What Sunday should be—with a minor crisis

 

My chicken dinner from Drew's Place

I looked forward to Sunday for several days. It was shaping up to be the kind of day I love—no pressure, and I could float through the day. I could sleep late, I had leftovers for lunch, and I’d worry about supper when the time came. I had a book to read, and a friend gave me an idea about something I wanted to write. To top it off, I finally ended with fried chicken leftovers—perfect supper.

Last night, we took fried chicken from Drew’s Place to Joe and Mary Dulle. They’ve had a meal train feeding them while Mary recovers from surgery, but the meal train had made its final stop. Jordan and I always said when that happened, we’d go to a restaurant near their new apartment famed for the fried chicken and take it to them; as it turned out, the classic lunch place, Drew’s, was much more reasonable. So, chicken in hand, we arrived for a tour of the apartment, a glass of wine, and a good visit. Great to see Mary looking so well, and now I can visualize them in their apartment. We came home, each nibbled on our chicken—of course we bought some for ourselves!—and gathered on the patio when the Burtons’ friends Sarah and Jay came over. Lovely evening, but it eventually got too chilly for me.

Yesterday morning Jordan, Sarah, and I had gone plant shopping. I know it’s a pain for Jordan, but it’s delight for me to be rolled through all those aisles in a transport chair instead of having to concentrate on my walker and my footing. This way I could focus on the plants. We bought things I’d never heard of, like optic grass, and old familiars like sweet potato vine, coleus—not sure why I can’t think of the others, but it was a hefty bill, so we got lots more.

Going to the nursery and then to visit the Dulles meant I was off the property twice in one day—as Christian said, a wild day for me. I don’t think it’s age so much as it is the breaking of my routine that tires me, but I was tired last night. When we came home from the Dulles, we found that Sophie doesn’t like her routine disturbed either—kt was a bit late for her dinner, and she had strewn dinner bowls on my bedroom floor, water bowl in the kitchen, and Pill Pockets (she couldn’t open it) in the living room. Sweet spoiled baby!

The back yard is beginning to look like summer. Jordan has most of the pots filled, but we need new grass—the winter rye was really awful this year and has huge, ugly bare patches. Somehow the lawn guys took out my mums a couple of months ago—I had wanted them left until time for spring flowers, but now there’s unslightly barren ground in front of the deck. Instead of pentas, which were a disaster last year, I’m going to put in native plants. Lots of bright yellow with black-eyed susans, gallardia, coreopsis, and the like.

So back to today, Christian and I collaborated on matzo brei (I had sold it to him as like migas, but he pointed out migas have pico and seasonings). The matzo brei tasted like matzo (big surprise) and was good, maybe a bit bland and a lot heavy.

Jordan went to the grocery but was gone an extraordinarily long time. She came home to tell us she had a flat, had to go get Fix-a-Flat and fix it herself. That left a quandary: they couldn’t drive to Coppell on that tire, they couldn’t drive Jacob’s SUV because it goes in tomorrow for brake pads, and they wouldn’t drive the VW. Jordan saw it as yet another sign the gods are picking on them; I saw it as an unfortunate incident. They ended not going to have dinner with Christian’s dad but going to a friends’ fiftieth birthday party.

So now I’m about to heat the potatoes and green beans that came with my chicken and have a lovely dinner—still have fried chicken. And a book I’m enjoying. Can life get any better?

Hope everyone has a great week.

Eating leftovers and buckling down

 

An Easter family portrait
of the Fort Worth branch of the family

Easter, holy as it is to some of us, is one of those days that leave you with a hangover the next day. Not from too much bubbly or wine, not even from too much food, but simply from the exhilaration of the day—the often grand, overwhelming Easter story and the accompanying church services (ours was, with magnificent music and a thought-provoking sermon on the resurrection), the fellowship of family and friends, even just the big break from routine. So here I am this Monday, eating leftovers and trying to get back to work.

First the leftovers: who can complain about a devilled egg for breakfast, a sandwich of sourdough bread and salmon rillettes for lunch with a bit of black bean soup, and a scrambled egg with ranchero sauce and some spinach casserole for supper. Plus a bit of matzo crack, though I have cut off small pieces and avoided being piggsh about it. My leftover meals meant little cooking but lots of dish washing—worth every minute of it.

On my writing circle listserv this morning, we all posted our plans for the week—we do that every Monday, and I find it’s a great way to keep me focused. If I commit to something in the group, then I feel honor-bound to follow through. This morning, I noticed there was a strong sense of getting back to routine, starting something new, buckling down. The renewal of Easter carries over into so many areas of our lives.

For me, I committed to work once more on all the material I’ve found about Helen Corbitt, doyenne of the kitchens at Neiman Marcus, she who made dramatic changes in Texas food and nationally. As some may remember, I’ve been struggling with this project for more than a couple of years. I finally wrote a draft of a nonfiction book but came up way short of the suggested 75 K words the editor suggested. So I backed off, wrote an Irene mystery, and then went back to it. Rewriting got me another 10K words, still not anywhere enough.

For the last two or three weeks, with the forthcoming Irene pretty much in hand, I’ve been dodging Helen simply because I am not sure what to do with her story fascinating as I find it. Today I decided I have procrastinated long enough and there’s an idea I’ll never put to rest unless I try it: turn the story into a novel. So today I’ve been trying to think about that, trying to get her voice into my mind. My latest trick is to tell myself I may write a novella instead of a novel.

So tomorrow I hope to make notes on her character, developing a personality sketch. I already know she was a fiery read-head with a temper (she claimed gazpacho calmed her in temperamental moments and always kept a jug in the fridge), she was a devoted Roman Catholic all her life, she never married but, supposedly, was engaged three times, and she sometimes showed a wicked sense of humor. I know a sketchy bit about her childhood so I will have to decide between inventing it or working around it with allusions, which would make a shorter book.

See, by sharing this with you all, I have publicly committed to working on this, though I don’t promise that something publishable will come out of it.

