggle at the cost. As usual, the food was really good—I had been wanting their meatloaf, and it didn’t disappoint. Besides the mashed potatoes, with a reduction sauce from the meatloaf, were delicious. I ordered knowing I wouldn’t eat it all and came home with a generous doggie bag.

Talk at the dinner table ranged over many subjects. For some reason, Jean and I reminisced about our childhood homes. We moved on, of course, to politics and Beto O’Rourke’s announcement today that he is in the governor’s race. I’ve been waiting months for that word, fearing Abbott was getting the drop on him in campaigning. But I think Beto is wily, knew what he was doing. All evidence now suggests he has a well-thought-out campaign planned and is jumping right into it. An Austin columnist I read tonight quoted an Abbott press-release with fear rhetoric about how all Texans must fight against the dangerous liberalism that Beto represents. No specifics, no policy talk, just vague generalities about threats. Beto on the other hand is already talking about the missed opportunities for expanded medical care for our citizens because Abbott would not accept increased Federal help, the dangers of ignoring the grid and the possibility of another power failure this winter, the danger of having an unlicensed, untrained population carrying  guns anywhere and everywhere, the failure of Abbott to deal efficiently with the pandemic which has resulted in the loss of thousands of Texas lives. Beto has specific talking points; Abbott has vague looming threats of “dangerous liberalism.”

A confession: I took a Pew Research Council survey, and the results showed that six percent of the American population is more liberal than I am. That, of course, leaves ninety-four percent on the other side of the line. Christian said, “That’s about right.” But I think there must have been a mistake. As I rant and rave about injustices and blind stupidity in this world, I think there must be more people who agree with me. If not, please don’t burst my little bubble.

Y’all have a good night. As my mom always said, “Tomorrow is another day.”

Family fun and a bit of nostalgia

 

Jamie, me, Jacob, and Jordan

Jordan’s selfies often have us all at such angles that we look tipsy. We weren’t, but we were having a great time at Pacific Table last night. Jamie said he’d be in town early, but when I tracked him, all day, he was at Clearfork. Since he’s in charge of sales for an international toy company, all I could think was that he was selling lots of toys to Neiman’s. Not so. He has a company office space at WeWork, which enables him to work at any of several locations. He knew, rightly, that if he came here, he would be distracted, so he appeared on my doorstep about five, and I promptly put him to work installing iPassword on my computer. Successful installation, but we were unable to figure out how to use it. Waiting for advice from the two other sons who advised me to get it.

Jamie, Jordan, Jacob, and I went to dinner at Pacific Table—Christian was at a work event. Jamie had carefully made reservations for the patio, since I’m leery about sitting in a packed restaurant right now. But when we got there, the patio was closed—staffing problems, which are apparently common in the restaurant business these days. But it was okay especially on a Monday night. Few people there, and we had a corner table, way off by ourselves. All the staff were masked, although our wait person’s mask hung just below her nose. None of the patrons were masked. Sigh.

Fun to think Jacob, our picky eater, is sophisticated enough to order California roll—and then eat what Jamie didn’t want of his. I debated trout Almondine and fried oysters with Caesar, but Jordan decided for me by pointing out I can cook trout at home but probably won’t cook oysters. And the Caesar salad was delicious—it may be my favorite in town.

Dinner was the high point of a good day. I finished the first edit/rewrite of my work in progress. Managed to add six thousand words, fix lots of typos, and make Henny, the heroine, a bit feistier, which is her trademark characteristic. I’m hoping to do one more read-through and then send it to Fred, who reads and critiques everything I write. He saw me through the TCU English doctoral program fifty-plus years ago and remains my good friend and teacher. How lucky am I!

Scooby and a tiny Sophie
He tolerated everything except when she tried to steal his treats

This morning this picture popped up on my memories on One Drive. It must be a new Microsoft thing, but they send me memories every day. This one struck close to my heart. Scooby was wild and crazy, the result of having been an ignored back-yard dog and sometimes abused, the first third of his life. We had a rough time getting used to each other but eventually both were devoted, and he was perhaps the sweetest dog I’ve ever had (shhh! Don’t tell Sophie!). He slept by my desk so much that the floor in his spot is worn down to bare wood, and he slept by my bed every night. When Sophie came along, he taught her manners—with medium success. I will always miss Scoob.

