A food craving satisfied and memories of rodeo days

 

Eating fried chicken in the cottage

For some time, I’ve been craving fried chicken, so tonight we ordered dinner for four from Bonnell’s Curbside meals. During quarantine, when restaurants saw their business diminish and disappear, Fort Worth’s Jon Bonnell found a way to keep his Bonnell’s Fine Cuisine active. He packaged curbside meals for four, priced them reasonably, and sold them literally on the curb by his restaurant each afternoon, Tuesday through Saturday. They were so successful, he has continued the tradition to this day. We have had them a few times—mostly the Beef Stroganoff. Several of the entrees are pasta which isn’t popular here, usually one is shrimp which I can’t eat, and one is smoked chicken and pulled brisket which doesn’t appeal. The Stroganoff though is delicious, and I still want to try the meat loaf. Tonight’s chicken came with mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, salad, and brownies. And the amount is generous. So craving satisfied.

Jacob almost never ever eats Saturday night dinner with us. This afternoon when I asked if he was joining us, he said, “Probably not. It’s Saturday night, you know.” I replied, “Sometimes in life you have to make choices. We’re having fried chicken.” He said with a grin he’d have to think about that. Somewhat to my surprise, he showed up for supper.

So now I’m full and happy—and waiting until I’m hungry enough to eat the remaining brownie.

We never had fried chicken in my home when I was growing up, which may account for my fascination with it now. I honestly don’t know if my mom ever tried to fry a chicken. (She did teach me early on how to cut up a chicken, something the girls in my family refuse to do—Jordan in particular won’t touch raw poultry, and for some years my function at Thanksgiving and Christmas was to prepare the turkey for roasting. They’ve gotten better now about it.) Not only did Mom not want to fry in all that oil, Dad, the proper Englishman, did not tolerate picking up food in our hands. A sandwich at lunch at the kitchen table was okay but never at the dinner table (we ate with linen tablecloth and napkins every night and no passed food—Dad served the plates as the head of the household; no, we were not rich, just shaped by his Canadian/British background). I have never myself tried to fry chicken, and I find “oven fried” a poor substitute. But tonight I was thinking that what attracts me as much as anything is the slightly peppery seasoning of the coating. I think that’s a southern thing.

Tonight may have been fried chicken night at the cottage, but it is the last night of the Southwestern Exposition and Stock Show, lovingly known in Fort Worth as the stock show and in the past as the “Fat Stock Show.” The powers that be dropped the “Fat” some years ago. Tonight, the owner of the champion steer, a high school girl, is $340,000 richer—I’m no judge but her snow-white steer is one of the most beautiful steers I’ve ever seen. I think a conglomerate usually buys the winner, so it is spared from the slaughterhouse, and the owner is spared that dilemma between emotion and profit.

Rodeo always makes me nostalgic. When my children were little, going to the rodeo was a rite of passage. Each had to wait until they were judged old enough, and then it was one of the highlights of the year. We routinely went with another family for several years and dined on the ribs and sausage offered by Coburn’s Catering, a longtime culinary institution. That family moved away, but then we developed a tradition of all the Alters coming for rodeo—the performance on Friday night, prowling the grounds, especially the Midway Saturday afternoon, and dinner at Joe T.’s Saturday night. It was an annual reunion that I truly looked forward to. Gradually the tradition fell apart—with kids in school, it was hard for families ot get away and parents had other demands. Now, some years Megan comes with a friend, but she didn’t even do that this year. Jordan and Christian have gone several times, with friends, and Jacob has gone at least once. My rodeo days are long over, not just because the arena is not accessible for me but because I’ve joined the ranks of those who don’t want to see the brutality of rodeo, especially the bull riding. Having written a bit about rodeo, I know they take every precaution for man and beast, but it can still be brutal. I don’t want to see anyone or any animal hurt. But it sure does provide some great memories.

Grands at the rodeo, back in the day

 

Stock Show weather

 

It’s a given in For Worth that when the annual Southwestern Exposition and Livestock Show hits town, late January to early February, we have “stock show weather.” A few years lately, with the weather so crazy, we have missed it, but today it rolled in, with one more week to go of the show. It may be a livestock show, crucial to ranchers, FFA kids who show their livestock in hopes of winning lucrative prizes and scholarships, and a lot of others from all over the Southwest, but to Fort Worth residents, the show means “Rodeo!” Two performances a day, and some of the best rodeo you’ll ever see.

