Ah, to be in Hawaii

 

Jordan on the ferry from Maui to Lanai

Ah, to be in Hawaii

Not much to blog about tonight. All day in the cottage alone—even Sophie deserted me and spient most of the day in the main house with Christian.  She’s a fickle beast. I worked, not much to report there, and I read about what’s going on in our country. From MTG to the Supreme Court and its corruption to Speaker Kevin McCarthy and his fatuous self-satisfaction, my indignation is high. But I’ll spare you the diatribe.

The trouble with ice and snow warnings in Texas is that they so often vanish into nothing that we have gotten complacent, sure that the storm will pass us by, die out, amount to nothing. So we're unprepared and surprised when a forecast turns real. Christian said tonight if he'd know how bad it was going to be, he'd have gone out and gotten dog food. Hindsight.

Tonight I fixed a queso chicken casserole—fudged with the recipe a bit, but it was still awfully good. Lots of leftovers for the rest of the week. Sometimes I’m wonder if I’m losing it—at least the cooking part of “it,” whatever that is. I try to plan so carefully so that I have all the ingredients needed for whatever I’m making, but tonight I realized I had no Velveeta, not something I keep on hand but needed for the recipe. I substituted leftover cheese from our recent dinner at Joe T’s and some of our good Tillamook sharp cheddar. Taste was still good, but the consistency was different.

The only thing I really want to share is some pictures from Hawaii where Jordan is enjoying sunshine and ferry rides and great good times while we struggle through ice and cold. She didn’t exactly pick the date—it’s a work-related trip—but it turned out to be so timely. We have sent her pictures of the snow and ice, just to keep her grounded.

View from Jordan's room at the
Four Seasons, Maui

Weird weekend

 

Jordan and Christian at the Cattleman's Ball in Dalls

Weird. No other term for it. The Burtons have had major social engagements, and after a busy week, I have had none. So I’ve been sort of isolated out here in my cottage. Good thing I have Sophie to talk to, though she’s sometimes puzzled. In truth, I don’t mind the isolation. All week I felt pushed and rushed by deadlines—the neighborhood newsletter, the lessons for the online writing class I’m taking, blogs, etc. Now, momentarily, I’m caught up and can look ahead to some of the things that aren’t quite so pressing.

Highlight of my week: the launch of The Most Land, the Best Cattle: The Waggoners of Texas. With the kind permission of some administrators, I’ve posted an announcement on several web pages, plus my own, and have so far gotten close to 300 hits. Color me happy. I welcome any chance to talk about the content with anyone.

Tonight’s dinner was good—another one where I learned a lesson. It was a salmon bowl, adapted from a New York Times recipe. I think it will be the subject of next week’s post on the “Gourmet on a Hot Plate” blog, so watch for it on Thursday. The adaptations a tiny kitchen requires have been much on my mind lately, along with some lessons learned.

Salmon bowl

Last night’s dinner was a comedy of errors. Sometimes I get a notion in my head and there’s no talking me out of it—until I do that myself. Having posted the recipe for Sloppy Joe on Thursday, I decided yesterday I would make a batch for myself, even if no one else wants it. No problem, because Jordan was picking up groceries at Central Market, and I ordered a lb. of hamburger. Only when I unpacked the groceries, there was no hamburger. I called, they were sorry, did I want to come pick it up? No, I didn’t—at this point I have neither car nor driver’s license, and Jordan and Christian were busily putting on outrageous costumes for Monster Mash. I joked, asking the curbside person I was talking to what I should eat for supper. She talked to her manager, and they agreed to deliver it between six and seven. I was prepared to write a huge shout-out of gratitude for their outstanding service.

Meanwhile, I had begged the quarter cup of red wine that goes in my recipe from Christian but forgot to get the ketchup which had migrated into the house. Texted Jacob, who said he’d be home soon. His idea of soon is not mine, but he did eventually appear with the ketchup. And I had all the ingredients laid out, the seasonings in the wine, the beans (yes, pinto beans) rinsed and ready.

