It’s always something

 

This morning  I was washing up a few dishes, but when I stepped away from the sink, I realized I was standing in wet socks in a puddle of water. Foot neuropathy is why I didn’t realize my feet were wet, but that was the least of my problems. There was standing water on my hardwood floor and water dripping from the cabinet under the sink, where everything was wet. I got lots of bath towels, soaked up what I could, and called for help. There was no way I could get on hands and knees and drag all that wet stuff out. Christian, as usual, was sweet about it, mopping up towels, moving racks of things and boxes—you’d be amazed at how much I can cram under a sink.  Finally, it was all cleaned up, the cabinet just damp but we left the doors open for air. At suppertime, Christian replaced the things that were sitting outside drying. I marked my calendar for first thing tomorrow morning to call the plumber.

It was the spray nozzle, which was leaking back down the cord into the cabinet. The nozzle is a Delta product, which is supposed to be good, but this is the third time I have had this problem. Delta must have recognized the problem, because it has given up free replacement and now charges—last time it was $10, but with inflation who knows? I am less concerned with cost than I am with inconvenience. Trying to use the sink while keeping the sprayer down in the sink is inconvenient at best and offers a free shower at the worst. I soldiered through fixing a pot of soup for supper. But then, would you believe it, I lost all common sense, forgot about it, washed the soup bowls, and flooded the cabinet again. It’s late evening, and I didn’t dare call Christian again, so I got the one remaining bath towel, sopped it all up with my feet—a mobility handicap is teaching me to have ambidextrous feet—and looped the towel onto the cabinet so it would, I hoped, stop dripping onto the floor. Tomorrow, the wonderful Zenaida will be here and I’ll ask her to deal with the mess. Makes me feel bad, because the whole reason I did the dishes—after Jordan and Christian decided to rinse and leave for Zenaida, was that I have several extra-duty chores on her list for tomorrow. Oh well, I’m sure she’ll appreciate good intentions.

Most of today was spent going to livestream church—I went to the Ten:10 alternative service out of curiosity. It’s informal, casual, and yet very welcoming. I could see that people were milling around, greeting each other. There was a baby dedication, much like the ones at the traditional service, and a word from a new outreach minister--but his mic was either not on or so low I couldn’t hear it, even with my hearing aids turned up. I am looking forward to getting to know him, especially because I hear he once trained as a chef. Yes, I’m not too proud to live vicariously through the experience of others. The Ten:10 has a remarkable young woman who plays guitar and sings with more gusto than I am used to in church. She is a force for good, and I may go back again just to hear her. But I admit, for a traditionalist like me, the service lacked something, so I tuned in to the first part of the traditional service at eleven. I am well churched today.

Jordan did a lot of grocery planning for Christmas—several days with lots of hungry teenagers—and the only other thing I did today was to make a pot of chicken/wild rice soup. So good. All the family liked it, which is a good thing because I think they’ll get it again tomorrow night, perhaps with a salad. This was a new recipe for me, and I followed it carefully because I haven’t cooked much with wild rice. But as part of my ongoing effort to eat out of the freezer, it did clear out a one lb. package of skinless, boneless chicken thighs—and it was pretty good.

A generally good reflective Sunday. But watch out, world, at least those of us who celebrate Christmas. It’s about to get frantic time! And that’s all part of the fun. For me, it has to balance with a deep recognition of what we celebrate. Merry Christmas.

Souper Bowl Sunday

 

Here it is once again, the biggest Sunday of the football year. Not being a football fan, it leaves me apathetic to say the least. Perhaps bored would be a better description—or maybe a bit angry at the extravagance of a sporting event.

I remember several years ago when PBS had Souper Bowl programming. I think it was a series of programs devoted to soup in a play on words—and perhaps a reaction to all the junk food that is eaten at watch parties. Which reminds me—did everyone see that because of drug cartel violence, the US cut off all import of avocados from Mexico as of last night. On the eve of the biggest avocado sale day of the year, because everyone is making guacamole.