I swear some day I’m going to write something about dogs I have known and loved, be it a longish essay or a short book. I probably have the closest emotional relationship with Soph, because she is the dog of my retirement—spoiled enough that she thinks I should be here all the time with her. And protective enough that she barks frantically at many things, including the yard guys last night which nearly drove Jamie crazy. But each dog, going back to early childhood, was special, a character in its own way. Telling their stories is on my bucket list.

Tonight, I’m going to try to breeze through the last of that novel I’ve been reading about replacement of Japanese citizens in Chicago.

Moodling on a rainy day

 

Rain, rain, go away
Come again another day

Surprise! It’s raining in North Texas—as it has done almost every day for weeks. Most people are complaining, and rightly so—we may grow webbed feet (anyone remember the story from Owen Wister’s The Virginian? IF not, the book is worth exploring or revisiting, origin of the myth of the American West, and all that. But I digress.) The Metroplex is in serious danger of flooding if a lot more rain falls on already-saturated ground. And in Frisco, where one branch of my family lives, they have or had loud, frequent lightning. Since the house was hit last week, killing most  of the televisions, my daughter-in-law reports she is no longer a fan.

But unlike everyone else, I have thoroughly enjoyed this morning. The rain has been steady but gentle, the sky dark as night, and the thunder softly rolling (not at all how Sophie interprets it—at one point she was trapped between the twin evils of thunder outside and the vacuum cleaner inside). I have been at my desk all morning, happily keeping busy[JA1] .

Actually what I’ve been doing is moodling. Thanks to mystery writer Joanne Giudoccio’s blog where Catherine Castle taught me this new word and concept. In Castle’s words, “The imagination needs moodling—long, inefficient happy idling, dawdling and puttering.” Another author suggests, “What you write today is the result of some span of idling yesterday, some fairly long period of protection from talking and busyness.” Castle advises, “Give yourself permission to daydream and reflect without too many expectations. And don’t be disappointed if a spark or epiphany doesn’t emerge quickly.”

To the immediate right of my desk is a large window that looks out on part of our small back yard, including the deck with its profusion of flowers. So that’s what I’ve been doing—gazing out the window a lot and letting my mind wander. For days. It’s gotten to the point that my conscience is bothering me, because I know I’m avoiding my work-in-progress, a mystery, and hoping inspiration will suddenly strike—and that I’ll recognize it. It’s not all gazing out the window, and some of what has occupied me can legitimately be called work. Answering emails, posting about the newly reprinted historical novels, taking care of such business as a dental appointment and figuring out how to renew my handicapped parking tag. All that is done with some frustration—I cannot crack the secret of getting an identification card once you don’t have an active driver’s license. Then someone involved me in a quest for the name of a novelist from the 1970s, so I’ve spent time wracking my brain, fruitlessly. There’s a must-write column due this week, so I have to get to that.

Still, what I’m doing is putting “busy work” between me and the novel. I told myself that I would get back to it this week, but things are not looking good. This morning, my most productive time is almost gone; tomorrow I’m going on a big grocery expedition, I think, the Lord willing and the heavens don’t open again. Maybe Wednesday?

It was a kind of stare-out-the-window weekend too. The only excitement I can report is a trip to the new restaurant, The Rim, at Waterside. Carol and I went because we have never found better fried chicken than what Keith Hix produced at his Buttons location. We were crushed when Buttons closed and overjoyed when he and investors opened The Rim. The fried chicken was as excellent as ever, so hot you had to poke steam vents in it and let it cool; the potatoes, smashed not mashed, were maybe the best I’ve eaten (Jordan, the queen of mashed potatoes in our house, is offended that I even thought that). The Rim is not an upscale, white-tablecloth kind of place. Whoever designed it was striving for retro—and almost made it. But it’s sure worth a trip to Waterside. I came home with two drumsticks for my lunch but lost one to Jordan the minute I hit the door.

Ho hum—lunch and then a nap and more moodling. Christian is fixing dinner tonight—a roast with all the veggies.

---

Life on the road

 

The other day I was idly scrolling through those news clips that are designed to hook you when you first log in to the internet—I think on my server they are from msn. But I came across a post about upscale RVs available today. I don’t know if you of you ever traveled in a Winnebago or not, but I am here to tell you they are passé.

There were RVs worth up to $5 million, though that was the top end. Several in the $2 million range—lots more than the value of my house on its nice, secure piece of Texas land. The décor in these expensive monsters ranged from dark wood, a kind of men’s club atmosphere, to bleached wood that shouted “moderne.” They all had fairly efficient kitchen areas, small tables for eating, parallel couches along the sides of the “living space,” and king-size beds in the bedroom.