But by 7:45 the hamburger meat had not arrived. I was suddenly, instantly ravenous and didn’t care a fig about Sloppy Joe. I ate a ham sandwich on a slider bun.  Then I looked at a text. Despite clear directions about the back house and an open gate, the delivery person had merely dropped it on the front porch. Jacob was still home and retrieved it for me—and that’s how I came to make Sloppy Joe at nine o’clock last night. Not my usual hour for cooking, but it sure was good for lunch today. And I had to bother Jacob one more time for an icebox dish to store it in. I’m sure he went out just to get away from my requests.

If I want to give a shot-out to Central Market for service (delivery person aside), I want to send a big raspberry to the USPS. We’ve heard for a long time that trump put DeJoy in charge to de-stabilize the service, make it bankrupt, and privatize it. (Why do Republicans want to privatize everything? Look at how well that worked with the Texas energy grid!). Back to the postal service, I ordered stamps at the beginning of the month and have never gotten them. Today I got mail from the USPS. My first thought was better late than never, but how did they fit stamps into that #11 business envelope? It was not stamps but a letter informing me that I had been specially chosen to fill out a questionnaire about my recent transaction with the post office. You can bet I gave them a blistering answer. My understanding is that Biden cannot replace DeJoy without board approval, and he’s waiting for the term of some trump appointees to run out. The trump effect will continue to haunt us in a myriad of small ways for decades.

And there, that’s it, my rant. Unless you want me to start in on anti-vaxxers, Steve Bannon and the congressional members compliant in the insurrection, the paring down of Biden’s Build Back Better plan instead of going bold, and the apparent backing away from redoing trump’s enormous and foolish tax cut for the rich. Other than all those things, life is hunky-dory, and I’m a happy camper. Hope you are too.

Two plumbers and a dog—not an easy combination

Several years ago a bookstore set an old manual typewriter on a desk, put a stack of clean white paper next to it, and left it. The predictable happened—people came by, stuck a sheet of paper in, and wrote whatever was on their minds, from poetry to predictions, and maybe even a few curses. Someone with an even better idea collected those tidbits and compiled them into a book. My son-in-law Brandon is a bibliophile and likes odd, offbeat books, so of course I got this one for him one Christmas.

I was reminded of that book recently when I saw a picture of a battered, old metal desk someone has set out on a rise in the desert outside Alpine, Texas. The desk has a chair, some paper, and I guess a few pens or pencils. Hikers are invited to stop, enjoy a magnificent desert scene laid out before them, and jot down their thoughts. They say there is never a waiting line, because even if the desk is occupied when you arrive, no one stays long. Seems to me it might be worth a trip to Alpine, just to sit at that desk.

But you have no idea how I longed for the solitude of that lonely desk as I sat at my desk this morning. I’ve recounted my plumbing saga recently, but today was a new chapter. Keith, the plumber who has done all the work on my house for years arrived, with his helper, Adam,. ready to roll up their sleeves and attack the blockage.

First the camera, which involved such high-pitched whining noises that I took my hearing aids out and worried about Sophie’s sensitive ears. Then, from the sound, they snaked a roto-rooter kind of thing down into the pipe—and Sophie went crazy, sure that there was an animal in the bathroom that she had to frighten away with her barking, which was so frantic it was almost as high-pitched as the machinery had been. Sophie is technically a medium-sized dog, neither big nor miniature, but when she gets carried away, she sounds for all the world like yippy tiny dog—not pleasant.

By the time, Keith and Adam were both working outside, so she was free to go in the bathroom. But when she gets in the bathroom and barks, it acts like an echo chamber. A bit cowed by the noise, she spent some time under my desk, which was preferable—I could reach down and calm her with a loving hand. But then some noise outside, some small change, would send her charging into the bathroom to bark or up on the couch where she could look out at the area where the men were working. She barked so much she ran herself dry and drank an entire bowl of water. Then, of course, her frantic took a new direction—she need to go outside. I was hesitant to let her out because I thought she’d bother them, but I had no choice. Luckily, I got her back inside fairly easily.

