Chaos and clutter

 

The work area in my tiny kitchen.
That's where i cook, including hotplate and toaster oven. No stove.

The chaos in the cottage is subsiding—Jacob assembled the compost tumbler, and it sits proudly in the driveway, the computer cords arrived and I have my remote keyboard back, Sophie has a new supply of dog food. The only thing still not in proper order is my TCU email account—it won’t talk to my phone, and when I tried to re-install it, TCU told me there was no such account. Sigh. It will take a rather long call to the Help Desk, and I had other things on my mind this morning. So I put it off. I do still get that email on my computer, but I cannot send pictures from my phone.

Today I devoted myself to de-cluttering the cottage—sorting out what had accumulated on the coffee table, putting away laundry, putting Christmas cards into a package to save though I will probably never look at them again. Just generally clearing the surfaces. When I first moved into the cottage, Jacob was about ten, and I remember telling him clearly that in small spaces it was more important than ever to keep things neat and not to accumulate things you don’t need. About six months later, Colin was here, and he was puzzled about why the cottage looked so different to him. Finally, he said, “You’ve got more stuff. It’s more lived in.” There’s a fine line between “lived in” and cluttered. And I am, alas, like anyone else—I accumulate stuff that I don’t really need. Like the springform pan I just bought, or the sushi dishes I got in a White Elephant exchange which I finally put on the shelf with wine glasses this morning. Good thing I don’t have glass-fronted cabinets. Life in the cottage is a constant challenge of finding places for new things and deciding what I can part with. In that, I am goaded by Jordan who constantly asks, “Do you use this?”

My cottage is about six hundred square feet, spacious compared to some tiny homes. Since I moved in, I have become fascinated with the layout of tiny houses, and I follow every link to pictures of interiors. For some reason I don’t understand, I am drawn to those articles that tell you what John Q. Smith and his wife Susie did to convert a school bus into a livable home. I don’t find most of them livable. The interior invariably looks cluttered to me, and I look in vain for someplace comfortable to sit with company. Utilitarian is good up to a point, but I also want my creature comforts—and a certain order and tidiness is part of that. Many of those conversions—and other tiny houses—have sleeping lofts with ladders or steep stairs without railings—that would never have done for me, even in my salad days. Aside from the fact that I was never surefooted on stairs, I’d be afraid I’d sleepwalk in the night and take a tumble.

Sometimes I think it’s a competition among designers of tiny houses to see who can build the tiniest that is still functional. One lack I’ve noticed, not just in the bus conversions, is that there is no desk in almost all of these designs. Now I know not everyone spends as much desk time as I do in a day but still, don’t people have to have a spot where they can pay bills and keep records, send some emails, etc.? Somehow that says something about the tiny house approach to life that is significant, but I’m not sure how.

My cottage is about as tiny as I want to get—a living/office area, postage stamp kitchen, bedroom with a walk-in closet and a bathroom that, considering everything, is plenty spacious. It's just right for me, and I don't need more--except maybe more kitchen. I don’t think I can imagine getting any smaller. Were I to add space, it would be to enlarge the kitchen. I have said if I thought I was going to be cooking for another twenty years, I would invest in a top-notch kitchen designer to give me a kitchen, given the space, designed for efficiency and wheelchair cooking. Not a gamble I’m willing to take.

Long story short, I love my cottage and will continue to try to keep it as neat and uncluttered as possible. But bus conversions and the like are for the young at heart and adventuresome in spirit, neither of which describes me. That said, I know a novelist who, retired from her day job, lives and writes in a van conversion with her cat and travels all over the country, parking for a few days at a time in campsites to catch up on her writing. She loves it! My horoscope says such fiddle-footedness is not for me. I am a homebody rooted in place.

 

Kitchen Tales

My kitchen sink

Last night Jordan found an old cookbook on my shelves. “Did you write in this?” she asked, the moment she opened it. The pages were covered with notes, recipes on index cards were stapled in at various places, and hand-written recipes covered the endsheets. Jordan, who’s been trained not to write in books, was astounded. I told it was a first edition of Helen Corbitt’s first cookbook that had belonged to Linda’s mother, Billie, and Linda (one of my closest friends) loaned it to me, knowing that I was fond of Billie and at the time studying Helen Corbitt. “Linda can’t have this back,” she said as she leafed through it. (Be forewarned next time you visit, Linda!)