I discovered tonight that there is an organization that shares my concern it should be turned to a better cause. Project Care sponsors the Souper Bowl of Caring, couched in football terms for church groups, youth ministries, any kind of non-profit group. First down, they say, is to organize your team. Second down: what do you want—food donations? Cash donations? They talk about virtual food shopping, fundraising, food drives, and other ways to “make a touchdown.” Third down is to register your project with them and fourth to use their resources. I have no idea about the legitimacy of this program, but I would like to believe in them. It’s a neat idea.

On the other hand, it sounds like a whole lot of work, and I had my hands full today just making a pot of chicken soup. The recipe calls it crack chicken soup. It has all the things you’d expect—onion, carrot, celery, chicken, and broth (I had two cups of really good homemade broth in the freezer). But then it has the unexpected—a packet of ranch dressing mix, a can of cream of chicken soup, half and half, a half-pound of spaghetti, grated cheddar. Two friends came to share it with me, and if I do say so, it was excellent. One friend brought delicious cornbread, and so we feasted. A problem with pasta in soup—it tends to soak up all the liquid. The soup was thick tonight; by tomorrow, I imagine I’ll have to add more broth to the leftovers. Easily done.

The soup and the company soothed me at the end of a difficult day in which, ultimately, I proved myself a bad doggie mother. There’s a doggie devil that occasionally takes over Sophie, especially in the early morning. When she goes out for that morning pee, she runs madly from one end of the yard to the other, chasing squirrels, barking, squeaking in excitement. When she’s in that zone, I might as well talk to myself. I bundle up, go out with leash (to fool her into thinking she’s getting a trip) and cheese, her usual treat. I call, beg, plead, and cajole. She doesn’t even look at me.

This morning, after an hour, Jordan, who likes to sleep late on weekends, came out and went after Soph—something I can’t do when she’s back in the bushes. Jordan’s concern was that running on the ground cover and gravel in a couple of small beds, tears up Sophie’s feet. She finally brought Soph inside, but my sweet dog was not happy about it. She barked at me continually, until I went from scolding to yelling. I was not going to let her out to repeat that performance. About noon, when Jordan came to bring me something, Sophie slipped out and took the longest pee ever. Poor thing—she’d just been trying to tell me she needed to pee. She promptly went to her crate and fell asleep, either out of exhaustion or relief about the peeing—or resentment of me. We did not speak until suppertime.

But when Renee and Jean arrived, she got lots of love to make up for her cruel mistreatment earlier in the day. As of this writing, I think we’re friends again. This morning was the second in a week in which she got in that wild zone, so I’m a bit apprehensive about tomorrow. And, honest, I don’t want to get up at seven in the morning. I’m retired, after all.

It's a new week, and the world is getting back to normal. I hope everyone has a good week.

Soup Day

 

Look what I got today! A box of books! Always exciting to hold the new book in my hands, and this one is special because I love the cover and because it takes me back to my Chicago childhood. No, I’m not selling books out of the trunk of my car. I’m asking friends to order from Amazon; these carefully counted out copies are for my immediate family, reviewers, and people who helped me get the book from manuscript to print.

Today's weather: It’s not chilly, except when you’ve been having days in the nineties, a high in the low seventies—and low sixties at night—seems chilly. Add to it the slow, steady drizzle that we’re having today, and you know fall is here.

First thing this morning, I put a chicken carcass on to simmer. Then I did what I’ve been itching to do for a couple of weeks—fished all those icebox dishes out of the freezer and let them defrost so I could tell what was what. (Jacob hates for me to call them icebox dishes—he thinks it’s an old-fashioned term and says, “Containers, Juju, containers!) I had a total of eight—returned two to the freezer because they didn’t fit the emerging “theme” of my soup, discarded one because I couldn’t tell what it was, dumped four into the soup just now, and am still waiting to identify one. The soup turned out to be a chicken soup, with the meat I scrounged from the carcass before I put it on to simmer.