Through all this noise, I managed to knock out almost 900 words of a proposal for a new project. In the quiet of the evening, I’ll re-read and see if it makes any sense at all—I have my doubts. When Keith and Adam went to lunch, and I tried to sneak in a nap. They never returned, but as soon as I settled in the bed, the yard guys came with their noisy equipment, which also drives Sophie into a barking frenzy. Lesson learned: if I confine her in the bedroom with me, with both doors closed, she suddenly goes quiet. What a great thing to learn.

The plumbers will be back tomorrow, but first there will be professional diggers. That sends a bit of a chill through me.  The broken pipe—probably original to the house—is buried deep in the caliché rock on which all the houses on our hill sit. It’s not easy or quick digging. But Keith assures me once the digging is done, he can fix it pretty quickly. There is light at the end of this dark tunnel.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

Chaos to Calm

My daughters

This afternoon I found myself alone, with three sleeping dogs, in a house that was eerily quiet. I’ve been used to chaos the past week—two ten-year-old boys can make more noise than a herd of elephants. And their mothers, my daughters, aren’t always soft-spoken. Plus there have been people in and out all week—repairmen, plumbers and electricians working on the cottage who found it necessary to come into the main house, the wonderful lady who cleans for me every other week, and of course happy hour guests. I’ve loved every minute of the chaos.

But today Megan and Ford went back to Austin, Jacob went to visit his other grandparents, Jordan went to work on her house, and I was alone. I took a deep breath and enjoyed it. When the grandchildren were little they’d make a total mess of the house, toys strewn everywhere, and I’d mentally worry about reclaiming the house. But their parents were good and when they left, the house was back in order, if not spotless. I used to take one of those deep breaths and say to the dog, “It’s ours. We have our house back.” I was of course sorry to see them go, but a part of me was relieved. That happened again today—when everyone was gone, the major portions of my house were neat. Some rooms will never be neat again until the merge/move is accomplished. But I have my house back.

Seemed like yesterday, my birthday, was particularly hectic, though it was a lovely day. Still Jordan had a flat tire, Christian came to pick up the grandsons so the girls and I could have a lovely lunch at Neiman’s, and then we gathered for supper. It was low-key, as I requested, with only one dinner guest. We had hamburgers on paper plates in the living room. Funny, how some birthdays you want a huge, blow-out celebration and others you want low-key. For my 70^th we invited almost a hundred people to Joe T.’s for supper, and as 80 approaches, I’m wondering what I’ll want. But for now, this year, low-key was  great.

People energize me, and one of the blessings during this housebound phase is that Jordan has made sure to invite people over, so that I’ve had lots of company. I am not solitary like writers are said to be, and I can’t write new material for more than two hours at a time, if that.  But I also enjoy aloneness. It gives me a chance to organize my thoughts—today I cleaned off my very messy desk and had, heaven help me, a new thought about one of the half-baked projects in my computer. I had a lovely nap and was primed for a simple supper alone when Jordan arrived and fixed me supper. After all the dinners we’ve had this week, focusing in part on filling up two young boys with wooden legs, I was ready for simple and light—cottage cheese and raspberries.

Tomorrow I’ll be home alone, with the dogs, for much of the day. I’m rather relishing the idea.

Blending Generations

This blending of generations that will take place over the next six months or so at my house is going to be interesting. In fact, it’s already begun. Jordan delights in hosting happy hour at my house—all her friends live around here. So tonight we had a four o’clock happy hour—two Lily B. Clayton moms who have been so helpful about bringing Jacob home since I don’t yet feel capable of negotiating the steep driveway, the street full of traffic, and the crowded schoolyard. I am grateful beyond words to these two—Amy and Amber—and very fond of them personally to boot.

I was supposed to go to supper with friends at 6:15, but I wavered. I was really tired this morning, and, to my surprise, stiff and sore from what I thought was a minimal yoga workout yesterday. I envisioned the girls leaving about six and me settling down to a quiet evening at home, complete with smoked salmon for dinner (my splurge at the grocery store this morning). In the long run though I decided to do to dinner, and it was a good thing. We went to a First Friday gathering that friends have sort of informally organized at the Kimbell Museum. Delightful except that I couldn’t hear any of the conversation—the dining area is not acoustically friendly, plus they had a three-man jazz band playing. The music was soothing and pleasant, and I settled into enjoying it and not hearing the wild tales that a former Democratic county chair was telling at our table.