But stock show weather brings the city to a halt, including audiences at the rodeo. And the weather hit today, though as usual we are in suspense as to what directions it will take. So far it’s been really cold for us—27 all day—and we’ve had spitting sleet and freezing rain, just enough to have fender bender accidents all over the Metroplex. In Fort Worth, I have heard of two cars that ended upside down. Schools in a wide area will be closed tomorrow as everyone buckles down.

But the news reports I heard tonight said it won’t get much colder, and we will have only occasional precip during the night. But what will it do tomorrow? A dense band of moisture is supposed to come through, but it’s one of those situations—will it or won’t it? Christian and Jacob both have rodeo plans tomorrow, and I had cancelled any plans to cook for them. Now Christian says he thinks (notice that qualifier) that he will be home but suspects Jacob will move hell and high water to get to the rodeo.

Today I was grateful to stay inside all day, but I was definitely aware that the cottage has hot spots and cold spots—and my desk is in a cold spot, probably because of the big window next to it and the French doors just two or three feet away. You think? I have kicked those heaters in the living area and bedroom (are they perhaps called mini-splits?) up to farther than I should and have also increased the fan speed. Plus put an extra insulating blanket on my bed—I had a really cozy nap today, until Sophie barked at me.

Soph doesn’t seem to mind the cold. She has been in and out all day (as Jacob would say, “So annoying!”). That would be okay but if she comes in by herself, she bangs the door open and does not, unsurprisingly, know enough to close it. If I have to go open the door, she often stands and looks at me, as if to say, “You want me to come in? I’ll take it under consideration.” Meantime, I’m freezing, so I break down and say, “Treat.” She comes right in. But then the rest of the family accuses me of spoiling her.

A couple of things stop me from enjoying this enforced stay-at-home period, not that I go out that much anyway, but with the weather like this, I am always a bit cold. And I worry about friends and family on the roads, even the back streets. This is Jacob’s first year with a driver’s license, and his car is an SUV, top heavy and no four-wheel drive. A perfect candidate for skidding, sliding, even flipping, and I don’t think he’s experienced enough to handle that. Are Texas kids taught what to do when the car starts to fishtail? I fear not. (Oh, how he would hate to hear me say these things!)

Mondays are always tough. Why is there so much news? Why do so many people send emails on Mondays? I spent most of the day catching up and only proofed two chapter of my novel. Got to do better tomorrow, and that makes me grateful for an enforced day at home.

So stay warm and safe at home, if you possibly can, and thank the gods for a roof over your head, a warm bed, food in your pantry. If you know of someone who doesn’t have those things, please reach out. And pray the damn grid holds!

Long day, cozy evening

 

It’s cozy in the cottage—the Christmas tree and its lights are at last gone, but my electric candles burn bravely on the coffee table, my tiny fake fireplace offers an orange glow. The bulb in the one lamp that burns night and day was once harsh white, but I have replaced it with one with a soft, rosy glow. With the overhead lights off, the feeling is one of coziness, as though I’m snug in my comfort place.

The family is out for the night. Jacob doing whatever sixteen-year-old boys do when they’re not doing homework—I don’t ask anymore—and his parents gone to the rodeo for Bulls Night Out. When my children were little and then later when the grands were little, going to the rodeo was a family annual big event. We’d tour the barns in the day and then go to the carnival grounds for the kids to ride the rides. I can still see Jacob bravely coming down a huge slide all alone, while the others had a parent with them. Dinner at the sort of mess hall place that Coulter’s Catering always offered, and then the rodeo. And late at night we’d take home sleepy children.

I loved those days, but somewhere along the way I lost my taste for rodeo. First it was the bull riding. I heard one too many stories about young men killed or permanently disabled by riding a bull, and I just flat did not want to see it. With the rest of the family happily in their bleacher seats, I’d slip out and wait in the concourse. But that aversion to bull riding gradually spread and became an aversion to all the rodeo contests, while I decided the inter-act entertainment wasn’t really that entertaining. By then, the family schedules were too busy for them to come to Fort Worth for the weekend, and the tradition sort of fell apart.

But not for Christian and Jordan—Christian often entertains clients at the rodeo, and Jordan goes with him some of the time.

