Lost my oomph

 

Christian's porch plants

Somehow, today, I lost my oomph. Not all that unusual on a Sunday. Sometimes my body seems to say, “Nope, it’s Sunday. The day of rest. I’m not gonna do that, no matter how you nag.” And my brain follows right along. So I fiddled the day away, browsing on the net, napping, reading.

I did a couple of good things—sent off a critique to an as-yet unpublished author. She replied that she was taken aback by some of my comments, and I admit I was brutally honest. But the manuscript didn’t engage me, and I saw some clear ways to fix it. I was honest about the fact that I only read fifty pages—because I was bored, though I didn’t say that—and she of course said if I’d read further, I might have been more engaged. I replied that if most readers have to go fifty pages into a book, they just won’t do it. Ideally, you should capture the reader on the first page. I have lingering regret over the whole thing—it will teach me not to volunteer to critique. But I couldn’t see encouraging a writer about a manuscript that, in my best judgment, has no market appeal. At least, I was honest, and it’s off my desk.

And after a bit of difficulty I sent the neighborhood monthly newsletter to the designer, so that too if off my desk. But it will come right back in the form of proof tomorrow.

Jean came for supper, and Christian fixed his delicious hamburgers. I made smashed potatoes to go with them, something I’ve just learned to do. The first time I asked Christian to get tiny Yukon Gold potatoes, he got about four times the number I thought I needed. So tonight I cooked what was left. In duck fat. Jordan and Jean really like the potatoes but would like to call the fat something else. When Megan first told me she cooked these, she said she had chicken fat. I refrained from asking if it was kosher schmalz, but I don’t think the girls would like this any better. The first time I used duck fat, I thought it instantly made my tiny kitchen small like Thanksgiving. It makes terrific potatoes.

The big accomplishment of the day belongs to Christian and Jordan: tonight they pulled the electric wheelchair to the middle of my closet, located the charger, found that the chair still turned on, and plugged it in to charge overnight. My brother goes home from rehab tomorrow, so the timing is good. Now we have to get the chair from Fort Worth to Tolar and all is well. Except of course that the chair is in the middle of my closet—no way my walker and I can get in for clean clothes, laundry, etc. Zenaida comes tomorrow, and the first thing she does is start a load of my laundry in the house. Not tomorrow. I am telling myself none of it is the end of the world.

I had a hilarious conversation with Christian tonight—because I thought I was talking to Colin. Too detailed to tell all, but the voice said he would need make and model number of the wheelchair to check the battery location, and I said, “Sweetheart, I sent it to you days ago.” The voice, incredulous: “You did? I don’t remember seeing it.” When I asked when he thought he might come look at the chair (mind you, this was, in my mind, Colin who is four hours away in Tomball), he said, “Well, tonight when I come out for supper.” That was my clue I was talking to the wrong person.

The fact that they were able to charge the chair is good news/bad news. It means there is no excuse to get Colin up here to do chores, and as I freely admit I will use any excuse to get any of my children to come visit. “Want a deli sandwich from Carshon’s. Colin? I’ll buy!” But I don’t want him to drive all this way if he doesn’t need to.

One of the things that the voice said to me in that misbegotten phone call was, “I’ve been out all day planting.” Didn’t sound like Colin to me—he is more likely to spend the day building or repairing something big. But who am I to ask. It was of course Christian, and he was busy with the pots on the front porch. Christian is a pot gardener (no, not that kind!), and each year the front porch is amazing. I’m letting a couple of his photos carry the weight of this blog tonight.

Hope everyone has their oomph in place as we approach this new week, the last for most pubic school kids in Texas. Who knows what the schools

will look like in the fall, after this legislative session is over. Fingers crossed, prayers said.

Feast or famine

 

Egg salad on rye, garnished with heart of palm

Most nights I have company either for happy hour or supper, be it friends, neighbors, or family. Last night was a special treat. Longtime treasured friend Linda came in from Granbury (for non-Texans, it’s maybe forty miles from Fort Worth, so Linda doesn’t just casually drop in). Jordan joined us for a half glass of wine, and then Linda and I were off to meet three other friends for dinner.

The ladies we met, like ourselves, were former wives of osteopathic physicians. Linda and one other are widowed; three of us are divorcees though only one ex-husband survives. (No, I’m not rubbing my hands in glee—they were friends of mine too.) We meet for dinner only occasionally, but quarantine kept us apart longer than usual, and we were glad to share stories of old times, catch up on families (who got Covid and who didn’t), and share our outlooks on life now that the world seems to be opening up again. As usual, I was the only one who enjoyed quarantine, and Linda, who knows me better than the others, snapped, “Of course you did. You’re a nester.” I think she’s right.

It was lovely to have dinner on a patio surrounded by trees, at a table still socially distanced. Caesar salad, veal piccata, and a couple of glasses of wine. We came back to the cottage and sat on the patio with Jordan and Christian until the chill in the air drove us inside. Linda was to meet a friend this morning in the Stockyards district, so she spent the night on my couch rather than drive back to Granbury, and I kept her up later than she’s used to talking and working at my computer. Strange but nice when you’ve lived alone for so long to wake in the night and know there is someone else in the cottage. I have one light in the living area that stays on 24/7, but she turned it off to sleep. So I kept thinking, “Why is it so dark in here?”

This morning we lingered over tea and scones. Then she was off to the North Side, and I was left to play catch up and do some work. Somehow it slipped my mind that I was supposed to be reading page proofs, so I devoted time to that.

But if last night was a feast of company, tonight is a famine. Jordan has gone to Austin to visit older daughter Megan, and the Burton boys—Christian and Jacob—were helping someone move and would eat dinner thereafter. So I was on my own. When you have no inspiration for dinner, what do you fix? Usually with me, it’s tuna, but tonight I made egg salad.