I went to dinner at 6:15 and came home at eight to a house full of people and screaming kids. In the course of the evening we apparently hosted three kids, four women, and three men in addition to my immediate family. Over Jordan’s protests I cleaned most of the kitchen and waited for them to leave. Jordan, Christian and Jacob were the last ones out the door, shortly after ten. I’m tired. And I have some cleaning up to do tomorrow. Their chore will be a trip to the liquor store to replenish my nearly exhausted supply of wine.

Don’t get me wrong. I adore Jordan’s friends. They are kind and friendly and loving toward me. They go out of their way to include me in conversations, ask my opinions, make me part of the family, and thank me for having them over. But if the cottage were there and waiting for me, I’d have gone out there about nine and let Jordan worry about the kitchen either tonight or tomorrow (she’s usually so good about that but tonight she fell down a bit). I could enjoy the young company and then have my solitude. Tonight it was 10:30 before I settled alone at my desk—and that’s a time I value.

Progress on remodeling is slow, and I cringe every time some well-meaning soul asks if I am living out there yet. The answer is no. Remodeling hasn’t even started. The contractors, Lewis and Jim Bundock, have been to the city twice and come away without a permit. I’m hoping the third time is a charm—maybe even next week. Sometimes I can envision myself out there and other times I have a hard time wrapping my head around it. It will be an adjustment, but as tonight proved, a good one.

 

My work space

A group called WeWork asked me to post on my blog about my work space and their idea. It’s an innovative thing for writers and other self-employed professionals: group office space at reasonable rates. They offer solitude or companionship, whichever you want, and serve as a member network to help writers connect to others. Depending on what you want, they offer healthcare, travel, gym memberships, web hosting, and accounting services—oh boy, do I need the latter. For the meantime, though, I’m happy in my at-home workspace.

One day my oldest daughter called and said she had remodeled my house. I wanted to say, “Thank you very much but I like it the way it is.” Instead I listened. My office then was in a dark bedroom--windows but no view of the street or people. It was like a little cave. Megan suggested making that room a guest room and moving my office to the awkward little bedroom off the front room, adding French doors.

After extensive construction (which also ended up re-routing the ac/heat ducts, replacing the attic stairway, thoroughly checking out my furnace, and extensive painting), it was done. We moved my long white desk in there, and lined one wall with a free-standing bookcase. A second bookcase fell apart in the move. The room is airy and sunny with windows to the front of the house and the driveway—with the dog’s help I can keep tabs on who goes up and down the driveway.

I love the atmosphere of my office. The books make it cozy and also inspire me to keep at my work. I can look out into the living room and, on cold days, enjoy warmth from the fireplace. Sometimes my daughter entertains at my house instead of hers, and I can visit, enjoy the company, and then retreat to my private place. When my dog was a pup, I kept her in the office with me, doors closed, so I could train her. Now it’s her space, and she curls up in the now-filthy overstuffed chair.

I spend hours every day at my desk, the TV often on but softly, sort of for company. If I’m home alone, I eat my meals at the desk. Late at night, you’ll find me reading or prowling Facebook. But during the day it’s all work. I start the day with email, Facebook, and the morning paper. And then I get down to work on whatever my current project is.

I am fortunate that I live alone and enjoy solitude and the uninterrupted time for work, but many others don’t enjoy the advantages I do. Check out https://www.wework.com/locations and see if there’s a location near you. I am always impressed by entrepreneurship and give these folks a vote for success.

I am now faced with change and a decision—I will be moving to the cottage behind my house, and my youngest daughter and family will move into my house. She wants me to keep my office where it is, but I think I’d feel more at home in the cottage if I had my work space there. I could take my desk, my bookcase, and my TV. And of course the dog. What more does an old lady need? Then again, maybe WeWork is the answer for me.