When I asked Christian, days ago, if he’d eat “soup of the week” or “freezer soup,” he said he’d have to know what was in it—sometimes I think that boy needs more sense of adventure. At any rate, I promised yesterday I would not consciously put in anything he doesn’t eat. We’ll see how it goes over tonight. With garlic knots (left from our last spaghetti-to-go order) and Caesar salad—we are all now enamored of Samin Nostrad’s Caesar dressing. It has mayonnaise, which is a no-no in traditional Caesar dressings, but it makes generous use of the anchovies which give the dressing its characteristic flavor. So good!

On the writing front, I had one of those panicky moments today that every writer hates. I couldn’t find the 450 words I wrote one day last week. They weren’t brilliant words, not near my best, but they were words I needed in the only remaining “lecture” for my online class. I had five different files with the title I thought should be on those words. And each of them was an abbreviated set of notes, nothing worked out in words. Just as I began to reassemble the notes so I could figure out what I said, I found the copy. So now I’ve added another 400 words. Tomorrow will try to whip it into a cohesive article. Also discovered that for my Dropbox backup I had the same lecture twice, which would have left me one short. Got that straightened out too. Somehow this online class looms big on my mind.

PS: The soup was good. Christian admitted, “Jacob and I were skeptical, but you did a good job.” High praise! Should have taken a picture, but I ended adding egg noodles, corn, and diced tomatoes to my leftovers. So good—and not much leftover.

What are you eating in times of quarantine?

Because I’m a frustrated food writer and wannabe chef, I’m interested in what people are eating in these days of isolation and empty grocery shelves. As I mentioned last night, we ordered from Central Market and were told it would be Saturday, March 28. Today I called and asked since that is so far out and our needs will change, could I add to the order. Nope. It’s apparently carved in stone.

A friend went grocery shopping today and looked for two items for me: Ritz crackers (so good in meatloaf and salmon croquettes) and diced tomatoes. Good on the Ritz, no go on the tomatoes. We are making do with what we have.

I am becoming reacquainted with the contents of my freezer and pantry, a friendship that is long overdue. Tonight I gave Jordan a box of black bean soup I bought without realizing it had chipotles in it—I am not a pepper girl! And a pre-cooked lamb shank in gravy which, if I remember right, I got from Central Market. It was my third try, and the verdict is that much as gourmands rave about shanks, I don’t like the texture.

This morning I told Jordan I thought I’d make freezer soup for supper. Did her family want some? “What’s in it?” she asked. My reply: “I don’t know. I haven’t made it yet.” It ended up with chicken broth, a can of San Marzano tomatoes (surely if I’d had it,plain old Hunt’s would have done), some orzo that’s been in the pantry forever, peas and corn from the freezer, some of the cannelloni beans I baked with tomato and cheese last night, a few slices of a kielbasa I found in the freezer. Pretty darn good.

But I have now eaten the last slice of Jewish rye (I prefer Orowheat seedless for sandwiches) from the freezer and am hoarding the last few Girl Scout thin mints. Why oh why didn’t I buy more? Jacob tired of them rather quickly, but I doubt I ever will. And I’m in danger of running out of chocolate.

I’m not old enough to have more than the sketchiest memory of WWII. I remember when margarine was new—a great white block, with a yellow color packet you mixed in to make it look like butter. Mom said food is half eaten with the eye, so I guess the yellow color was important. And I remember hearing about rationing—sugar for baking was hard to come by. Today reminds me of all that. And if you don’t get groceries for a week, how do you plan ahead? I want to bake cookies for Jacob—everyone seems to be doing comfort baking. But I can’t wrap my head around planning the supplies. I suppose I should just sit down with the recipe and make a list.

Once a doctor asked me to keep a food journal—everything I ate for a week. I don’t think that’s an unusual request from a physician. When I turned it in, he asked if I could eat a club sandwich without the bacon. Duh! But I digress. I think these days a food journal would be interesting. What are you eating?