For me, it’s been a long day of intense work on my Helen Corbitt manuscript. I am re-reading, chapter by chapter, looking for errors and places to expand. I’m actually enjoying the process a great deal, and I hope the enthusiasm continues. Last night, working late into the night, I uncovered the names, birth and death dates of her parents, and death date and lifetime residence of her only brother. The State of New York has an odd way of classifying communities according to the governmental body that administers social services—so they have hamlets, villages, towns, etc. I discovered that some of the places the Corbitt family lived were unincorporated hamlets within villages or towns, so that accounts for confusing information about that town they were in. I am now up to a chapter that moves temporarily away from Helen to the food trends of the fifties and sixties—material I find fascinating, because I still like to cook those dishes.

I’ve also been collecting trivia as I go through the day. This morning, a banner on the TV screen alerted me that the TODAY show was featuring dinners with five simple ingredients. I was all prepared to be excited, but the first meal began with a ribeye steak. Well, shoot! I could cook five-ingredient gourmet meals every night of the week if my budget allowed for ribeye steaks for four. As it is, I ordered cube steak for four today and was blown away by the price. Hesitated, but finally purchased it. Central Market disappointed however by sending me phyllo for puff pastry—I do not want to mess with buttering layers of phyllo dough—and a huge Napa cabbage instead of bok choy. I’ll split the cabbage with a friend.

When I wrote a few days ago about the Missouri Legislature passing a bill requiring women to wear long sleeves and blazers or cardigans or some other kind of second layers, a friend in Missouri wrote that he was quite sure it wouldn’t pass. His senator was, he said, doing a good job of controlling the extreme right. Oops! They passed it buried in their rules bill. It’s an affront to women and an early step toward the kind of authoritarian control of women that is being so bravely confronted in Iran.

For cozy mystery readers, another outrageous note: I saw a mystery with an intriguing title: Of Mushrooms and Matrimony, featuring sleuth Tish Tarragon. Okay, the sleuth’s name is a bit too clever, but I thought I’d order sample pages—until I saw that the Kindle version of the book is $25.00. What is that author thinking?

Finally, my favorite online columnist wrote last night that it was a quiet day and she was going to sign off without a column in order to gather strength for whatever is coming. That was the way I felt last night too and also tonight, so I’m signing off. These dedicated workdays don’t provide a lot to chat about. Know that when I don’t post, I miss talking to you.

 

Let's Rodeo

 

An old family picture on the Midway
not sure what year this was but
some of those kids are pretty young

Came across a blog from 2015 about rodeo and my family, and I hope you'll indulge me if I repeat it tonight. It still speaks for how I feel about rodeo, though now all our babies are teenagers with too many activities and their parents too busy--our rodeo days as a family are behind us. Lisa, my Tomball daughter-in-law, posted just today that she misses those days. So do I. Here's what I wrote seven years ago:

Let's rodeo!

It's rodeo night for my family. They arrived in bits and driblets between five and six this evening, snacked on the food I put out (including great sweet potato salad), drank a bit of wine, and were out the door a little after 6:30, leaving me a quiet house and snacks to put away. I may have said this before, but rodeo makes me nostalgic. When the kids were little, it was a rite of passage when a child was deemed old enough to go to the rodeo, though I don't remember what age. We always went with one other family, ate at the cafeteria (nothing fancy like Reata at the Rodeo in those days), watched the show, and came home exhausted. Early on, I realized I really didn't want to watch the bull riding--my heart was in my mouth the whole time, and I think it got so I waited in the hallway. Now I don't want to see man or beast hurt. When the grown children decided they wanted to come for a rodeo weekend, I politely declined. But now it's an annual affair that brings them all home, and I'm all for that.
One branch of the family--the Frisco Alters--will not arrive until tomorrow. Eleven-year-old Eden is an animal sympathizer to the point of being vegetarian and would not go to the rodeo; the rest of her family are not much interested either, so they'll arrive in time to tour the barns, etc. I still remember Eden's father, my Jamie, as a child going through the barn, holding his nose and lifting his feet high with each step  as though he could avoid the muck. Darn rain--Midway won't be much fun tomorrow. Once again, I'll stay home in a quiet house--too much walking and standing. (Gosh, I hate sounding like an old lady!)
In recent years, we've gone to Joe T.'s for dinner, but Jordan suggested a change which I welcome. We'll go to the Star Café owned by good friends Don and Betty Boles. Have a reservation for 17. I can already taste the chicken-friend steak with cream gravy.
Poor Christian has already been to the rodeo five times--tonight is six. He takes clients, plus he went with Jordan's office and took two little boys last Monday night. He's relieved that there's only one more week. I would be too.
Stock show--properly known, I think, as the Southwestern Livestock Exposition and Stock Show--really changes the character of Fort Worth for its three-week run--restaurants and roads are crowded, and there's a general air of excitement in the city. I saw a wonderful picture on Facebook last night of the darkened city with the lights of the Midway blazing in the middle of the picture--thanks to Brian Luenser. To me, that said it all about what the stock show does for Fort Worth.
I know it's a very good thing for the city and its economy, and there are days I miss walking the exposition hall and seeing the FFA animal exhibit--all those little ducks sliding down into the water and eggs hatching. I miss funnel cakes and the heavy smell of fried food and the earthy smell of the barns and the warmth emanating from the cattle. For me, a Chicago native, it's part of an acquired taste; for my Texas-born kids, it's part of their heritage.