And Easter the day may be over but Easter the celebration is not. My friend @Katie Sherrod points out that the Christian liturgical calendar calls the fifty days between Easter and Pentecost (May 28 this year) the Paschal period, a period of peace and hope and joy and acknowledgement that God loves each and everyone one of us. (Sometimes I think he must struggle to love a few who have turned from him, but that is  neither here nor there nor my business.) Katie reminds that we do not have to suffer, abstain or sacrifice to earn God’s love—it is all encompassing.

May you have dreams of joy tonight, and may I dream something significant about Helen Corbitt.

With the Easter boys, Christian and Lee Manzke, at brunch
See the corner of Jordans pretty place setting

Taking time off

 

Haven't read the Irene books yet?
Here's the first in the series.

My great good news is that my longtime mentor wrote me today that the forthcoming Irene in Chicago Culinary Adventure is, in his opinion, the best of the Irene series. I laughed a bit—he seemed to think my writing is maturing. If so, it’s about time. But I am pleased, so watch for Irene Deep in Texas Trouble this spring. Take a diva faux French chef and set her down in the midst of Cowtown—what could possibly go wrong? A wedding supper interrupted by murder, kidnapping, a runaway couple—and Irene is in the middle of all of it, the prime suspect in the murder. Once again, Henny and Patrick must save Irene.

Having sent that manuscript off, I’m taking a break and have been social—until today when I reverted to recluse status. Wednesday, in all that rain and fog we had in North Texas, friend Carol and I drove to Dallas for lunch with Fran Vick, our longtime good pal on the Texas publishing scene. It was a great reunion—Fran was one of the world’s good people, and I am happy now to be able to envision her in her new setting, a retirement community in Dallas. We had lunch, met one of her friends, and gabbed about good times and old days. Fran can always make me laugh, and she is as full of good spirits as ever, in spite of hard times. I will admit being on the freeway in the rain made me a bit nervous, but Carol is a cautious and careful driver who goes to Dallas at least once a week and knows the city. Where I would have been hopelessly lost, she delivered us on time to the front door of Fran’s building. Fran was waiting with a transport chair for me—only trouble was it had no footrest, so while Carol pushed, I had to hold my legs straight out in front of me. Fran said she hoped my legs were a lot stronger than hers. But it really worked out okay.

Lesson learned: I have truly become addicted to my routine. The trip to Dallas didn’t disturb it all that much—I did a little work before we left, got my nap when we came home, but the truth is I did not do much else the entire day, unless fixing dinner for the family counts.

Thursday I broke my routine again but for another delightful social hour: my friend Subie had knee surgery, and her sister Diana came to help for a few days. Thursday morning Diana walked over to my house for tea, and we talked and laughed and had a good time. Subie and I have been close friends for years (like forty?) but I never knew Diana well. Just before our awful ice storm—was it ’20 or ’21? —Diana was here for a visit, and she and Subie took me to Arlington where I gave a talk to a women’s group. That somehow sparked a friendship, so now when she visits, I find we have lots in common. She and her husband live in a cottage (converted garage) on the property of one of their children, just as I do. So we have on-site grandparenting and tiny houses and all kinds of things to talk about. Such fun. Again, my routine went out the window, but both days it was well worth it. I probably should do that more often.

Today I was back in my routine but taking it slow and easy, with no deadline pressure. I lingered over the online news of the day, cobbled together lunch and dinner from whatever was on hand. We are overdue on groceries—I thought I placed a Central Market order yesterday, but when Jacob went to pick it up, they didn’t have it. It was still sitting in my computer. I have an explanation, but I’m sure my children will whisper about the onset of senility. Tonight, I pretty much confronted an empty refrigerator, but scrambled eggs are always good. Somehow, with the current panic about eggs, I have two dozen in my fridge. Egg salad, anyone? Tonight, I will read a bit.  

How will you spend Super Bowl Sunday? I plan to look for the Puppy Bowl in the early afternoon and in the evening, I’ll channel surf looking for a Souper Bowl. Was it PBS that used to have those programs opposite the football thing? I read tonight that Chef Gordon Ramsey will have a new competition show with amateur chefs immediately following the game, but I’m thinking that may be a little late to watch a cooking show. At any rate, I am not one to watch the whole game, which interests me not at all, just to see the commercials, though I always love the Clydesdales. I remember some fairly raucous Super Bowl parties way back when and look back in wonder—was I really part of that? These days I’m so glad to be home with my books and maybe my TV.

Not much of anything and a whole lot of nothing

 

You may have missed it when I posted earlier, but Story Circle Network published a short piece of mine on their blog today. (For those who didn't know him, this is a picture of my ex, Joel Alter, after he finished a marathon, around 1980; I should mention that I was in the picture but got cropped out--perhaps a metaphor). Written some ten years ago, the piece is about my feelings the night Joel died. It was a piece that I found when I was scrabbling through notes and bits and pieces for a memoir. I posted a link to the piece on Facebook this morning and was highly flattered by the responses.  (https://www.storycircle.org/december-12-numb-and-puzzling-grief/) I’m thinking there is indeed a memoir in my future. Two projects remain between me and a memoir—Irene Deep in Texas Trouble—I’m almost at the end of the first draft now—and then my Helen Corbitt project. I have no idea how long it will take me, but it’s nice to have projects lined up before me.

Before I retired, I used to worry a lot about retirement, afraid that I would wake up in the morning and think, “What in the world will I do today?” So far, that has been far from the truth. I often wake up with my mind whirling with the things I have to get done. This week, it’s finish the Irene adventure and wrap Christmas gifts—two totally unrelated activities. Any Christmas cooking that can be done ahead is already done, though I may decide at the last minute to do something for extra gifts.