Solitude and conviviality

The "adult" table at the Star Café tonight. So nice when we can have an adult table and a kids table. All of us together.

Today was almost my idea of a perfect day. By nine o'clock, all my family (except one four-member branch) was in my kitchen, kolaches were being served, and there was a great deal of hilarity and fun with some exchange about what child would eat what. But we sat, we chatted, and we were together. Colin teased me about my use of plastic flatware (I wash it in the dishwasher and recycle it) so he took this picture of me when I showed him a fork I was willing to discard. (Please forgive the first thing in the morning, no-make-up look).
By a little after ten they had all departed from the stock show. I cleaned the kitchen, made a casserole for Sunday breakfast, worked at my computer and generally enjoyed the peace and quiet. It was one of those casseroles where you refrigerate it overnight and then pop it in the oven, and I was pleased to have it done. The missing Frisco group came by around noon just to drop off dogs and head to meet the others at the stock show. I had lunch and a good, long nap, woke up feeling like a new person.
Time to get ready for happy hour--a couple of important friends who had known the children as tykes came by to say hello. Then we were all off to the Star Café, where we had an excellent dinner--I never eat chicken-fried steak but did tonight and it was wonderful. Even Megan who dined healthfully on a tenderloin salad had three or four bites of my chicken-fried and I still brought some home.
Now half of them have gone to Jordan's house, and two families are here--and I'm off in my office writing my blog, eavesdropping on their conversation, and  reflecting on how much I enjoyed all the fun at dinner but also how grateful I was for the peace and quiet during the day. I don't think I could have held up for a full day of fun, as they all did. Though there was a time I enjoyed it as much as anyone.
Last night, all the grandchildren went home with Jordan and Christian, so Colin, Lisa and I were left. After they went to bed, even though it was late, I wrote my blog and read my book and realized again how much those late-night moments of solitude mean to me. I can't just go straight to bed from a room full of people. I need those quiet moments to "collect myself." Maybe it's part of aging, but I value solitude more every day...and yet I wouldn't miss a minute of the phone with my rowdy, noisy family. I don't see any conflict between those two attitudes.

Did somebody cancel today?

I think the world cancelled today and forgot to tell me. None of the things I expected to happen came about. I thought I was going to lunch with a friend, but he had a stomach bug, so I stayed home and ate leftovers. What really bothered me about that was I had already put on make-up.  Jordan was going to come for our occasional afternoon happy hour after her work--but they had workmen at her house and she had to be home. She might, she said, need me to pick up Jacob. I did odds and ends all morning and got lots of little things done, After lunch I napped, woke up late, and called to see if I should go get Jacob. No, he was already home so he could see all the digging in their front yard. Result: I spent the entire day in my pajamas, with only Sophie for company--but she's good company.
The day left me with time to contemplate world affairs which is not a happy thing to do these days. Bob Schieffer said it best in a recent broadcast: we are in the midst of a world gone mad. Russia's encroachment on Ukraine; the horrifying Palestinian-Israeli conflict. That one I really don't understand, but perhaps I don't understand such age-old violent hatred. It seems to me that Israel keeps building settlements on Palestinian land; Hamas incites warfare, knowing that its citizens will be slaughtered--men, women, and children. I saw a cartoon recently that showed a group of supposedly Palestinian men milling around. The caption read, "Hamas loves us so much they even gave us T-shirts." On each shirt was a bulls eye. Gold Meir said years ago, "We can forgive the Palestinians for killing our children; we cannot forgive them for making us kill their children." One hardly dares use the term "fair" in this situation.
Then there are the children at the border and that horribly botched execution in Arizona, wildfires destroying eastern Washington state, violent storms in the Midwest and South. As long as we keep destroying our environment, the eccentricities of nature are beyond us and will only increase. But we could work with the atrocities wrought by man by teaching the world one word: compassion.
Oops, I slipped into the pulpit by mistake--that's what a contemplative day at home will do for you. But our minister said it well yesterday. Paraphrasing, but all we can do is take care of our own corner of the world with compassion--our family, friends, community. And vote, folks, it makes a difference.
My goodness, solitude also makes me ramble.