Am I in Chicago?

The wind whistled and whined around the cottage this afternoon, making sad, moaning sounds. Took me back to days in Chicago which comes by its moniker of “the Windy City” honestly. Some days you had to fight to stay upright, particularly in the canyons of downtown Chicago or on the lakefront on a day when Lake Michigan showed its wild and stormy side. Today, with the Texas wind howling off the prairies to our west, I was glad to stay inside.

Perfect day for soup, so I cleaned out the freezer. Turned out I didn’t have as many leftovers as I thought—a small icebox dish of the last batch of leftover soup, another small one of a spaghetti sauce that was only medium but would be fine in soup, and a larger container of something that I could not identify by sight, smell—or poking my finger into it. That went in the trash, but I got some frozen peas out of the freezer, and a small bit of multicolor rotini (so glad to get that box out of my tiny pantry drawer). The thing that made the soup so good, I think, was the can of pintos that I discovered and added. Jacob of course would not eat my soup, so I fixed him buttered noodles—no nutrition and probably too many carbs. He asked for a giant helping. After I fed him, I finished my own meal off with my gingerbread and ginger-brown sugar whipped cream, which is beginning to sag as I knew it would. Still, it tasted delicious.

A milestone today: I finished going through the last of the boxes of research materials on the second battle of the Alamo. Tomorrow or the next day, I’ll plug in my notes from today, and then it’s time to start at the beginning and read through it. Because I kept adding bits and pieces as I found them, I know there will be repetitions and duplicates and probably some bad transitions. I still have lots of work to do.

Rosa came to cut my hair today, and I had my toenails done the other day—obviously I’m gearing up to be out of town. I’ve even made a list of things to take—one list for Sophie, one list from the refrigerator and freezer, a list of outfits (including the super new one I got last night), and a list of incidentals—like a legal pad for notes, honey for my tea (they probably have some but just in case), and shampoo. Looking forward to a few days away.

Christmas anticipation is high. For those who celebrate, I hope your anticipation is focused as much on the gift we all receive from on high as on those packages under the tree. I quoted our minister today when I told one of my children I would rather have his presence than his presents.

Everything but the kitchen sink

This cold spell has had me housebound, which means I’ve been in my little kitchen more than usual. One of the best things I fixed was what I call kitchen sink soup. You can guess why—yes, it has everything but the proverbial kitchen sink. I “build” it with leftovers, carrying on my mother’s lifelong habit of saving a dab of this and a dash of that. Leftover chili but not enough for another serving? Put it in the soup pot. The same with casseroles, bits of meat, whatever. When there’s enough to consider it soup, I usually add some broth, either chicken or beef, and a can of diced tomatoes. Depending on what’s already there, I may add frozen corn or peas, some potatoes cut up or pasta of one kind of another. I don’t add rice, because it absorbs the liquid and swells up until you have stew rather than soup.

I used to make this for my kids when they were in high school. We called it “Soup of the Week,” and laughed because it always came out brown. But it was good, and they liked it. I told Christian I had homemade soup and asked if he wanted some. “I’d have to know what’s in it first,” he replied. I told him that was an impossible question to answer. Actually, the soup I ate the last two days was definitely tomato based, and I detected shredded chicken, pinto beans, corn, and two meatballs. The rich soup had a hint of lamb, and I think that was from the meatballs. Yesterday I did as I would do with chili and stirred in a dab of sour cream just before eating. So good.

I also experimented with chicken thighs recently, but I think I reported that—some success both with a recipe for garlicky thighs with lime and soy and a version of smothered chicken—delicious but didn’t keep well for the next day. And my other accomplishment in the kitchen was to cobble together several versions of the classic salmon dip that everyone makes and come up with the version I like best. Simple ingredients—cream cheese, sour cream, scallions (why bother grating onion?), canned salmon, a bit of lemon, maybe a dash of Worcestershire. finely chopped parsley for color, dried dill if you like it.