Blog writing is hard these days. My mind wants to be filled with Christmas trivia and goodies and music and all that goes with the season. But for this child of the Midwest, it’s just not looking a lot like Christmas. Today the yard guys came with mowers and blowers and when they finished the thick carpet of leaves was gone from the driveway and yard. But it took them forever to do it, with Sophie barking her displeasure all the time. Although we’ve had just occasional rain, it’s been so damp—and the leaves so wet—that there is mold growing on the patio. I hesitate to use bleach because of the dogs. Storms are predicted for tonight and a freeze highly possible for this weekend. A little snow would sure make it feel a lot more like Christmas.

Another blog problem: I don’t for right now feel the intensity of the political atmosphere that finally really culminated in Raphael Warnock’s re-election to the Senate. Fund-raisers are already pointing us toward 2024 with dire warnings that the Democrats need big war chests (I suppose the Republicans do too, but I don’t get those emails except in rare instances of misdirected mail—I do not want to hear from the likes of Newt Gingrich, thank you).

A few issues do spark my interest. The return home of Brittainy Griner is one of them (who knew she’s a Baylor alum?). I am continually incensed at columns and comments to the effect that she hates America. She proudly brought home two gold medals for her country—funny kind of hate. Even more objectionable are comments that she should have been left behind and Paul Whelan brought home. As several have pointed out, our country suddenly has a wealth of armchair hostage negotiators who know exactly what should have been done. They completely overlook the fact that Whelan’s freedom wasn’t offered, was never on the table. They think it makes a good story to embarrass President Biden who, to his everlasting credit, seems beyond embarrassment as he quietly goes about his job of doing good for the country.

Another issue that interests me is the fight for leadership in the Republican House caucus. I think McCarthy’s days are numbered, and I’m not at all sorry. He apparently has a poor grasp of government issues, and his lust for the speakership overrides any good sense he may once have had. I am afraid, though if he is defeated, someone really awful will take over—like MTG who once again this weekend, at  national Republican youth gala, demonstrated that she has not an ounce of decorum about her. Just don’t ask her about what she saw for sale at Target.

Today was a blah day for me, not that I regret it. I slept late, worked all morning and part of the afternoon, had leftovers for supper (who can quarrel with steak and a twice-baked potato filled with cream cheese?), worked some more in the evening, wrapped some packages. I’ll read a bit and go to bed. But above you see where my mind goes when I have nothing else to offer for the day. If I miss a few days of blogging in the upcoming days, please forgive me. I don’t want to take your time with, “And then I did this, and then I did that.”

Thanks to all who have expressed concern about my cold. I know I whine like a baby but I’m not often sick, and so I take it seriously when I am. Maybe that’s another blog topic. Meantime, it is getting better, and I feel okay—not sure however that my cough would be acceptable in a restaurant or a party, so social plans are on hold.

Night all. I’m going to quit babbling.

The best-laid plans

 

My social life got in the way of my creative goals today, but it made it a good day. The weather was perfect for patio entertaining, which made it even better.

My day began with a message from Linda, a dear friend who moved to Taos last year—from Granbury, so it’s not like I saw her frequently, but still I knew she was fairly close and would occasionally come by. She’s only a medium communicator, so there are long stretches when we’re not in touch, and I was delighted today to have a chance to catch up. Moving is always hard, and she’s feeling that—three major real estate transactions in one year. Her first winter in Taos, although she’s spent many summers there. I expect after a year, she’ll be totally happy and acclimated, but the change is hard. She misses her Texas friends, and we miss her.

Linda’s covid report was most interesting. She is appalled at the absence of masking in Texas. In Taos, she cannot make a dinner reservation without including proof of vaccination. She also has to show that at most public events, and she says you never ever go to church or the grocery without your mask. She keeps one on her wrist most of the time and says it is off and on several times a day. From the start of pandemic, New Mexico has always been stricter than Texas. But then, so have many states. Our county alone had over 7,000 new cases (it doesn’t say what period that covers, but the spread level is a red alert high).

Linda came at three when the patio was warm and sunny. In fact, the sun was so strong I had to look the other way or shield my eyes. By happy hour when Mary and Prudence came, the sun had sunk below the neighbor’s garage, but the evening did not bring on as much chill as I expected. We were quite comfortable sitting out there and had a wide-ranging discussion on everything from omicron, schools, politics, and books. Love it when we talk about ideas and not always things or people.

My bit of trivia for the day—which turned out not to be so trivial. Someone posted on Facebook about the dark ages’ custom of two sleeps. Apparently until the Middle Ages, people had two sleeps—one in the evening, and one in the morning. The custom stems, according to the poster, from the days of cave dwellers when someone always had to be awake to tend the fires and to ward of any predatory beasts that might be after food, animals, or even humans. I thought the fact was interesting if irrelevant in today’s world until I read some responses. People wrote to say they were relieved to find that they were not insomniacs but were simply following ancient body clocks when they were awake from 2:00 to 4:00 am or thereabouts. Pru said tonight she is usually awake form 2:00 until almost 5:00, just gets back to sleep when it’s time for her husband to get up—I remember that from the days I too was married to a surgeon. I generally sleep soundly until 5:00, even 6:00 but then I am semi-alert for Sophie to need to go outside. After she does and I entice her back in with a bit of cheese, I can go back to sleep for an hour or so, and I find myself really looking forward to that second sleep.

When we talked about this tonight, Mary said she sleeps about five hours a night (I would be a walking zombie) and cannot nap during the day. It makes her fuzzy headed. I on the other hand can sleep a solid two hours in the afternoon, and often do. Linda and I talked touched on napping when we talked about routine. She said that was one of the things she had to learn. She thinks I have long known it in my career, whereas she was in retail for what? Thirty or forty years. Whatever, the reason, we found that these days our routines are similar: in the mornings, she paints, and I hope to write; afternoons, we rest, though I suspect I am more devoted to a daily nap than she is. She often uses afternoons to read. But evenings we part company—she says dark comes so early in New Mexico, she has to force herself to stay awake until nine, and she is up early. I find myself at my computer often until midnight, but I am sleeping later and later in the mornings. My routine also includes regular meals—something for breakfast but not much, usually around nine-thirty; lunch near twelve-thirty, and supper at seven or seven-thirty. The late evening hour is an accommodation to the Burtons’ schedule that I have learned to make—sometimes I get a bit hungry and snack.