I got to wondering: if you have a motor home worth that much—and probably bigger than you’re average Winnebago, though I don’t know that—do you hire a driver or trust the man of the family to learn to drive the behemoth?

It all took me back forty-some years to when Joel, my ex, and I borrowed a Winnebago that belong to a friend of a friend and took our four very young children back to Missouri to how them where we’d met and gone to school—as if at six and under, they cared. But we did. Joel drove, which when I think on it was the first bit of folly. He never learned to drive until he was twenty—what kid in the Bronx had a car?—and then he was self-taught. From what I understand Winnebagos offered as much protection as a sardine can—if they were hit, everything fell apart and the contents scattered everywhere.

But we did fine until we got to Kanas. On the other side of Topeka, the RV just suddenly quit. We called for help and then sat on the edge of a cornfield waiting for help. When I think today on how vulnerable we were, sitting in that dead vehicle, I shudder with fear. But a truck came, towed us back to Topeka, and we left the Winnebago for repair and departed in one of those converted truck campers with a sleeping space squeezed in over the cab.

The kids thought it was great fun, even when the refrigerator flew open and cottage cheese went all over the place. Still I managed some good meals in that confined space. I still remember one night we had meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans. We had stopped to visit friends in Missouri, and their teen-age son came out to eat with us. In a moment still famous in family history, he said, “Oops, I sat in my mashed potatoes.”

We saw friends in Omaha and Missouri and had a thoroughly good time. I liked sitting on a comfortable couch, watching the scenery go by. It was, to me, like a train trip—and I had always adored trains. We had other minor catastrophes, though now I can’t really remember them. Jamie replayed for me, scene by scene, an outdoor event he says we went to and he remembers clearly. He would have been about three. I have no recollection of it, but I trust him because we always say he remembers everything since he came out of the womb.

Today? I don’t think I have the nerve to undertake such a trip. Unless maybe it was in one of those luxury vans with a hired driver who doubled as a bodyguard (what a sad state our country is in!). But then where would the driver sleep? With the family?

I think I’ll stick to my pandemic policy: close to home is best.

Tonight I did venture out to a restaurant with friend Carol. For some time, we have enjoyed the fried chicken from chef Keith Hix. We were devastated when he closed his Buttons restaurant and moved to Burleson, then elated when he opened a branch in Fort Worth. The Rim is in the Waterside complex off South Bryant Irvin. The fried chicken is as wonderful as ever, the mashed potatoes beyond compare (with some secret ingredient beside the ton of butter). Ordering from the wine list? Order the top of the line. Carol and I enjoyed it, and we’ll go back—for the chicken.

A lovely supper in an old place made new

 

See that teenager? I'm betting one day he plays the Colonial.
Meantime, he and his mom and dad enjoyed being spectators today.

For years there was a Hoffbrau Steak and Grill House on University Drive in Fort Worth—both my daughters worked there at one time or another. What can I say? It was a burger joint, not much ambience, dark, lots of wood, a bar where folks sometimes got noisy, a big wooden deck.

Well now it’s been redone into Maria’s Mexican Kitchen—you wouldn’t recognize the place. The bar area where you enter is upscale, bright with color, clean. We went through a dining area (where the old main dining was but much lighter and cleaner, all that wood gone) to the patio—tiled floor, two small pools, very upscale and modern.

We were given ever consideration from valet to wait staff. Because I must use a walker, I’m always a bit sensitive to that, but the valet made sure I got up the curb, parked the car close to the front; the host showed us the ramp, arranged the chairs to my convenience. I felt downright spoiled.

I was dining with two longtime friends—fifty years we figured out tonight. All of us once married to osteopathic physicians—now widowed and divorced. Did we talk about the past? Not at all. The present had too many wild stories to tell. We tried—okay I failed—to avoid politics, because we are not all on the same page. But children and in-laws and all kinds of stuff.

I was a bit leery of the menu because everything sounded spicy. A conversation with the waitress told me I could substitute crab cakes in sour cream for the spicy sauces. That sounded so good to Linda that she ordered the same thing, and they were wonderful. Nancy had a platter, with a mole enchilada, I think.

Food was good, atmosphere was great, staff was friendly and kind. What more could you ask?