While I was in a kitchen mood, I tackled the stack of magazines that accumulated on my desk, mostly Bon Appetit and Southern Living. The arrival of Bon Appetit used to be a red-letter day for me, but lately I find fewer recipes that interest me. I’m not sure if it’s me, not moving ahead as cooking trends change and grow, or if it’s a change in focus by the magazine. Probably a bit of both. But I’m not interested in putting kale in everything I cook, and many contemporary health-food trends leave me cold. Southern Living has remained more traditional, and I cut out such recipes as a warm apple compote with cheddar, or Capitol Hill Ham and Bean Soup (Now, see, the leftovers could go in the soup pot), or an herbed sour cream and smoked salmon topping for the latkes I never did make this holiday season.

A recipe I found and really liked was for Rigatoni with Silenced Smartphones. Now if I could get hats off the head and elbows off the table, I’d feel it was a civilized dinner table. Call me old-fashioned, go ahead. I think I’m proud of it.

No Sunday Funday

Long, slow Sunday, the kind of day when I long for daylight savings. The family didn’t want to go to church and had busy activities scheduled, so me and my dog and my computer have been alone except for pop-in visits. By 5:00 p.m. I thought it was dreary and dismal, and I had to remind myself that it’s the time change. Predicted rain never came.

I cleaned out the fridge and freezer and made a pot of chicken soup—rotisserie chicken, broth, canned tomatoes, a few carrots, a couple of potatoes, a half onion. Now, when it’s almost done, I cubed and added a half zucchini.

Pet peeve: you have to be so careful when you buy diced tomatoes. Plain, original are rare. Only when I opened the can today did I realize that I bought diced tomatoes with green chilis. Not the end of the world—chilis in chicken soup are probably a good addition, but it’s not what I had in mind or what I wanted. And the line about green chilis was in tiny print.

Soup smells good. Perhaps it will warm my soul.

It did warm my soul today to see on TV that the church in Sutherland Springs, Texas held services this morning. I had thought the pastor, who lost his daughter in the shooting, said the church would close and perhaps be demolished. But there he was this morning, preaching the word of God. Somehow that’s a sign of hope and courage to me. Not defeated, not turning away from faith, these people are carrying on. A huge crowd attended. Bet they didn’t all fit in the church.

On the other hand, all the news about Judge Roy Moore chills my soul, more than our usual daily diet of Republican scams and presidential bloopers. To think that scores of pastors, men who supposedly share my faith, are defending this man and Senators are dancing like cats on a hot tin roof seriously assaults my faith. Moore, who should even have to forfeit the honorary title Judge after being barred from the bench twice for judicial misconduct, is a man to whom corruption of all kinds clings like a polyester cloak. One report says Moore will win a landslide; another says his Democratic challenger is running slightly ahead, which in Alabama is a huge victory. I may just close my ears until the election is over. Nah, I’d never do that. Probably won’t close my mouth either

I’m sure much of the country is outraged by the Alabama politician who compared Moore’s situation to Mary and Joseph, but someone kept posting on my wall comments to the effect of “What about corrupt Hillary.” It’s a tactic 45 uses all the time. A friend called it “whataboutism” and labeled it a Russian disinformation technic. Someone else referred to Newt Gingrich dating an intern and waiting until his wife was hospitalized fighting cancer to tell her he was filing for divorce. Sure, it makes my point, but it too is whataboutism. When talking about Moore, folks, can we please stick to Moore and not drag others in for better or worse.

And to end on a light note: I really like the word “bigly.” Like the sound, the implication. I’ve longed to use it, but I thought it was one of many pseudo-words 45 has added to our lexicon, and was therefore off limits. But I looked it up today—love, love, love the dictionary resources available online. The first use was in the middle ages, so I am bigly relieved. Is that the right usage?