But I am a big believer in routine—and today, mine got thrown off, which is why now, at eight-thirty, I am about to start my thousand words for today on Irene Keeps a Secret. Wish me luck--or unexpected inspiration.

A different kind of a day

 

There really is more to Irene's story. 
I'm just slow in getting it on paper.
But watch for a tale of a wedding and drug dealers and, oh my!

Not bad, even a little bit good, but different. Those who know me well—and particularly my family, who will groan as they say it—know that I am pretty much a creature of habit. I get up about eight in the morning and go to my desk (okay I do brush my teeth first) with a cup of tea. A light breakfast, usually yogurt, about ten and a light lunch, leftovers if I have them, about twelve-thirty, both eaten at my desk while I work steadily until two or two-thirty. But then it’s a long nap. And after that, I piddle at my desk, following Facebook and reading recipes. It’s taken me five years to get over the idea that dinner must be at six and to adjust to the Burtons’ later schedule of dinner at seven-thirty and beyond.

But today my schedule got thrown into array. Rosa, the wonderful young woman who styles my hair, was coming at eight-fifteen. I got up early, brushed those teeth, cleaned the kitchen, and was all ready. By nine o’clock, I figured that she was not coming, so we talked…and she said she could be here at three-fifteen. Boom! Right in the middle of my nap. But I like Rosa so much, and I am so grateful that she does house calls for me, that I said fine.

I adjusted my schedule. Instead of breakfast and lunch, I indulged in a hearty brunch about eleven-thirty—poached eggs on buttered rye toast with cheddar cheese. Isn’t that called eggs on a raft? Or a Huck Finn? Or something like that. Anyway, it was wonderful. I got in a good morning of writing on the novel that seems endlessly in progress—and is still only half the length of most cozies. Then I took an early nap, so early that a little before two I was up, ready to do—what? My schedule was all thrown off. I did have a lot of housekeeping chores to do, and then it was back to my computer to work on the wip. I somehow have had a burst of energy or imagination or something on that novel (novella?) and am writing furiously.

Rosa did cut my hair—really short, which most of my family and friends like though one friend does not—and then she was gone. It was three-thirty, a time I’d normally be napping. What did I do with myself? Went back for another short nap, but I’d promised Jordan I’d sauté the leftover mushrooms and make more cucumber salad while she was off picking up Jacob from a golf tournament. Guess what? The mushrooms were already sliced, and so was the cucumber, and I had leftover dressing from last night’s cucumber salad. So what to do? I worked on the novel some more.

I don’t think I’ll change my established routine, but it was interesting to me that I got in more writing time today with that revised schedule. Don’t know if it was coincidence, because I’m fired up over the story I’m telling or what.

An odd day too in terms of menu choices. Those eggs for brunch are definitely not on my usual diet, and tonight, while waiting for Jordan to come home, I had some leftover Caesar dip with potato chips—the longer it sits, the stronger the anchovy taste gets, and I think it’s about time to say goodbye to it. But it is so good! And tonight—mushrooms on toast (a British thing, I think, that my mom taught me) and cucumber salad, followed of course by a bit of dark chocolate from Central Market. Admittedly an odd dinner, but it hit my favorite tastes. Jordan asked how I cooked the mushrooms, and I said, “Oh a bit of this and a touch of that.” Actually, olive oil, butter, white wine, garlic salt, and Worcestershire. But I insist you have to put them on toast, preferably rye. The bread soaks up all that good cooking liquid.

So now, as the poets say, the day is waning. I don’t think I have another word in me for Irene’s story tonight. And my kitchen duties are done. I’m off to find a good book from the TBR pile on my Kindle. I started one last night, about Chicago in the nineteenth century and a woman Pinkerton agent, but it was about the seamy side of Chicago—not the history that really grabs me. I have lots of other choices.

Tonight around six we had lots of distant thunder. Sophie laid right by me, but it all came to nothing. Not a drop of rain, and now the thunder is long gone, and the cicadas are singing. Happy summer night.

 

The week that was

 

Granddaughter Morgan with Sophie
She once tried to sneak Sophie to Houston, so
I keep an eye on both of them.

Spring break turned life topsy-turvy for me last week, and I almost felt like I was raising teenagers again, trying to keep track of where everyone was. Two families skiing in far-apart places in Colorado, another on an Alabama beach and then living it up in New Orleans (and making me jealous with meals at Antoine’s and Commander’s Palace). And Jamie here with me most of the week. A different but very happy week.

Jamie said he was going home Thursday after supper. At midnight, I told him I had to go to bed and said goodbye. Next morning, his car was in my driveway, but he came out at 8:30 and said he was leaving—we did our goodbyes again. He reappeared at 11:00, having gone to Ol’ South for breakfast, taken his computer, and sat there and worked—brought me corned-beef hash for my lunch, and we said our goodbyes again. This time I checked a couple of hours later, and he was indeed back home in Frisco.

I loved having him here. We both worked all day—he in the house, me in the cottage—but came together in the evenings. One lovely evening, he played his acoustic guitar while I fiddled on my computer, and another night, of course, we met sweet Eden for supper. I got to cook things he will eat that the Burtons won’t—our St. Patrick’s Day dinner with corned beef, potatoes, carrots, and sauteed cabbage was the big hit, but eggplant Parmigiana and chicken Divan weren’t too shabby. All in all it was a great visit.

Sophie enjoyed the visit too—wanted so badly to play with Kosmo, his Pomeranian. She did that growl-y thing with her butt in the air and her face down on her paws, and he’d just bat her away. She is, after all, about twice his size, and he is most fixated on Jamie. Still, Sophie had lots of extra attention all week.