I’ve been making egg salad all my adult life, always the same ordinary way. So I saved a recipe with ideas for variation, principally bacon and cream cheese. But when it came right down to it, I remembered the reason I quit buying Central Market egg salad was I didn’t like the bacon in it, and when I tried to put cream cheese in a dish a few days ago, it was hard to work with and clumped, even though I heated it. I decided on plain old-fashioned egg salad with mayonnaise, mustard, and dill relish. Made a great sandwich.

A thought in passing: Americans do and believe so many things these days that are, to me, beyond belief. But the current one that boggles my mind is all the people who panicked and began to hoard gasoline when the East Cost pipeline was hacked. I saw a couple loading the back of a Suburban with containers of gas. My first thought was that I didn’t want to ride anywhere with them. But looking further, I began to appreciate their use of proper gas containers, because I saw pictures of people putting gas in plastic bags, tying the tops, and putting them in their cars. Are they serious? What level of stupid are they?

Did you read about the man who loaded his Hummer (who knew they were still around) with gas (it did not say what kind of container), got in, and lit a cigarette? Within minutes, his Hummer was ashes. Fortunately, he escaped injury.

A post somewhere on the net skewered these hoarders, saying some people at a party hearing there might not be enough pizza to go around, take three or four pieces, while others, fearing not everybody would get some, limited themselves to one piece. It is, the poster aid, a perfect illustration of Americans today.

Which brought me back to the theme of so many sermons at my church today: do you always think of others first or do you think of yourself? A question that might make a lot of us do some deep introspection.

A Special Milestone

My oldest granddaughter is college-bound, and I had been fairly vocal about wanting a Maddie hug before she leaves the nest. She drove over from Frisco to have supper with me last night. It’s the first time she’s driven here by herself, and the first one-on-one visit we’ve had since the days I used to babysit with her when she was an only grandchild—now there are seven of them. When she walked in the door, I said I viewed the visit as a milestone, and she was all grins as she agreed.

I asked what she wanted for dinner, and she remembered the Italian restaurant where we’d had good food and an unfortunate waiter several months ago—no reflection on the restaurant and kudos to them for quickly correcting the situation. We went to Bravo, sat on the empty patio with the evening breeze just beginning to stir, and had a lovely time.

We talked about college. She’ll go to Colorado University where, according to her previously announced plan, she’ll major in psychology. This fall she’ll take psychology, philosophy, biology, and American history from 1875. I envy her the history course and reviewed in my mind the things she’d cover—Industrial Revolution, Columbian Exposition if she’s lucky (she would if I were teaching the course), world wars, Korea, Vietnam. She seemed unaware of WWI and WWII and high-fived me when I told her they’d surely be included.

Maddie is a certified nursing assistant, with an eye on an R.N. degree. She’s also young and strong—perfect person to help me with my walking. We walked down the driveway to the car and from the car across the parking lot, into the restaurant, and headed for the patio. We weren’t too far from our goal, when I had to stop and ask for the walker—my stamina had run out. But she said she was very impressed with the improvement I’ve made. I thrive on praise like that.

We talked about the family wedding where she was a flower girl, and I told her stories from her childhood, and we talked about her cousins and family fun. At the end of our meal, I thanked her for coming all the way to see me. She grinned and said, “I was glad to. You’re fun.” What better compliment can you get from an eighteen-year-old?

She’s one of the many blessings in my life.

The saga of Jacob’s dinner and other tales from the cottage

Last night, about 8:30, Jacob had come from soccer practice and a mom had picked up the friend who came with him. He burst into the cottage saying, “I need dinner immediately.” I told him he could make a ham and cheese sandwich—the food appealed to him but not the making. I’m on a kick of making him more self-sufficient, so I told him I’d walk him through it.

First obstacle: I keep my bread in the freezer, and now I don’t have a microwave. “I’m not eating frozen bread.” I explained if we left two slices out for about ten minute they’d be fine.

Next we came to cheese. He doesn’t like the Sargento slices that I think are a cut above other prepared cheeses. He wanted Velveeta slices—the ones I get for the dog. I suggested he have a ham sandwich.

He spread mayo on the bread, opened the brand new container of deli ham, and flipped the whole thing onto the floor, where it landed on the mud rug. I’m not wasting a whole pack of ham, so I picked it  up to take off the outer pieces and brush off the dirt.

“I’m not eating it,” as he threw the bread away and stalked off. In the end he made himself a bowl of cereal, but even then he was cautious. “Is it the kind we like?” I wanted to shout, “No, I deliberately bought cereal we don’t like.”

This morning I wakened him for school, went back to bed, and harangued him from there to get up. Fell asleep and when I woke up he was at school. But I had no dog. She didn’t greet me, didn’t come when I called her. I called Christian to see if she was in the house—she wasn’t. I told him he’d have to drive the neighborhood, and I’d put her picture on the neighborhood email. Then, “Wait a minute.” I wheeled around to the corner where her chair is behind my desk and monitor.

There she was, sleeping peacefully. She roused enough to look at me as though asking, “Yes? You wanted something?”

I had a big adventure today—went out to lunch with a friend. So special that I even put on leggings (inside my boot) and put a little makeup on my face. But I worried about leaving Sophie—she hasn’t been alone in the cottage yet. And then we found out what triggers her separation anxiety. When the transport wheel chair came out, she had a meltdown, howling, dancing around, jumping. Fortunately, Socorro was here, so Carol put Sophie in the bathroom, wheeled me down the ramp, and asked Socorro to let her out of the bathroom. When we came home an hour later, she was glad to see us but calm. No damage to the house.

All of this has me thinking I’ll change the name of my blot from Judy’s Stew to Tales from the Cottage. More about that later.