Oh, to be young again!

 

Jacob and his date

Kegan and his date

It’s Homecoming weekend across Texas, and two of my grandsons—one in Tomball and one in Fort Worth—got all gussied up for the dance. I did have a moment of laughter—Jordan sent me a picture of Jacob and his date, he in a sport coat and she is one of those skimpy dresses that all the girls wear now. But the first picture Colin sent me of Kegan and his date showed them in shorts and T-shirts, she holding a basketball (I think) and he holding a bunch of cut flowers. I laughed and told Colin the homecoming dances must have been very different in nature. Pretty soon he sent pictures of them wearing their traditional mums and then dressed for the dance, she in a skimpy dress and he in a suit.

Of course I did an immediate grandmother thing and, in my mind, went back to the days when they were littles together. At one point, about fifteen years ago, I had a bunch of littles around me. Now I have all these teenagers and young adults. Kegan is the youngest (and the tallest) of my seven grandchildren, and Jacob is the third from youngest. I think I don’t mind growing old myself as much as I mind them aging out of childhood. Of course, they’re neat teens and young adults, and I love them dearly. But there’s a lot of nostalgia there.

Otherwise a quiet, pleasant day. We didn’t go to church today—Christian had projects on his mind, and it turned out I was relieved because I hear there’s a lot of Covid going around. I know that last week, half the choir was out, and we learned later it was because of Covid. They even cancelled an upcoming choir concert. I went to church virtually and did see a few people, both in the choir and in the congregation, wearing masks. I’m afraid we may be headed back to a lot of us wearing masks.

Covid still seems to loom over us, even though many have sort of brushed it off. Maybe it’s my age, but having never had it, I am still quite afraid of it. When I had that whatever stomach thing one night last week, I briefly convinced myself that it was Covid. An easy thing to do alone in the dark at three o’clock in the morning. Three o’clock seems to be the witching hour. I hate to confess how many times I am awake at the time, with a wide variety of scary thoughts. I have had to learn to tell myself, “That’s a three o’clock thought. It will be better in the morning.”

Late this afternoon, thunder teased us, rolling around the sky. We even had one good, strong clap right overhead which sent Miss Sophie to barking angrily. Despite all that, we got perhaps five scattered drops of rain. Jordan and Christian were on their way to deliver a sympathy meal to a sick friend in Arlington, and she says they were caught in such driving rain that they couldn’t see the road, and she urged Christian to pull over. I don’t need driving rain, but a bit more than five drops would be helpful.

Tonight Jordan made the iconic dish that is our family signature—and certainly my signature. Doris’ casserole has been in cookbooks, articles, and blogs; it was served once by food service at TCU and is routinely served on special occasions at our home. The Burtons made a double batch today—one to deliver and one for us. And we all agreed, we hadn’t had it in a while, and it was so good.

I first ate Doris’ at a small dinner party in the late sixties, when my then-husband was a resident in surgery. The wife of the anesthesiology resident fixed it for us. It was called Mrs. America Beef Casserole or some such, but for us, because Doris served it that night, it has always been Doris’ casserole. One friend calls it American lasagna—it has a meat layer, the noodle layer, and a grated cheese topping. I know I’ve posted it before, but it may soon be time again.

And last night I had the first of what will be many “home-alone” dinners this fall. Splurged and bought myself scallops—three nice, fat ones. Cooked a small batch of baby spinach, and then sauteed the scallops in butter—didn’t get the crust I wanted, but they were a bit browned and still soft. Squeezed a half lemon over them, plated them on the bed of spinach, and poured the lemon butter over. Felt like royalty.

May the coming week bring you health, good food, and blessed gentle rain.

God bless a rainy day

If you live in an old house, a part of your ear is always alert for the sound of running water—when no water should be running. A while ago I was at my desk, wondering what that sound I heard was. Rain! It’s been so long that it took a while for it to register on my ear and my brain. Rain, glorious rain. It actually began to rain gently while I was at the deli with a friend for lunch, and it rained off and on all afternoon, most of it gentle, the kind that loosens the soil and soaks in so that if we get a heavy downpour it won’t just run off. Tonight I hear distant rumblings of thunder. I love a good storm as long as there are no tornadoes.

It looks as though moisture systems from the west and south could collide over our area, which might lead to spectacular weather. Supposed to rain all weekend, with totals up to eight inches. Not bad at all, although there will be flooding, especially at low water crossings, viaducts, and some intersections. I personally plan to spend most of the weekend at my desk, reading and working (note that I’m not sure of the order of those two).

Jordan, Christian, and Jacob are headed for Waco tomorrow for the Baylor homecoming weekend, which also promises to be wet and soggy. I admire my daughter’s attitude: “If it rains, we have ponchos and we’ll make it fun.” I can think of few things I’d like to do less than sit in the rain at a football game.

Jacob was a hoot this afternoon. Came home and headed for his tetherball. Came running into the house saying it was gone. So I asked where he put it last night and he told me, said it’s not there, insisted I come look. I got as far as the deck, while he was in the driveway—and got a sheepish look on his face. It was where he’d left it.

I called him in to do have a snack and do his homework. He wanted ice cream. Me: No, definitely not. Too much sugar. Jacob: Okay, then I want waffles. Me: No, too much sugar—the waffle argument went on for a bit, with me holding firm, until he burst out with, “Why do you care about my health?” The absurdity of what he’d said hit us both at the same time, and we got the giggles. One good thing about that kid is that he can laugh at himself. He had sparkling grape juice and popcorn. And then he said, “Juju, the painter heard every word of our argument.” Oh, the lessons I could have given at that moment.

By golly, next thing he was outside with the tetherball again. I ordered him in to do his homework and was rewarded with the familiar complaint, “Why do you have to yell at me?” Me: because you don’t listen to me. Jacob, who had gone to look at the bathroom progress: well, you don’t have to yell so loud. It echoes in here and hurts my ears. I wanted to ask how his ears survive when four or five boys are playing with the tetherball. All in all, I decided he gave me the best laugh I’ve had in days.

And he spelled all the words right, though I circled the word “argue.” He asked if he spelled it wrong, and I said no, I just thought it was an appropriate word. He said, “Meanie,” but he was smiling.

Tonight? A glass of wine, a book, listening to the rain, and early to bed.