The Meatball Mess

 

Yesterday I learned two lessons that I think I already knew: you cannot put two lbs. of ground meat out to thaw at two in the afternoon and expect to make meatballs out of it at five; meatballs are often a whole lot of work—and time-consuming. At the rate I was going, we could have had meatballs for Monday breakfast. We had take-out sandwiches from the Great Outdoors for supper last night.

So I vowed to make the blasted meatballs today when I had all day to work on them—well, not really. I had hoped to write a thousand words today, but I do believe, at almost 8:30, that ship sailed without me. I made an executive decision: we do not need thirty good-sized meatballs (not those little one you get frozen), so I would cut the recipe in half. Still, it called for mixing the ground beef, bread soaked in milk and then squeezed dry (I hope no kosher readers are following this), parsley, egg, seasonings, diced onion, and then putting the whole thing in the food processor for uniformity of texture. Good thing it was a holiday and Christian was home, because I had to call him to get the processor off a shelf in my closet. It is far too heavy for me to stand, balance and get it down.

He hooked it up in the kitchen and confessed he didn’t know how to lock it and make it start. I figured that out but tripped a circuit breaker in the process. Had to call
Christian to come out and fix it—I don’t know why but when others can just poke at the little yellow light in the midst of the plug fixture and it goes out, I poke and nada. After all that, it took two minutes to process the meat, so before Christian could leave the cottage, he put most of the processor stuff back in the closet. He was, as he almost always is, good-natured about it.

I decided to streamline the recipe. You are supposed to bake the meatballs and then brown in a skillet. That would have meant doing it in batches. I baked them a little extra long and decided they were firm enough. You were to make a gravy of butter, tomato paste, red wine, and beef broth and let it cook down. Recipes tell you that happens within fifteen minutes, but they lie. It can take hours. I shortened it by making a roux and then simmering the meatballs in the thin but flavorful gravy that resulted.

The verdict from the family is that they were marvelous, gravy was excellent. I opted to let Jordan cook noodles, which I don’t think she did, and I used a couple of baguette slices to sop up my gravy. But I warned them it will be a long time before that recipe appears in the rotation again. Whoosh! It’s 8:30, and I’m tired. And no writing done, except this blog.

Last night I had some company—Jordan came out, masked, intending to sit on the patio, but it was chilly so she sat across the room, and we left the door open for circulation (this may be an example of how we fool ourselves). Then Christian came out, but we sent him back in for a mask. And then we had sort of a happy hour. I was glad to visit with them, and I guess I felt about as safe as I can be. But tomorrow, apparently all three are going to “Bulls’ Night Out” so we start the quarantine all over again. But now we’ve made one more step toward normalcy—my Christmas decorations are down.

When my children were young, getting to go to the rodeo was a rite of passage. Each one waited for the year they were deemed old enough to go. We went with friends who also had four children, ate barbecue at the Coburn’s dining hall, wandered the barns, and had a grand time. Then when the grandchildren were young, they would all come to FW for rodeo and a big family get-together. Those were the days! Gradually I became disenchanted, which was a bit odd since I was studying the history and literature of the American West and rodeo events speak to that. But I found I didn’t want to watch the bull riding, for fear I’d see someone killed. Then it spread to not wanting to watch calf roping, out of sympathy for the poor, terrified calves. Today, you couldn’t pay me to go to a rodeo performance, and Bulls’ Night Out is the last thing I would ever want to see. When I said that to Jordan last night, she said, “I may get there too, but now I enjoy it.” I thought it was an interesting comment.

So tomorrow Mary and Prudence will come for happy hour—since it is to be 75, we can meet on the patio, I think. And then I’ll fix myself a salmon bowl for supper. I’m looking forward to it already. And tomorrow I will write those thousand words.