Interesting side note: a woman at the next table was friendly, telling us how good their dinner was. When she left, she looked at me and asked, “Are you Judy?” Turned out to be someone I am Facebook friends with (we share fairly strong political views) and, perhaps more important, we both adore the woman who cuts our hair. Her husband is also a Facebook friend, but he had moved on, talking to someone else. A nice chance encounter that brightened an already pleasant evening.

Other than that, it was a lazy Sunday. I didn’t push myself to get any work done. Coincidentally, the sermon this morning was on keeping the sabbath and not feeling we have to work every minute. That all-consuming focus on work, the minister suggested, is something that intensified during pandemic when so many people worked from home. Today, as usual, I worshipped from home, but we are about ready to go back to the church. Christian talked about it recently, and we’re waiting for the right Sunday.

You know those people who make all kinds of excuses for not being in church? That’s us! Mother’s Day was out because we were getting ready to do lunch for ten. Last week was out because Jordan was out of town—yes, we could have gone without her, but we didn’t. This week was out, because Jordan, Christian, and Jacob were going to the PGA tournament at Colonial Country Club. Who knows what next Sunday will bring? I will say while we have not been there physically, I have been faithful about attending virtual church, and Jordan has joined me most Sundays.

A busy week ahead and one in which I will get out of the cottage more for a variety of errands and appointments. It’s about time.

Sweet dreams, everyone!

 

A St. Patrick’s Day surprise

With Jamie and Eden

This is yesterday's blog today because we thought my phone had died. It didn't--I guess it just needed a vacation. Anyway today I could get to the picture Jamie texted me of our supper last night, which involved a lovely surprise—Jamie’s younger daughter, Eden, my second grandchild now a high school senior, met us at Pacific Table. Drove all the way from Frisco to surprise her grandmother. She had told me a week or two ago that she could now hug me since she had covid in January and had lots of antibodies, but I didn’t expect her to put it into action. I was so glad to see her and hear about all that’s going on—she got her acceptance today to UC Santa Barbara, so she has been accepted several prestigious places but is still waiting on a couple of others. Meantime she, once a shy kid, now sparkles with self-confidence—and long, light lilac fingernails. I simply adore her.

Eden is a vegetarian, has been for years, so Pacific Table was perfect—she had a grilled artichoke, sushi, and cucumber salad; I had the fried oysters with Caesar salad; and Jamie—frown—had a hamburger. Who goes to a fish place and orders hamburger? He said it was good though—and half of it came home, along with his jalapeno cole slaw. Best part: we had a wonderful visit.

So that was why we had our St. Patrick’s Day dinner a day early, because Jamie knew that Eden was planning to “surprise” me tonight. Last night we were Irish to the core with a delicious and bountiful supper—corned beef, potatoes, and carrots, the meat simmered most of the day and the vegetables added judiciously throughout (it doesn’t take baby carrots long to cook but oh, my, did they soak up flavor!). Jamie proved to be masterful at sautéing cabbage. I chopped up what I thought was a goodly amount, and he scoffed, “That will cook down to nothing.” Though I swear I remember adding sour cream, he wanted nothing but butter, a lot of it, and salt and pepper. The result was cabbage sweet and good beyond imagining! I thought my plate looked over-filled, but I ate every bite and am looking forward to leftovers.

We did have the predicted storms last night, about three a.m. Lots of rolling thunder, a bit of lightning, a bit of rain, and, thank goodness, no hail. The wind blew and blew, and I sat for a few minutes watching the patio umbrella—it was unfurled, but still wobbling in the wind. My spray of green pinpoint lights, a Christmas holdover, is still on at three in the morning, and sometimes I get mesmerized just looking at it in my half-sleep state. Spooked by the weather, Sophie parked herself right by the bed and stayed there, except when I went to the bathroom, in which case she followed me so closely I was in danger of tripping.

The wind is still blowing tonight and the temperature falling—not cold, but with the wind a bit brisk. A good workday for me: I sent off the Handbook of Texas entry on socialite/sculptor Electra Waggoner Biggs and I did some semi-coherent writing about Helen Corbitt, of Neiman-Marcus fame. Also reviewed the publicly available images on Corbitt through the Texas History Portal—lots of good recipes. How can I ever cook them all? That project may yet take shape in my mind.