So I thought Jordan might enjoy the cookbook my mom had helped put together in the fifties for the auxiliary of the osteopathic hospital where Dad worked. Mom was sort of the force behind that book, but reluctant to  have her name appear too often, she signed some recipes with the pseudonym Penelope Jones. Helpful cooking hints were contributed by the anonymous “Gourmet Grace”—guess who. And then some recipes carried the names of my far-away aunts. It was one of those projects where the recipes are reproduced in the donor’s handwriting—and there it was, in roundish, childish handwriting: my first published recipe, for hot cheese dip.

Jordan was surprised by the amounts or lack of. “It says one roll of garlic cheese—how do you know how big?” I explained that back then garlic cheese came, from Kraft I believe, in a standard size. It’s no longer on the market that way. Another surprise for her brought forth, “You can’t buy lobster in a can!” I assured her you could, probably still can today. She looked it up and it is available, at quite a price. Several more oddities struck her, and we had lots of fun talking about the difference in recipes. It was especially fun since she, my youngest, had been her grandmother’s special baby because soon after she came along my mom moved down the street from us.

Ruth Reichl’s Substack column today struck home with me. It reprinted a column she’d written several years ago from an ultra-modern, ultra-efficient, swank leased kitchen in LA. The kind where you can do everything with a push of a button. The dream kitchen of thr 1950s. Reichl hated it. It was cold and sterile, and she longed for her home kitchen with the stove that didn’t work right. She then reviewed various kitchens in homes where she’d lived, with the thought in mind that the kitchen should be a happy place (Helen Corbitt would have loved this woman!)

Of course it got me to thinking about kitchens I’ve known, from the remodel in the fifties that Mom was so proud of to the remodel in what I call my doctor’s-wife kitchen. That remodel, I swear, began the dissolution of the marriage. And then of course I came to my tiny kitchen today. One of the points Reichl made was that she had cooked for years in kitchens without dishwashers, which gave her a new appreciation for that appliance. I cook without one now—no room for it. And as most of you know I cook on an induction hot plate and a toaster oven—no stove, no microwave.

I’ve been saying that if I thought I would cook and live for another twenty years or so, I’d hire one of those expensive kitchen designers to gut my kitchen and redesign it. Our contractor, who is a minor god in my book, did a good job, building on knowledge from his wife’s kitchen. Mine is functional, but I am sure there is a better way to design it for more storage, more efficient use of space, and better accommodation for a person in a wheelchair. I don’t do it because one never knows in the mid-eighties how long this good run is going to last, and it would not be an investment in the future—I can’t imagine anyone caring that much about a 4x6 kitchen in what will probably be rental property one day. Meantime, taking Reichl’s advice, I’m going to focus on my kitchen as a joyful place—it mostly is, for me.

I resurrected a bit of the past today when Teddy and Sue came for wine. I Jezebel sauce. There are hundreds of recipes out there, but I’ve never found the first one I ever made, so I was delighted to find this four-ingredient one: 1 18 oz. jar apricot preserves, 2 tsp. Dijon mustard, 2-3 Tbsp. horseradish, cracked pepper to taste. Pour it over a block of cream cheese and serve with Ritz crackers. It was a hit, though I halved the recipe and still had about half of what I made left over.

I had one more kitchen tale to tell—a disastrous delivery from Central Market—but it’s late, and I’ll save it for another day.

Some random thoughts on food

Big Mac Salad
What could be more American?

I’ve been thinking about food—well, when don’t I always? But I’ve come to some conclusions, and one is about the way even a brief illness changes your perspective particularly on food, but also on sleep and life in general. As you may know, I had some sort of stomach “thing” that had me down and out for about thirty-six hours. I couldn’t bear to think about food, I lay in bed but couldn’t sleep, and I had little interest in anything from writing projects to politics which is, as you know, an obsession of mine.