Stay safe, please. Wear your masks. Every little bit helps.

A terrific weekend

           

Megan, the queen of stirring

What a terrific weekend. Daughter Megan came up from Austin with her two sons, Sawyer and Ford, for the rodeo. I got a quick visit Friday night before they left for Dickies Arena, but my rodeo days are long over. I don’t feel too sad about that. When I had young children and again when I had young grandchildren, the Fort Worth Stock Show (I know that’s not the proper name) and Rodeo were annual highlights. But I don’t think these days I could bear to see man or beast injured—despite the arguments that the men (and women) are there by choice. The beasts, of course, are not. And the bleachers are beyond me. I stayed home, took a nap, and got another visit when they came home.

Saturday morning the three young boys (one fifteen and two thirteen) went to the TCU basketball game, and my daughters and I had a ladies’ lunch at Lili’s—treated ourselves to lunchtime wine. So decadent.

I came home—another nap—and the girls took their sons to the midway. Another annual trip I’m glad to give up. I think I now appreciate rodeo mostly because it brings my family to town.

Saturday night we had a mini-family reunion—younger son Jamie and Mel came for supper; Megan’s law school roommate dropped in for an overdue visit, and some neighbors joined us. We had snacks aplenty, barbecue for supper, and a good time. I excused myself about nine, and Jamie came out to the cottage with me. So I had a good thirty-minute visit with him. Although he lives close, he’s so busy I don’t see him often. I had intended to take a quick nap, but never did. (I know—it sounds like I take a lot of naps, but Sophie lately has been getting me up in the night and again early in the morning, though I explain to her that I need my sleep!). The girls came out for a quick glass wine and a rehash of the evening.

Lazy day today. After Sophie got me up at eight, I put together my supper for company tonight—a casserole and chocolate mousse for dessert. The mousse was an experiment out of the New York Times—just melted bittersweet chocolate with water that you beat by hand until it forms mousse consistency. My daughters were both skeptics, so they came to “watch,” but it ended up with Megan making it. Since she was a little kid, she has liked to stir things. She used to drive me wild when I’d put rice on with a lid to steam, and she’d take the lid off and stir. Today she admitted she still does that and then said, “I’m not very good at cooking rice.”

So this recipe was right up her alley. She stirred as the chocolate melted into the water, and then when we whisked it to a ice water bath, she stirred vigorously—for a long time. Her bulletins went from “It’s not working” to “It’s beginning to thicken” to “It’s mousse.” But she admitted her arm was tired, and I’m not sure I have the arm strength to do it. Anyway, it was good, though it hardened when refrigerated and might have been better served at room temperature.

Otherwise, my dinner was good—almost. A chicken/artichoke heart/mushroom casserole that had too much liquid, though I think I know how to fix it another time; a salad, a good loaf of artisan bread; herbed goat cheese and crackers for appetizer. My guests were one of the ministers from my church with whom I’ve formed a friendship and her mother who was in town. Really interesting and lively company and I thought it a lovely evening. Now, at a little after eight, the dishes are done, and I am sleepy.

And tomorrow I face a desk piled high. Life is good, and I am blessed.

From Feast to Famine

Jordan and her girls at the rodeo

Not sure what roadhouse is--new since my day

Yesterday was such a high day, full of sociability and good food, that today is a bit of a shock. A dull gray day when the sun never did shine. I’ve been home, working, all day. Tonight Christian is out at a business event, Jacob is home, not feeling well and stewing in front of the TV, and Jordan has gone to the rodeo with her girlfriends.

This afternoon, when she said they had rodeo tickets for tonight, I had a momentary longing to go with them, to be one of the girls. I quickly came to my senses: I don’t really want to go. Years ago, I swore off watching the bull riding because I didn’t want to see man or animal hurt. I used to leave the arena when that event started. Besides, not walking without assistance, I couldn’t navigate the coliseum or the stands well, and I knew they didn’t have a box. I have in the day been privileged to sit in a box a few times, and it is sure up close and personal to the action. Much better than the Backstage Club perched high above the arena.

But it dawned on me what was really making me a bit nostalgic. I wanted to be forty again and in the frame of mind to go to the rodeo. I wanted to recapture the past.

Rodeo night was a rite of passage in our household. We always went with another family, had dinner in the cafeteria, and went to the show, back in the day when they had class entertainment acts. Each child waited anxiously to be deemed old enough to go to the rodeo and not be left behind with a sitter. By the time they were all of an age, there were four adults and eight children in our party, all dressed in our best western gear, all excited for this annual event. Back in those days, I stayed for the bull riding.