Breaking quarantine

 

Kathie and I, with Carol taking the picture

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

A day with my daughters

Jordan at the Jewel Charity Ball

Today was another Saturday that broke the mold of my usual Saturdays. My daughters and I had brunch at the Taste Project, with them laughing because I said I usually eat tuna salad and cottage cheese on Saturday mid-day.

Maybe you’ve been to this unique restaurant that’s part of the revitalization of South Main in Fort Worth. If not, let me tell you about it. The idea is that you pay what you can afford for the meal. Menu items have a price, and they do give you a check after you finish your meal. But if you can’t afford to pay anything, no problem—and I’m pretty sure I saw some homeless folks looking for a free meal. Perhaps some people pay what they can, to show good faith, even if they can’t afford the meal. And some, like us, overpay because we think it’s such a wonderful contribution to the community.

This was the second time I’ve been there. Jordan and I went—she thinks a year ago for her March birthday. I remember we had lamb burgers which were terrific but too much. We should have split one. Jordan wanted to take half home to Jacob, but no deal. That’s one unusual aspect of this creative restaurant: no doggie bags. Can’t eat all your meal? Too bad. You can’t take it with you. Serving the underserved as they do, you can see the logic behind this rule.

I initially started to order a meatloaf sandwich, one of my all-time favorites. I thought I'd take half home, but then I realized I couldn't do that. So I turned down the meatloaf and the chicken salad sandwich which also caught my attention, in favor of a salad, which I knew I could finish.

Today, the girls split avocado toast, which came topped with scrambled eggs, and a vegetable omelet. One of those items was topped with ricotta, but I’m not sure which, and there was an accompaniment of home-style fries. I had a blood orange salad with blood orange dressing and roasted beets. All of it was delicious.

The décor is industrial modern—clean and neat, open and airy. Many of the workers are volunteers. In fact, one young man wore a TCOM T-shirt, and I couldn’t resist telling him I’d been part of the osteopathic college when it first opened, gasp! fifty years ago.

All in all, it was a lovely experience, and I’m anxious to go back. Parking is a problem, especially for me with my walker, but we were able to get a place close to the front door.

Megan took a one o’clock bus back to Austin, Jordan went hunting for a ball gown, and I had a nap. Tonight, I had that tuna and cottage cheese they teased me about. Jordan and Christian are off to the Jewel Charity Ball, dining and dancing in high cotton. She looks lovely in her sparkly black gown. I am ready to settle down and finish the novel I’m reading, but I’m waiting for Jacob to decide he wants the burrito I have for his dinner. Back to routine tonight, after a nice break.                                                                                           

Good news and a good day

Too content and sleepy to post last night, but it was a good day.

The sweetest words you ever hear from a doctor: “See you in a year.” That’s what my cardiologist said to me yesterday. I had been apprehensive about the visit because my cell phone had alerted me to some heartbeat irregularities, and I ended up wearing a monitor for twenty-four hours. But the doctor said I was doing great, and better yet, he explained everything in detail, answering a few questions that had puzzled me. We ended up talking quite a bit about cell phone technology and how much smarter the next generation is. 

I'm on a roll with doctors' appointments. This morning my family medicine guy told me he'd see me in six months, and he's been seeing me every three months forever. His waiting room had an alarming number of people wearing masks. Made Jordan nervous, and she kept saying, "Don't touch anything." I came home and washed my hands thoroughly.

Doctor’s appointment yesterday was followed by lunch at Press Café with good friend Mary. I like the food there, but it is always so noisy that conversation is impossible for me and my hearing aids. Yesterday we were early enough it wasn’t that noisy—we could mostly hear each other. But we were seated by the door. Despite the high side of a booth between us and the door, we froze every time someone came in or out. I had the deconstructed tuna salad—a lovely plate with tuna salad, cantaloupe and pineapple, and sliced tomatoes and cheese, the latter with a really good salad dressing. Mary’s hamburger looked delicious but was huge.

It was an eating day, because Jean and I went to Clay Pigeon for supper, with our minds and taste buds firmly set on bone marrow. I am delighted to find that one of my friends likes it as much as I do. No, I wouldn’t want it once a week, but it’s a terrific occasional treat. For Christmas, DIL Lisa gave me a marrow spoon—yes, I found it on Amazon and sent her the link. Last night was the first time I used it, and it really is efficient, much better than the regular spoon the restaurant gives you. Our waiter, however, did not look impressed when I showed it to him.