But when I began to come back to myself, I found I was incredibly grateful for a boiled potato with butter, for sleep, for my own imagination. It was as though I had developed a new appreciation for the things I took for granted. Oh, I well know this is a temporary feeling, a bounce-back if you will. But for now, it’s nice to see daily life through these tinted glasses.

Just before my system rebelled, Jordan, Christian, and I had a calendar conference. Result is they have a busy October ahead—isn’t fall always a busy time as we head toward the holidays? I will be eating a lot of dinners alone. At first, I was sort of disappointed, but once I was on top of things again, I began to make lists—I would invite close friends for happy hour, so I began to list appetizer ingredients to have on hand. Then I listed things I would fix myself for supper. Starting with tonight, which will be fresh spinach and scallops sauteed in butter with a squeeze of lemon and maybe half a tiny potato left from last night. I’m going to make a tuna casserole, and one night I’m going to try to do corned beef hash as good we my mom did (don’t judge—I love it, to the amusement of my children). I’ve gone from disappointed to excited. Oh, I do have some things on hand for a couple of dinners with the Burtons, and I did print a recipe for beef tips with gravy that sounded good. Jordan was not so enthusiastic about a marinated kale salad with salmon, and while I agree I dislike kale, I thought this might be good.

Maybe that planning made me realize that my culinary tastes are going in one direction while those of my usual recipe sources, like The New York Times and Bon Appetit, are headed in a totally different direction. This morning the NYT featured cumin and cashew rice and sticky harissa wings. The Bon Appetit I just leafed through had tuna carnitas—can you just imagine Christian’s face if I served that to him? There’s a recipe for pancit sotanghon—some kind of soup, I believe. Cộte de bœf au poivre or pork schnitzel would probably be delicious, but they’d take a lot of work and might be impractical in my tiny kitchen. I have no idea what butter pav bhaji is (just looked it up—street food from India consisting of vegetable curry and a soft bun).

I’m beginning to recognize three things that I unconsciously bring into play on choosing recipes. Two are fairly straightforward: time and space. Much as I love to cook and to feed people, I don’t want to spend all day cooking, nor do I want to take on such messy, complicated things as dredging chicken in egg and flour (I can buy good fried chicken). And my tiny kitchen and limited supply of pots and pans dictates that I avoid complicated recipes that dirty every pan in a normal kitchen. Been there, done that.

But the third things is that given an unfamiliar recipe from, say the African continent, and a familiar American dish, I’ll choose the latter every time. Maybe this is somehow related to the disinclination to travel widely that baffles my friends, but that’s a rabbit hole I’m not going down right now. Truth is I love chicken divan and meatloaf and tuna casserole and a good bowl of chicken soup. That’s why I’m working on a cookbook about food from the Fifties, with recipes from my mom and my contemporary adaptation of some, along with some text about the Fifties, including those ridiculous jellied salads. Southern Living is more my style.

I can hear Irene making a snide comment. Okay, Irene, I like French cooking too. Look at all those recipes in your books!

A little late, but better than never

 

          

My Jordan has never been much of a cook. She wasn’t interested. Oh, she can make a quesadilla or buttered noodles for Jacob’s supper, and on occasion she has made our family favorite, Doris’ casserole. But, especially since quarantine, she’s been content to leave the cooking to Christian and me, because we both enjoy it.

I’ve posted before about the mother-daughter relationship we share when planning meals. Really, when making out the grocery list, which we divide between two stores—Albertson’s, where she goes, masked and gloved, and Central Market, where we do curbside pick-up. Grocery list night is when we decide the meals we’ll have. And we decide it by who cooks what—Christian, who loves Asian experiments, can cook fried rice this night, and mom can cook tater tot casserole, which I read is a Midwestern staple.

Recently Jordan has made said tater tot casserole, German potato salad (Christian’s favorite), and traditional American potato salad. Several years ago she called to ask me what to do with leftover meatballs, and I suggested a white sauce. “How do you do that?” When I told her, she said, “Too much trouble. I’ll open a jar of spaghetti sauce. Now she’s made white sauce  twice—she just doesn’t know it.