A lot of things are different now. The rodeo is different, my consciousness about animals is different—yes, I know the animals are well cared for and tended to, but I still don’t want to see calf roping. I am not of the ranch life born, in spite of all the time I’ve spent writing about the western life. And I am, alas, older. No, the rodeo is not for me.

So here I sit, another exciting weekend at the Fort Worth Alter/Burton compound. Jacob came out for me to heat his soup, and I explained he waited so long that I was heating my own dinner and he’d have to wait. I can’t turn on the hot plate and the toaster oven at the same time. So he took his can of chicken noodle soup inside to heat in the microwave. He says he’ll come back and visit, and I hope so. I’d like a little company, though Sophie is being quite companionable. I don’t mean to sound pitiful, because I’m not. But I just wish for a bit more company on this dreary evening.

My unattributed quote for the day: “The only normal people are those you don’t know very well.”

“Night, all.

Rodeo, Memories, and a Lesson in Aging

Tonight is rodeo night at 6^th grade Cotillion, and Jacob and his friends dressed appropriately. I don’t know why Jacob doesn’t have a hat, but praise the Lord his new boots arrived just in time this afternoon.

Jacob’s actually gotten himself in a spot of trouble, but I’ve promised not to blog about it. Still it got me thinking about childhood and discipline, and maybe because it’s rodeo time, I thought about me and horses. Growing up on Chicago’s South Side, the only horse I saw regularly was an old one that, when I was very young, pulled a milk wagon down the alley behind our house. I have a vague memory of a man and a horse who looked much alike—old and grey, but the man was very pleasant and cheerful as he left glass bottles of milk in the icebox (literally) on our back porch.

Someone, maybe even me, decided it would be good if I took horseback riding lessons. I was maybe about twelve. We rode English style around an arena in a barn, horses nose to tail they were so crowded. I did all right at it, until some transgression made my mother decree that I would miss two or three of my lessons. I truly don’t remember what I did, but it must have been awful because such severe punishment was not like my mom. When I finally went back to the stables, I was terrified of the horses, and to this day I am uncomfortable around them.

The memory makes me think how important it is to be judicious and loving in disciplining children. They are frail young minds, easily damaged, and I am convinced discipline must come with lots of love and an understanding of why it is being meted out, how it can be avoided another time. I read the stories about the California couple and their thirteen abused children with horror. Today I read they used food to control those starving children. How can anyone be so cruel?

I had an unpleasant lesson in aging today, one I think I’ve had before and apparently refuse to learn. Lovely lunch with Jordan, the woman from the bank who has helped me so much with financing the cottage and such, and a mutual friend. We met at Pappadeaux, early to avoid the rodeo crowd. At first, I could hear the entire conversation, but as the restaurant grew more crowded, I was barely able to follow the thread. Jordan and I split the wonderful Greek salad for one, and I ordered fried oysters, since I can’t eat shrimp. I mentioned the shrimp allergy to the waiter, and oh my, were they on top of it. He asked if he had to redo the accompaniments platter for the salad, since one lonely shrimp was touching the tomatoes. I told him to give the shrimp to Jordan and it would be fine. Then a manager type came to make sure I understand oysters were fried in the same grease as shrimp, and I thanked him but assured him it would be okay. It’s an ingestion allergy, not contact.

But the fried oysters did me in. I felt dull and loggy and just unwell all afternoon, even with a nice nap. Tonight I can’t bear the thought of food, even that leftover spaghetti in the fridge. I had a single small piece of cinnamon toast for dinner. Once again, I’m swearing off heavy fried foods. When will I ever learn?

Happy weekend, everyone.

Another Frabjulous Day

I'm going home

I can’t tell you when I’ve been happier or had more fun than at lunch today. I am going home from the rehab facility tomorrow, and this morning both my daughters came to meet with staff about my discharge and pack up the things I had here. All seems in order about the discharge, and though the staff wishes I’d stay longer, they seem okay with my leaving, and we’ve gone over such practical matters as exercises, daily activities like getting in and out of bed or to the toilet, and medications.

Then the girls dressed me—literally, they hold clothes up to each other and say, “This is cute” and similar things and talk about me as if I were a three-year-old: “Doesn’t she look cute?” I ended up in a fairly heavy sweatshirt type top in avocado green, heather white pants, and an off-white shawl. The girls kept warning that it was truly cold outside, and I ended up uncomfortably warm.