My pasta concoction

I kept up the cooking after Jamie left—Friday I fixed Jean my “clean out the fridge” version of pasta primavera—artichoke hearts, hearts of palm, mushrooms, cherry tomatoes, chopped green onions, a small can of salmon (the good stuff), and pasta with olive oil, lemon, and Parmesan. Saturday, Colin and his family stopped on their way home, brought lunch from Carshon’s Deli, and Colin gave me long lectures on Sophie's weight. Linda came for supper. I served her more of the eggplant, and she said it might be the best meal I’d ever served her. I wanted to protest—over the years I’ve served her a lot of meals. Surely some others stood out!

By last night, life was back on track—Megan and family in Midland where they will spend a couple of nights, Colin and family home in Tomball (where they had a water pressure problem), Jamie back in Frisco, and the Burtons safely back on Park Place Avenue. I’m ready to get down to serious work, more cooking, and a routine. Such topsy-turvy times are nice breaks, but I’m pretty much a routine person.

Beautiful sunny day today with just faint wispy clouds in the sky. Sophie has been sunning herself on the patio, looking so content. She makes me sleepy. I’m off to eat leftovers for lunch, take a nap, and tackle, once again, that neighborhood newsletter. Feeling so blessed by life.

A ho-hum day

 

Even in quarantine, there’s usually something to distinguish one day from another—a patio visit from a friend, a new recipe, a Zoom meeting. Something to break the monotony of the day. Today there was none. And once again a rainy, chilly, dull morning greeted me.

I piddled, spent too long on Facebook, which I find I do a lot these days because of the political news—no, not the opinion pieces, but the hard news sources that report on there. Of course I am frustrated by the paywalls on the New York Times, the Washingto Post, and our local Star-Telegram. I should subscribe to one national paper that I respect, but I find I don’t like to read newspapers on line. My difficulty in getting print copies is a whole different story, and I won’t go into it now.

But the result today, as in many days recently, is too much time spent browsing the web for news, election updates, etc. It’s self-defeating, because all it does is increase my anxiety—and believe me, I see physical signs of anxiety in me. I explained to Jordan that I probably wouldn’t be much good for the next week, and she promptly said I need a new project. Huh, me? With too many projects on my desk already? She had in mind cooking desserts. I will take that under consideration, but meantime she has an array of meals laid out for me to cook.

I did listen to four chapters of the audio version of Saving Irene, and I’m gradually getting ahead of that project. I am now well over halfway through the book. I did some good email business—a letter of recommendation for a friend, some marketing posts for Saving Irene—have you tried the hamburger Stroganoff recipe? Emails to a couple of old friends, including some in Omaha where trump left his followers in frigid weather with no transportation. Such a caring man!

But overall, I accomplished little. I napped, of course, and when I woke up, I thought since we were not having family dinner—leftovers, and we were each eating on our own—I’d just stay in my jammies. But a voice in the back of my mind said to get dressed—for my own sake, not for the family. I do usually work in jammies until after I nap and then I “freshen” myself ad put on new clothes. So today I did that anyway—Jordan who came out for happy hour was the only beneficiary of my spiffed-up self.

With leftovers for dinner, I didn’t even have cooking to pull me out of my doldrums. But Jordan did—last night she undertook what she thought would be a huge process and found out it wasn’t that big a deal—she made pesto out of the large bunch of basil neighbor Mary had given us. So now we have a bunch of basil in the fridge, and Jordan is planning spaghetti with basil sauce and chicken for election night supper.

I think she is already beyond cooking that night. I am beyond worried about how to make the night pass—a lot of wine and early to bed? In truth, I may be less anxious about election night than the days the immediately follow

I did find an event outside my cottage tonight—a Zoom meeting of our neighborhood association. I haven’t attended meetings because, in truth, I don’t want to get out after supper, especially when they moved the meeting to eight. But now it’s back at seven and I could go from the comfort of my desk, so I was a wiling participant, though all I did was listen. I hope they keepe the Zoom meetings even after we don’t have to quarantine.

This afternoon, late, the sun came out a bit—an encouraging sign. And the temperature is to creep up the next few days until we reach Saturday which is to be pleasant and in the seventies. Maybe the world will be all right.

A pandemic learning lesson and a pleasant happy hour

We have all gotten into routines during this pandemic/quarantine that vary wildly from our usual daily routines. I’ve pretty much gotten used to my new routine and am okay with it, but today I had a funny wake-up call about how much my life has changed.

I haven’t worn make-up in five months. Why waste the makeup and the effort when I was going nowhere, wouldn’t see anyone but my family and a very few friends who, I hope, love me as I am. But today I had a doctor’s appointment—routine checkup, a little blood work, a look at my still-fat leg, nothing to worry about. But I decided to wear makeup because I think the better you look, the more it makes a subconscious impression on the doctor. If you look pale and wan, he’s going to think you’re poorly.

So I sat at my bathroom sink which doubles as a vanity—and I couldn’t remember what to do! I put on a light bit of liquid foundation and then scrambled in the drawer to find what was next. Powder! It turned out to be the dregs in a pressed powder compact. Do I have another? I still don’t know. I figured out blush, but then came to the part I think it important—eye makeup. My eyebrows have never darkened with age—they’re still the pale blonde they were when I was ten. Had I lost the technique for darkening them, so they were subtle, not obvious? Could I still do mascara without smudging it all over my eyes?

In the long run, I think I looked fairly respectable when I arrived at the doctor’s office. Certainly, he said I would survive such things s the apparent mosquito bite on my elbow and the arthritis in one of my fingers. And my leg is oh-so-gradually going back to normal. But I imagine it will be a while before I try the makeup thing again.

One doctor’s appointment messes up my now-established routine for the day, and I didn’t get much work done today. Mary came for happy hour, but it was just us two. Jordan has pulled a muscle in her back and does not sit comfortably; Prudence was busy with a final exam for an online graduate course she’s taking. But Mary and I had a pleasant, low-key visit.