The night she made German potato salad, she cooked the bacon in tiny pieces, fished them out, and was ready for the next step. I had told her flour and vinegar/water, so she started to pour the vinegar/water into the pan. I yelled, I admit it, so she’d stop, and she said, “Please don’t yell at me. I’m trying to learn.” She was right of course, and I apologized, but I saw a choice between throwing out ingredients or having a lumpy sauce. My yell was instinctive, but it was enough to stop her. She stirred in the flour, then by small bits the vinegar/water, and worried that the sauce was too thin, but it was just fine for coating potatoes.

Tater tot salad was a bit more complicated—two layers each of ground meat cooked with onion, and two layers of what is called a soup, though I’d call it a sauce. Then the whole thing is topped with tater tots and grated cheese. Jordan sailed through it, making a white sauce with milk. The only sticking point came when the recipe called for undiluted beef base. We read again and put it in. The final result was really good.

I asked Jordan the other night if she knew how to make a white sauce, and she said no. “But you’ve just done it,” I said. She caught on and said, “Bacon grease.” So I gave my lecture about technique vs. ingredient. Any grease, flour, any liquid. Home run.

Tonight, Christian is grilling burgers, and Jordan has made her first

mayonnaise/mustard potato salad. When she asked how to do it, I, who have made various kinds for over sixty years, told her, using such amounts as a dab of mustard. “I have to see it in writing,” she said and found a recipe. Just now, she gave me a taste, saying she knew it needed a lot more. “Nope,” I said. “It’s perfect.” “More salt?” she asked and I said no.

During all this, I am kind of looking over her shoulder—and washing dishes as she finishes with them. I was telling my friend Jean about Jordan’s cooking, and she said, “And she’s learning in such a difficult kitchen.” I agreed if she can cook in my tiny kitchen, with a hot plate and a toaster oven, she can cook anywhere.

The Molasses Cookie Caper

Cooking in a tiny kitchen? Your grandson wants molasses cookies? Take it from me: hie yourself to the nearest bakery and buy a dozen. One night recently I offered Jacob gingerbread for dessert. He, who is not an adventuresome eater, declined, but then he waxed eloquent about the brown cookies I used to make where the tops cracked. Molasses cookies, nothing but gingerbread in cookie form. So of course, I immediately put the ingredients on my shopping list.

I decided today, Saturday, I would make the dough, and Jacob could help me roll the little balls to bake them tomorrow. The dough needs to sit in the fridge for a day. So being efficient, I got everything together and got out my super-duper new kitchen tool that does everything. Only problem is that I never know what attachment to use.

My first mistake: I sifted all the dry ingredients together and apparently had a brain lapse. Having baked thousands of cookies in my long life, I know better—but I put the sugar into the dry ingredients instead of beating it with the eggs. Okay, I figured I could overcome that.

I turned to beating the eggs, butter, and molasses. The super-duper tool did nothing. No juice. I discovered I had no power to my hot plate or toaster oven either. In such a situation, I have to call Jordan to please go behind the cottage and fix the circuit breaker—an area not accessible to me. Meanwhile I plugged the mixer in by the sink—close quarters. The first attachment I tried did a marvelous job of beating eggs and absolutely nothing with three sticks of soft butter. It just clogged up. So I got out the whisk.

Whoa, Nellie! It worked—and threw globs of egg and butter all over the kitchen. On the walls, the floor, my shirt, and the little bit of carpet by the bedroom door right next to the kitchen. Cleaning the floor is not easy from my Rollator walker but I did it.  The carpet stumped me, but I used my usual cleaning method—pointed out the globs to Sophie.

I made myself slow down, breathe deeply, and calmly do things in an orderly manner. Eventually I had cookie dough in the fridge and a clean kitchen. But I wasn’t through. I made an overnight salad—no, it’s not Jell-O; it’s romaine and avocado and olive oil, garlic, lemon juice, and Parmesan. Sounds improbable but it is superb. Hint: the recipe is in Gourmet on a Hot Plate.