We headed for a new restaurant in a new mall area sort of near the rehab center. I’ve been wanting to go to Piatello, but if the Jordan had listened to my directions, we never would have gotten there. The whole development of southwest Fort Worth has me befuddled, and apparently the rehab place is farther south than I thought. I’d have had us in Cleburne before we found Piatello. Good lunch—split the meatball appetizer and each had a different salad. I had a small small serving of wine—first in two months, and it made me unbearably sleepy.

With my beautiful girls

The girls went off to go to the rodeo, and I went to sleep. Tonight I still can’t shake my lethargy. Six hours later it’s not the wine; tt may be lack of sleep because various medications have had me up and down too often during the night: it may be relaxation that I’m finally going home after two weeks. Whatever, I’m uncharacteristically sleepy and looking forward to reading it bed.

Tonight is our annual Alter family rodeo night—but this year it is a bust. Traditionally, we go to the rodeo on Friday night, tour the grounds and Midway Saturday, and go to dinner Sat. night. I long ago gave up rodeo—I just don’t enjoy it anymore. The Frisco don’t like rodeo and don’t go, so their absence is not unusual. But half of Colin’s family—Lisa and Morgan—are not here, and the Austin branch is leaving at 7:00 a.m. because both boys have “can’t miss” activities. I’m grateful for my time with the girls today. Colin will spend time tomorrow, and I’ll see Jamie next week, but it’s not the big family gathering I anticipated. Still I’m glad the rodeo brought everyone to town.

Let's rodeo!

It's rodeo night for my family. They arrived in bits and driblets between five and six this evening, snacked on the food I put out (including great sweet potato salad), drank a bit of wine, and were out the door a little after 6:30, leaving me a quiet house and snacks to put away. I may have said this before, but rodeo makes me nostalgic. When the kids were little, it was a rite of passage when a child was deemed old enough to go to the rodeo, though I don't remember what age. We always went with one other family, ate at the cafeteria (nothing fancy like Reata at the Rodeo in those days), watched the show, and came home exhausted. Early on, I realized I really didn't want to watch the bull riding--my heart was in my mouth the whole time, and I think it got so I waited in the hallway. Now I don't want to see man or beast hurt. When the grown children decided they wanted to come for a rodeo weekend, I politely declined. But now it's an annual affair that brings them all home, and I'm all for that.
One branch of the family--the Frisco Alters--will not arrive until tomorrow. Eleven-year-old Eden is an animal sympathizer to the point of being vegetarian and would not go to the rodeo; the rest of her family are not much interested either, so they'll arrive in time to tour the barns, etc. I still remember Eden's father, my Jamie, as a child going through the barn, holding his nose and lifting his feet high with each step  as though he could avoid the muck. Darn rain--Midway won't be much fun tomorrow. Once again, I'll stay home in a quiet house--too much walking and standing. (Gosh, I hate sounding like an old lady!)
In recent years, we've gone to Joe T.'s for dinner, but Jordan suggested a change which I welcome. We'll go to the Star Café owned by good friends Don and Betty Boles. Have a reservation for 17. I can already taste the chicken-friend steak with cream gravy.
Poor Christian has already been to the rodeo five times--tonight is six. He takes clients, plus he went with Jordan's office and took two little boys last Monday night. He's relieved that there's only one more week. I would be too.
Stock show--properly known, I think, as the Southwestern Livestock Exposition and Stock Show--really changes the character of Fort Worth for its three-week run--restaurants and roads are crowded, and there's a general air of excitement in the city. I saw a wonderful picture on Facebook last night of the darkened city with the lights of the Midway blazing in the middle of the picture--thanks to Brian Luenser. To me, that said it all about what the stock show does for Fort Worth.
I know it's a very good thing for the city and its economy, and there are days I miss walking the exposition hall and seeing the FFA animal exhibit--all those little ducks sliding down into the water and eggs hatching. I miss funnel cakes and the heavy smell of fried food and the earthy smell of the barns and the warmth emanating from the cattle. For me, a Chicago native, it's part of an acquired taste; for my Texas-born kids, it's part of their heritage.

The rodeo's in town!