She is one of those people who attract mosquitoes. While they rarely come near me, they swarm around her. It’s a concern these days not just for the discomfort of bites but because we’ve seen rising rates of West Nile virus in our county. So Mary arrives with all kinds of paraphernalia—a long-sleeved shirt, a face fan that drapes around her neck, bug spray (we have some but I think she likes hers better—ours is organic, at my insistence), and a lantern that is supposed to emit a vapor that drives the pesky critters way. She never got it to work quite right and fiddled with it a lot.

Meantime, Jordan had turned on our fan and the bug light which should discourage most flies and mosquitoes. It worked well for me, but poor Mary was constantly batting them away, particularly from her ankles. I told her I was grateful that she attracted them all so that they wouldn’t bother me. She wasn’t particularly amused.

Tomorrow I’ll get back to serious work, writing lessons for the online course on creating a chef. I think tomorrow’s topic will be “How ambitious is your chef?” and I’ll explore the career paths open to chefs. Which means I’ll spend a lot of time online researching. Not everyone can become Wolfgang Puck or Giada de Laurentiis or Jacques Pepin.

Now I’ll settle down with a book I’m to read for a competition. It’s about a rather grim subjects—can’t say more—but I have a feeling it is well done, which means I’ll have to read more of it than if I could dismiss it as sloppy and amateurish.

Today was pleasant, but the temperature is to go up all week. Bummer. Glad Is Isaias didn’t do more damage than it did, though several deaths are significant. And pray for the people of Beirut, where an explosion has killed at least seventy and injured many more. As someone I respect says, “There’s a world of hurt out there.”

Home again, dinner, and back in the routine

My version of Cobb salad

Jordan is home again, and we’re glad to have her back. I fixed her a welcome-home supper—well, sort of. Before she left, she suggested a salad or something easy would be good so she wouldn’t have to cook. So I made Cobb salad—well, at least I prepped the ingredients: boned a rotisserie chicken, boiled some small new potatoes, and hard-boiled some eggs.

When she came home, I said dinner was all ready. We just had to peel the potatoes and eggs and fry the bacon. Plus cut up avocado and hearts of palm, and wash and put out cherry tomatoes. She looked at me and said, “That’s a lot of work.”

Tonight was our regular Tuesday night happy hour with neighbors Mary and Prudence, and Jordan regaled them with her story of her welcome-home dinner and how much remained to be done. But when it came suppertime, I peeled the potatoes, shelled the eggs, and fried the bacon. Got everything out of the fridge but asked her to plate it (we decided on individual Cobb salads rather than one big platter) because she knows what her boys will eat and what they won’t.

She confessed she was just making jokes and really likes to cook with me. We’re a good team in my tiny kitchen, though she constantly warns me not to run over her toes with my walker, and she sometimes banishes me because I get in her way. I tell her she should wear better shoes than flip-flops.

She is home for sure. Immediately rearranged the patio to suit her, rearranged things in my kitchen, took stock of what I need from the grocery, and generally told me what’s what. I am so grateful. And I imagine she did that inside her house tonight. So now, Jordan is taking care of all of us, the world is back in its orbit, and all is well. I assured her that Christian took good care of me, which amounts to seeing that I did not lack for company in the evenings and checking on me in the mornings. All the evenings she was gone but one, he and Jacob came out for supper, and the remaining night he came out to visit.

I am having the great dentist debate. I usually get my teeth cleaned every three months, because I have “that kind” of teeth. I should have gone in April but cancelled due to the virus. Now I have an appointment in two days, and I am waffling. I called the dentist’s office, and they detailed their precautions, which sounded good. But then Jordan said how uncertain some of her friends are. Then my neighbor said her physician-husband went to the dentist and found the precautions highly reassuring. So do I go or not? I will have to make up my mind overnight, because if I don’t go, I owe them the courtesy of 24 hours’ notice.

As everyone knows, cases in Texas are surging, and Fort Worth/Tarrant County, which had a relatively low daily new case count for a long time, is also seeing a surge. It’s mostly young people, which makes me wonder if they are the ones ignoring masks and eating in restaurants and not following strict guidelines. I meanwhile am going overboard perhaps, but I take this seriously. What a dilemma!

Rain all around us last night and today, but not a drop for us. I was so hoping it would dump on my new grass. This morning a neighbor assured me it was going to rain tonight, and I took it as gospel. Unfortunately, nothing happened, although Jordan said the ground was moist this afternoon. At any rate, the grass still looks good, and I am still praying for rain.

Sweet dreams, everyone.

The week that was

Dinner tonight

Black bean enchilada with fruit salad

During quarantine, one of the most common complaints I read on the three cooking-related lists I follow is that folks are burned out on cooking, out of ideas, done with it, so ready not to cook but not yet ready to venture to restaurants. I read an article today about Baltimore chef and artist Krystal Mack who hails the return of the community cookbook. You know, those spiral bound cookbooks from the Junior League or the church sewing circles or whatever. My first signed publication was in such a book, put out by the auxiliary at my father’s hospital. I contributed a garlicky cheese dip, and there it was in round, childish handwriting—my name, Judy MacBain.

Today we fall into the trap of thinking cookbooks should have glossy, four-color photographs and complicated new recipes that challenge cooking skills. Not so, says Mack, who compiled a five-dollar book that includes poetry and activities. Titled How to Take Care, the book’s proceeds support national organizations that fight domestic violence. The recipes, gathered from her fellow chefs and artists, are simple and inexpensive. Recipes, she says, that give power back to the people.

Makes me think that my Gourmet on a Hot Plate fits right into that category. Recipes for non-cooks, beginners, families. You don’t have to be confined to a hot plate to follow them, but they too are simple and inexpensive.

During quarantine, Jordan and I have planned meals a week at a time. Not a rigid schedule, but one that gives us some idea of what to fix. This morning I asked her what was for dinner tonight and suggested the one take-out we planned for the week.