My marrow spoon

When I got home from supper, Jordan came out to the cottage, and we talked a good, long while. One of the lovely benefits of living within yards of one of my children. But the evening got away from me, and I didn’t blog and didn’t post my weekly comments about readings lists to a small online writing group. Next chore on my desk, and then I’ll update my web page. Someday soon, I promise myself, I’m going to sort tax information!

Home again, home again, jiggety-jig

Sophie and I are settled back in the cottage, after our adventure in Tomball. Colin, Morgan, and I set out this morning before nine o’clock under gray, drizzling skies. The drive offered another nice chance for me to visit with Colin. Morgan had her Air Buds or whatever in her ears, listening to music. It didn’t seem like a long drive, but it was—we were eleven minutes late to meet Jordan, Christian, and Jacob at the Health Camp in Waco.

Do not be misled. The Health Camp is anything but a health food restaurant—the menu is limited to various forms of burgers, a grilled chicken sandwich, Frito pie, and Frito pie salad. The last item puzzled us—Morgan and I could not envision adding lettuce to Frito pie. We all had burgers, but poor Jacob ate his (and a rich chocolate milkshake) in the car, babysitting Sophie. We would have chosen a patio table, but the skies were still threatening.

My kids are beyond good to ferry me back and forth as they do. Colin was expecting to drive me all the way to Fort Worth, but Jordan volunteered to meet him in Waco—about two and a half hours from Tomball and an hour and a half from Fort Worth, Christian and Jacob, hardcore Baylor fans, make the drive fairly frequently for football games.

Just as I was basking in the glow of how good they are to me, I realized everyone had a hamburger but me. Jordan and Colin each thought the other had ordered it. So that got straightened out, and I had my very own greasy cheeseburger—not usually my choice, but the kids love that place.

We were back in Fort Worth by a little before two, and by five-thirty I was unpacked, everything put away, and I’d had a nap. It’s called being compulsive. Jordan brought out some of the cheeseball she’d made for Thanksgiving dinner, and we had a delightful happy hour.

I would call the trip to Tomball a rousing success—I enjoyed it a lot, got some work done, ate more than I usually do, and slept a lot. Visited with people I enjoyed, got to sit by the lake, did a good bit of reading. Colin and Lisa and the grandkids waited on me to the point I felt over-indulged, but they were sweet and kind about it.

Every trip has its hitch—this time it is that my car and house keys are still in Tomball. I remember saying to Colin, “I’m putting my keys in the side pocket of the car. Don’t let me forget.” Of course, we both forgot until I got home and couldn’t find them. As Jordan pointed out, I never should have taken them in the first place—obviously, I didn’t need them.

Sometimes there’s a letdown coming back from even a short vacation, but none such here because I had such a warm welcome. Jordan had Christmas decorations up in the cottage and fed me a great dinner—yeah, you got it: turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, and green bean casserole.

I had a great time, but it’s good time, but it’s good to be home.

Three friends and a stranger

When I first moved to Fort Worth, some fifty-plus years ago, I knew nothing of the city and little more of Texas. My parents visited my brother at the Corpus Christi Naval Air Station and reported an almost tropical landscape. My then-husband, on the strength of one visit to Turkey, Texas described a brown and desolate landscape. I was puzzled. But uniformly people told me not to worry about living in Fort Worth, because we would be going to Dallas all the time.

It has not worked out that way. We arrived in the summer after the JFK assassination, and after having lived through that long weekend via TV, I was terrified at the thought of seeing the assassination site. But beyond that, Fort Worth kept us busy, and we found few reasons to go to Dallas.

By now, I have been to Addison and Frisco a lot to see one child and his family, but trips to Dallas itself? Few and far between. So it was an adventure for me to go with Carol Roark today, so we could lunch with Texas publishing giant and good friend Fran Vick. Carol drove, of course, and I was overwhelmed by the traffic, the changed skyline, and the dramatically changed patterns of the freeways. I could not even imagine myself driving there, but Carol, who worked in Dallas for years and still goes there once a week, zipped from lane to lane like she knew what she as doing and where she was going—and except for the actual location of the restaurant, she did know. I was in good and safe hands.

When I was director of TCU Press, Fran was director of UNT Press, and with Gayla, from A&M, we called ourselves Three Women of Publishing. We not only collaborated professionally, but we were good friends outside work—and that included sleepovers with conversations that required much wine and lasted into the night. My youngest son went to work for Fran’s husband and, years later, bought the toy manufacturer’s representatives business from him. We were family, and we knew each other’s families.