The quiet of solitude

Sophie and I are a little lost tonight. We've had Jacob with us for four nights, Granted, he tended to spend the evening in the back of the house in "his room" as he calls the family room, while I was in my office in the front. But I knew he was there, and sometimes I checked on him, took him a drink, and sometimes he came to ask me something or for a treat. Always I knew there was another person in the house. And then there was the business of getting teeth brushed and other nightly rituals and coercing him into bed--"Just five more minutes, Juju!" The hardest part about having Jacob is figuring out what to feed him that he'll eat--I fear he had way too much peanut butter and honey these last few days!
Tonight our "staycation" is over, and he's gone back home. Sophie takes his absence with equanimity--his attention to her is sometimes intense but often sporadic, and now she sleeps peacefully in her chair.
I am enjoying lazy solitude--reading a book that I will probably finish tonight, looking forward to a new copy of Southern Living, and ignoring that "to do" pile on my desk that has to at least be sorted. Like Scarlett, I'll think about that tomorrow.
Have a great weekend everyone!

Solitude, with vegetables

Yesterday I spent the entire day at home, in my nightgown, no makeup--I did wash my hair. Other than brief conversations with my brother and my youngest daughter, I didn’t talk to anyone but the dog. Believe me, I talked to her a lot. It wasn’t all bad—I got back to work on my novel and feel good about it. And the long day made me most grateful for breakfast, lunch, and dinner plans for today.

But last night, in an effort to divert myself, I decided to make the cauliflower cakes I’d found a recipe for. They sounded good, with lots of cheese, and I had the cauliflower in the fridge, so I set to work on it. When I got the batter or whatever ready to fry, I knew I was in trouble. The mixture had eggs for firmness but it needed some sort of filler, like bread or cracker crumbs. Too runny. The cakes didn’t stick together and were almost impossible to turn. Plus they didn’t brown well and didn’t look too appetizing. No, I’m not showing a picture but should anyone want one, I have cauliflower cakes for Cox’s Army in my fridge—and they are big because I didn’t have the patience to stand there and cook lots of small cakes (that may have been part of my problem). The one I ate was pretty good--needed more salt, but it was flavorful. I probably won’t eat the rest and after a few days they’ll go in the garbage—the few days will assuage my conscience about wasting food.

But the whole thing made me think about vegetables. I am surrounded by vegetable-challenged people. My youngest daughter is medium picky—no squash or zucchini, just learned to like asparagus, doesn’t like cooked spinach. I can count on one hand the vegetables that both my sons-in-law like. Christian is particularly fond of canned green beans, so I dress them up with vinegar, bacon and onion. He loves it.

Sunday night I had company for supper but had the forethought to ask one neighbor if he eats spinach. His reply was that he loves it raw in salad but won’t touch cooked greens. There went my main dish—layers of cheesy polenta (like cheese grits, I guess) filled with spinach. I still plan to cook that sometime, but I needed to cook a hot dog dish and photograph it for a guest blog, so I made German potato salad with hot dogs chunked up in it. My three guests all professed to love it.

To me the logical accompaniment was cabbage, and I had seen a recipe that called for buttering one side of cabbage wedges, sprinkling with onion and garlic salt and wrapping in heavy-duty foil. You were then supposed to put them on the grill, but I didn’t want to ask anyone to fire up the grill, so I put them in a moderate oven. I thought it was good, and the spinach-challenged friend said he liked it. Don’t know if he had his fingers crossed or not, but he ate most of it. But one of the other guests took one bite, at my insistence, didn’t touch the rest, and asked me not to tell his wife, who is traveling, that he didn’t eat his vegetables.

Cooked cabbage and cauliflower are not generally on my menu, but I like the idea of expanding my repertoire. Now if I could just figure out what to do with kohlrabi and get over my hesitance about kale.

I will keep experimenting with vegetables. The solitary days not so much.