“No,” she said. “I want to save that for the weekend.”

Duh. This is the weekend. We looked at each other and burst out laughing. “Where did the week go?” she asked.

The answer is I’m not sure. I have developed a schedule for these quarantine days. I sleep as long as Sophie will let me—usually about eight o’clock but sometimes, groan, much earlier. After fixing my tea, I settle at my desk to answer emails, check the world news, study the writing lists I belong to, and check out Facebook. Believe it or not, all that takes way too much time. Then I am free for my projects—these days it’s mostly writing the novel I’m working on, but it is also my neighborhood newsletter, which has gotten much busier with quarantine. I think more people have time on their hands and also more are doing good deeds for others—those reach me as contributions to a Cheers column. There are blogs to write, and I have some personal legal documents to study.

Sometime after noon, I break for  light lunch and work until two or three when I get unbearably sleepy. After nap I change clothes (having worked in pjs all day), put away any dishes in the kitchen, and once again catch up with what’s going on in the world, take care of emails that have popped up, and drink a glass of wine with Jordan. We watch the news and then take our wine to the patio.

Most evenings we eat in the cottage. After supper I take a really short nap—sort of like Grandpa who used to fall asleep on the couch--and then I work or read until midnight.

I think I am a creature of habit. Routine makes me comfortable and secure. So now, with a project I’m really enthusiastic about, the days seem to flow into one another, and, yes, the weeks go by quickly. Yesterday marked nine weeks since I have been out in the world. And I’m okay with that.

Breaking the routine

A banner day! For the first time in almost five weeks, I left the cottage. And my car had an outing too. I told Jordan some time ago that I wanted to try the chicken salad from Chicken Salad Chicks, but she stalled. She is leery of take-out food, especially in combination with chicken salad which, as she pointed out, “Someone has to cut up by hand.” But then someone raved about it to her, so she decided we should try it. And I got to go along for the pick-up ride. Nice to be out. I had seen how green everything is in my yard, but it was lovely to drive down University, between the park and the Botanical Garden, and see everything greened up for spring. Chicken salad was good. I think I like my own better.

Going on that short errand at eleven o’clock broke up the routine of my day, because late morning is when I get the most done. By noon I didn’t want to start anything new—rationalization supreme!—and went back to the mystery I am reading. That makes two days I’ve postponed that bit of research I’d mapped out for myself. I guess procrastination also reigns supreme. But I have no deadlines, so it’s okay if I take a day off. Darn my Puritanical work ethic!

Filled out the census form today, which was a puzzler because I thought I’d already done it. Two or three weeks ago I got a short form in the mail requesting information about residents at our address. So I filled it out for all four of us and returned it. Yesterday, I got a much longer form, addressed more narrowly to 2115A Back which I assumed is just my cottage. So I filled it out for just me—online, which was super easy and quick. But now I’m worried Jordan, Christian, and Jacob won’t be counted—or they’ll be counted twice. I am not sure about the accuracy of the census. Besides, I hear they were going to delay it.

This was also the day that my hair reached the tipping point. Looks fine on the left side of my head but ridiculous on the right—must have something to do with sleeping patterns. Today I threatened to have Jordan cut it, and to my surprise she was not at all hesitant. Said, “I can’t mess it up that badly.” I’m going to write the friend who usually cuts it and ask for advice.

Dinner tonight was a sort-of stir fry—lost my stir fry pan in the great downsizing and worried tonight about the cookware for my hot plate. It’s coated, and I wasn’t wild about using really high heat—so I didn’t. Turned out great. Ground pork, asparagus, ginger, scallions, garlic,  soy and sherry. A hit with all the family. Lesson learned—and I think it’s not the first time I learned it: fresh ginger is hard to mince. Now I have a huge piece in the fridge. Someone on the NYTimes Cooking Community said her husband had shopped for her and brought home way too much ginger—like eight pieces. She showed a picture, and someone else responded that would be gone in three weeks in her house. I don’t know what she does with it, but I couldn’t help commenting that it would be a lifetime supply for me. That one piece I have will probably wither before I use it, but Jordan points out it is really good for you.

Frost warning tonight, at least to the north of us. What has happened to the weather?

Notes from the world to me, in seclusion

Hard to make the bed around a dog but she wouldn't budge

I have been trying to reach out, via email, to friends distant and near. Today I got a long email from an old and dear friend in the D.C. area. She reports that she and her husband are up at 5:00 a.m. every morning; they go for a two-mile walk, then have breakfast and dress for work, each going to their separate home offices. She fixes soup for lunch and they meet, walk another mile if he can take time from his remote meetings. And then at four they reconvene to watch Nicole Wallace, the only commentator they trust. And in the evening, they walk another mile.

Okay, they tired me out. Here I sit in the tights and T-shirt I’ve worn for two days. I sleep until at least eight each morning and am lucky to comb my hair. Some days I even wash it, but not daily like I used to. I fiddle at the computer, reading every credible news report I can find, and then it’s almost lunch time, but I squeeze in a little work. Lunch is leftovers if, praise be, I have them. I often get some serious reading done between lunch and about two o’clock—notice that narrow window—when I am compelled to take a nap.

After I nap, I either cook dinner or explore the day’s happenings online, and suddenly it’s evening, I have a glass of wine, and I’m tired. At the end of the day, I am often disappointed in the amount of work I have—or haven’t--done. Me, who used to be such an organized compulsive who prided herself on accomplishing so much each day. I am uncertain what to attribute it to—that old thing about those who have the most to do get the most done? Or I read a phrase the other day that struck home with me—anticipatory dread. Even though I feel safe and content, fear is a constant in the back of my mind. We are all afraid of a threatening but uncertain future.

A bright note today: my oldest son’s best buddy of almost thirty years ago—they waited tables and bartended together at Uncle Julio’s—sent me eggs Benedict, sausage gravy and biscuits, and a hamburger from a local restaurant. Out of the blue. Completely unexpected. Alirio does this from time to time—when my kids and I were in Chicago, he sent a gift certificate to a pub right across from our hotel. He lives in the Valley, so I’m not sure how he ferrets these places out. But it was a real day-brightener to get his gift today.