Fort Worth awaits this annual event with bated breath--it brings tremendous crowds and lots of income to restaurants, shops, and the like. But it also traditionally brings bad weather. So far we've had semi-cold and one really rainy day, but the prediction for next week is the high sixties. Pray the weather holds. The Southwestern Exposition and Livestock Show began last week, but today was the first day of the professional rodeo.
When my children were young, it was a rite of passage to be old enough to go to the rodeo. We always went with one family of good friends, and if memory serves correctly we ate beforehand because we didn't like rodeo food. It was a time of high excitement, and we all loved it.
Today, my children and grandchildren come for a rodeo weekend--it's become a ritual. This year, next weekend, I will put out snacks--veggies, hummus, cheese, wine and beer. I figure they'll eat corny dogs and whatever at the show.
I've written about rodeo, been to countless performances...and today I no longer want to go. Don't want to see man or beast hurt. (I always used to sneak out during the bull riding, which terrified me.) So part of old age is I don't go. Neither do I go when the family does a walk-through of the barns, the exposition hall, and the Midway. Used to love that too. Last time I went, it killed my feet. Nowadays I don't think my back would take the walking. So I send them off with blessings and nap while they're gone. Then we gather for a Saturday night dinner--usually at Joe T. Garcia's but this year Jordan suggested a change, and we're going to the Star Café, owned by dear friends of mine. The kids and grandkids love my friends Betty and Don and also love the Star--I can already savor the chicken-fried steak.
Jacob went to the matinee rodeo today, with his parents, an event sponsored by Jordan's employer, Gulliver's Travels. Jacob came in about 5:30 full of tales--it seems during the bronc riding, on bronc came out of the chute with a small leap, and then apparently looked around and saw the crowd. He stiffened his front legs and refused to move, as if to say, "They're people out there. I'm not going." In fact, that's what the announcer said, and it made me nostalgic for a moment--rodeo announcers keep a fast pace, but they are always ready with a quip.
Then at least one, and maybe two, bulls in the bull-riding bucked their way through the required eight seconds without dislodging their riders. Then they simply sat down. Needless to say the riders dismounted and made a bee-line for the safety of the sidewalls. Sounds to me like the funniest rodeo ever.
Jacob will go again Monday night, with his friend Hayes whose father will ride in the calf-roping competition. Imagine what a thrill that is for an eight-year-old boy--to see his friend's father, whom he knows, ride. Christian, who has already been to the rodeo twice and will go again several times next week, is taking the boys. After that I don't think we dare mention rodeo to him for a year.
And then after the first week in February, life in "the Fort" will settle back down to normal. And then we all think, with stock show weather behind us, spring is here. Doesn't usually happen that way.

Rodeo tradition

Tonight three branches of my family set off for the rodeo--the fourth is sidelined with flu and colds. I am happily at home with the dog, who went bananas with excitement at all the people, especially children, in my house earlier. I used to love the rodeo, looked forward to it every year. As my children grew from toddlers to youngsters, it was a rite of passage the year that one was deemed old enough to attend the rodeo. We went with friends, long gone from Fort Worth, though I can't remember if we ate supper beforehand or at the rodeo. But our rodeo night was one of the highlights of the year.
I'm not sure when my family began the tradition. I remember once when Maddie, the oldest grandchild, was about four we toured the grounds with her Uncle Colin and Aunt Lisa. Uncle Colin was severely ill at the time and his one regret was that he didn't have the energy to play with her. Another year, when Sawyer, now nine, was still in a stroller, we took him to the barns--he screamed in displeasure the whole time, and his stroller wheels were caked with manure. Not one of our better outings.
But in recent years they've all gone to the rodeo. Tomorrow, according to tradition, we'll tour the barns and exhibits and the Midway. This grandmother will wimp out again--will do the barns and maybe the exhibit hall, but when they head for the midway, I'll head for home. I've done it--watched proudly as my grandchildren slid down the highest slide, rode on scary rides, but I no longer want to stand around waiting. I used to take a book and plant myself--the kids would come get me when they were ready to move on. No more. And no more rodeo. I have heard, even written about, the care taken of rodeo stock, and I think I'm less afraid of seeing an animal hurt (though that would break my heart) than seeing a cowboy (or cowgirl) hurt. I know--they choose to do it. But my stomach for violence and injury is increasingly weak.
Besides, it's so quiet and calm at my house right now. And tomorrow, at 6:45 a.m. Jordan and I leave for my book signing at the Old Neighborhood Grill. I need my rest. Still, it's lovely, if lively, to have my kids and grandkids here. Tonight, two of my children and five of my grandchildren will sleep under my roof. Such bliss.