Carol and I have worked together and been friends for years. TCU Press published several of her books. As a friend, she was the first and most persistent to get me out and back to life in the world after my hip surgery left me on a walker. Meanwhile, at meetings of the state historical association and other groups, she and Fran got to be friends and colleagues.

Time and circumstances have kept us apart, so today’s lunch was a real reunion. We talked about publishing and the recent deaths of three of Texas’ literary giants, today’s politics (we’re all on the same page), families, food, aging (I tried to persuade Fran it’s all in her head) and who knows what else. It was soul satisfying and wonderful.

On the way out of the restaurant, Carol decided we should take a selfie. We were obviously bumbling around about it, so a lovely young woman at another table hopped up and volunteered to take the picture above. We had no idea who the man in the wall art is, though something is dinging around in my mind that he was an iconoclastic Dallas figure who drove an outrageous Cadillac with longhorns on it. But I can’t get beyond that thought to identify him.

Tonight, unexpected thunder and a bit of rain have lowered the temperature, added humidity we didn’t need but brought the nice new rain smell. I’m a happy camper.

Jordan Appreciation Day

      

Jordan called it Mom Appreciation Day, but it was really Mom appreciating Jordan for all the little (and big) things she does for me. On Mothers’ Day, we forgot my leftovers as we exited the restaurant amidst a flurry of hugs and goodbyes. I just assumed she had them, because she knows I can’t carry a to-go box with my walker. But she set them down—and forgot. When we got home and discovered the faux pas, she said, “I just wish Christian and Jacob would help me take care of you.”

That rocked me on my heels. I know I need help with some big things, but even with the walker I think of myself as fairly independent. She made me realize there are a lot of small things I cannot do for myself, from getting clothes down off the hanging bar to mopping up the face powder I spilled in the bathroom—and carrying the doggie bag. Yes, I can cook, get myself to bed at night and up in the morning, work at my desk, go out with friends, drive on some limited errands, but as someone once said, it’s the little things that make life rich. And Jordan does those for me, often anticipating what I need before I realize it.

Tonight I drove my car to the VW dealership for some minor (I hope) repairs. I told Jordan I’d leave well before she got home with Jacob because I was going one of my devious back roads to avoid rush hour traffic. I thought I made good time, but I had barely begun talking with the service rep when she appeared. When I commented, she simply said, “VIP service.”

So today I took her to lunch at Rise, the restaurant that specializes in souffles. She swore she’d never had one, and I’m quite sure I never tried to make one. Now it’s one of the few things I really couldn’t do in my tiny kitchen. A toaster oven won’t quite accommodate a souffle. I have been to Rise several times—both in Fort Worth and Dallas—but it was new to Jordan, and she loved all of it. The rustic French décor, plates, serving pieces, linen—it’s all of a well-coordinated piece.

We decided to split, which worked out unevenly. We shared the marshmallow soup that Christian raves about—perhaps I heard too much hype, but I wasn’t blown away. Then we had a truffle-infused mushroom souffle and a baguette sandwich with jambon, gruyere, and cornichons. Both excellent (I just ate the other half of the sandwich for supper). Of course, chardonnay with our lunch.

Besides our elegant lunch, we ran errands—the grocery, the vet twice (because I wasn’t clear about what I needed), the cleaners, Trader Joe’s—sort of exhausting. I came home to take my usual nap. My mom used to say “There’s no rest for the weary”—or was it the wicked? I must be both weary and wicked, because yesterday when I napped, our lawn guys noisily did their job; today it was the neighbor’s lawn guys, who are just as noisy and sound just as close. Perhaps tomorrow shall be a day of peace and quiet.

Tomorrow shall also be a day of work. I’ve been lollygagging while I wait for copy edits on the Alamo and, I hope, a new contract. But tonight I decided to take matters into my own hands, and I’ve made a list of things I could and should do. Admittedly, some are cooking—I want to pickle a red onion and read the new Bon Appetit—but I also need to put new plants in my indoor garden, and I think I’ll look at an old manuscript, once published in the Fort Worth Star-Telegram and see how I feel about reprinting it. Anticipating a good day—and I’ll be so glad to have the wheel locks off my car. Just maybe I can also find out when they’ll replace my bedroom flooring. Life comes at you with unexpected problems, but I always figure I can handle them.