When Jordan came out to announce it, I called the restaurant and said I was sure this was a mistake. They said no, but the name was difficult, and they would spell it for me—and I knew instantly. Alirio (pronounced Alidio), a native of Columbia, went on from their bartending days to join the Border Patrol and had a good career there until his retirement last year. He and his Rosie have two almost-grown sons. I last saw them, probably within the year, when we all landed at Colin’s house at the same time. The two boys, now men, and I spent two hours reminiscing and laughing and sharing—a wonderful time, and a lesson for me in the value of keeping up with friendships. That’s something that’s always been important to me. Alirio is the icing on the cake that proves my theory. What’s the saying? “Old friendships are gold….”

So tonight I’m going to sleep resolved to be more productive tomorrow, to stick to business. But, ah, there are three food magazines calling for my attention. That’s sort of work, isn’t it?

Christmas in the cottage

Betty and I had our usual Wednesday night supper tonight, though I said I had to be home early—we always go early so that was no big deal. But even before I got home, Jacob was emailing to ask, “Are you almost home?” You see, since I will be out of town over Christmas, we had our Burton/Alter gift exchange tonight. Jacob was a bit anxious—you’d think the child didn’t know what he was getting, but he did. He picked out his Nike shirt and pants, even knew where they were in the cottage. After I wrapped them, he went to look one night and asked, “Where did you move them?” But after tonight, he is free to wear them.

I think, though, Jacob has gotten to the age where he’s as excited about the gifts to others as he is about what he’s getting. So we exchanged—a tracker for Christian to help him keep track of things like keys, a book that I got him for his birthday and he lost—now he can finish it. For Jordan, Hoka athletic shoes and my cookbook, plus a Penguin server. Anybody remember those? A vintage server all the rage in the fifties or sixties—keeps things hot or cold forever. My mom had one, and I was delighted to find a wide array of them on Etsy.

And for me, a cool navy-and-white pants and sweater outfit, wooden cooking spoons, and a puzzle that Jacob and I can do together.

When I took a picture for posterity, Sophie ran to get up on the couch—sweet thing wanted to be in the picture. Jordan eventually took one of Sophie and the Christmas tree. I am still so delighted with the cozy festive atmosphere in my cottage.

This morning two aspects of my life vied for dominance. I spent the whole time reading through research materials on the Alamo or making a cheeseball. I’m here to tell you it’s not easy to go back and forth between the two. I long ago learned that the only way to make my family cheeseball recipe is to dig in and mix it by hand—a processor makes it too runny, and a mixer just doesn’t do the job. Lots of hand-washing involved. But I got it made and split into two—Jordan will take one to the Burton family Christmas and I will take the other to Tomball and Colin and his family.

This is what the Alter clan calls an “off year”—the children all go to their other families. Bless Lisa, because she’s so sweet and welcoming when Colin wants his mom with him and that’s where I go on these off years. This year, we’ll celebrate at her parents’ house because of her father’s health—easier than having them come from Sugar Land to Tomball. Colin says he likes being the one who “gets” me on off years. He’ll drive up Sunday, pick me up, and we’ll go to Houston by way of Frisco—a roundabout journey.

I’m a creature of habit. Probably my favorite day is one like today when I can get up at my own speed, do morning chores like breakfast and dishes and shampoo by my own schedule, spend the day at my computer and end with dinner with a dear friend. But Christmas is a time to break your routine, crawl out of your schedule—and I’m looking forward to a change in my days, to spending time with Morgan and Kegan, the Tomball grandchildren, to reading some mysteries, to talking with my firstborn about weighty matters like politics and religion—we have great discussions because we sort of agree, sort of don’t.

Does it sound too fifty-ish to say, “Cool Yule”?

October Sunday

Hard to believe that it’s October already but the signs are all around us—Halloween decorations. Someone posted on Facebook that she’d seen Christmas in some stores and it was too early. Shoot! I thought it was too early for Halloween when Jordan brought home pumpkins last week. But tonight her house is awash with skeletons and Halloween drapes that are, I suppose, meant to look like Spanish moss or something creepy. There are Halloween cocktail napkins in the container on my coffee table, a lit pumpkin (no candles, thank you—a plastic pumpkin with electric lights—what is the world coming to?) outside my patio doors, and a lit ghost by my front door. I guess the whole month will be dedicated to the ghostly tradition.

Lazy day today, writing in the morning with a side trip to Central Market. Still looking for a house plant. I appreciate the suggestion of Mike’s Garden Shop or whatever—I’ve been there and like it, but Jordan is not likely to take on an errand that far out of our beaten path. I’m still looking, but came away with some smoked salmon and pickled herring—prizes from Central Market! Also a beautiful, full white mum for a pot outside the front door. I love to shop there—Jordan not so much so, but she was pleased with the mums..

The big day brightener today was the arrival of my oldest child, Colin David. He’s here on business for two days but will take time to visit with us—he’s sleeping on my couch as I write—and to solve a couple of my financial dilemmas. We had a jolly dinner—chicken enchiladas and a new corn recipe with sour cream, cilantro, and red onion.

Welcoming a child home no matter their age is always a special treat, and I am delighted to have him here. I looked forward to long, heartfelt talks—but he retreated to his bed early and declared he’s not much good after 8:30 at night. A child half my age, who wears out before I do! Still I’m delighted to have him here. Every once in a while, I glance over to make sure he’s really here.

I wrote a good bit today—almost but not quite up to my daily goal. Resolve (once again): new routine tomorrow. Exercise followed by desk chores followed by writing. One thing I’m aware that I really need to work on is being more active. Pushing the rollator around the cottage instead of sitting in it is a good start.

Have a happy week everyone.

Another blessed rainy day

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now time to read someone else’s writing.