Got that in the fridge and turned to boning the chicken breasts I poached earlier in the day. Got that done and ate my supper, relaxed and happy because tomorrow night’s family dinner is in the bag. I’m a plan-ahead person, and I love having dinner almost made the night before. Tomorrow, I’ll turn the diced chicken into a chicken/green chili casserole, sauté some asparagus and sugar snap peas, and unwrap that salad, give it a toss, and there’s dinner.

When I cook, I clean by stages, so the kitchen is clean tonight. And I’m tired. But it was a good day.

Last night, when I got in bed, Sophie jumped up on the bed and settled herself next to me as though that was the spot where she belongs. I loved on her, and we visited for a bit. She is a loving dog but not a cuddly one—she’ll sit for hours if you’ll pet her, rub her ears, stroke her face, but she rarely feels the need to have her whole body next to mine. So that was a treat. Maybe she’ll come back tonight.

Sweet dreams, y’all.

Cookbook launch day!

Today was launch day for my third cookbook, Gourmet on a Hot Plate: Tiny Kitchen Tips and Recipes. The tips and recipes combine my lifelong love of cooking, wisdom and practicality of my mom, and my experience of cooking in a tiny kitchen for over two years. No stove, no microwave, no InstaPot, no air fryer. Just me, my hot plate, my toaster oven, and an electric coffeepot.

Gone, for me, are the days of elaborate meals for twenty, the Coquille St. Jacque for eight (the most complicated recipe I ever followed, I think, but it was a roaring success—a friend said she’d traveled the world and never had a better meal.) These days I entertain for happy hour—some great appetizer recipes—and light suppers, like skillet stroganoff or a cold salmon and potato salad platter. There are new and different salads, including a section on composed salads—no, not Jell-O salads from the sixties. A chef friend tells me the most valuable part of the whole book is my clear explanation of charcuteries, cheese platters, and antipasto and how to create them. Confession: there are no dessert recipes, since I cannot make a pie to save my life, though I made a good apple crisp for a guest the other night and have been known to make a galette of mixed berries.

The “mom” part. My mother was a tremendous cook, and she set the pattern for large dinner parties, often cooking for my dad’s professional colleagues. Mom encouraged me in the kitchen, and by the time I was ten or twelve I was her sous chef and dishwasher. While she sparkled at the dinner table, I cleaned the kitchen—and loved doing it. To this day, I clean as I cook—can’t stand to be faced with a disaster of a kitchen late at night, or heaven forbid, the next morning.

Mom loved the story of a childless friend who came by while a girlfriend and I were making cookies. I hadn’t learned the clean-up lesson yet, and the kitchen was a mess—cabinets open, dishes piled in the sink, flour everywhere. The visitor asked, “How can you let them make such a mess?” Mom replied, “If I don’t, they’ll never learn to cook.”

Finally, there’s my cottage cooking. It was my choice not to have a microwave or InstaPot—my brother actually gave me the latter, but I gave it to my daughter and her husband (he’s the real cook). Counter space is just too limited. I’ve learned to cook on what I have—and to reheat leftovers, which is trickier. The first time Jordan and I tried to use the hot plate was hysterical—we put a lamb chop in the pan, pressed the heat button, and waited. Nothing. Jordan poked, she held her hand over it to feel the heat, she jiggled the pan. Then we saw the start button!

An ultimate compliment on my cooking: my former prof and current writing mentor—we’ve been friends for forty years--occasionally came for lunch when I was housebound, and he said once that he continued to be amazed at the meals I turn out. It’s all in the cookbook.

Now, having raved about cooking, it’s a breakfast-for-dinner (brinner) kind of an evening. I see bacon and scrambled eggs on my menu tonight. It’s been a lazy day—I got the cookbook up and for sale, though I had a bit of trouble with platforms other than Amazon, and I spent much of the day working on my Alamo book. Sophie spent a rigorous day defending me from the neighbor’s chickens, those vicious things😊 And, yes, I’m still in my pjs. A delicious day in a lot of ways.

Get Gourmet on a Hot Plate in print or ebook at https://www.amazon.com/Gourmet-Hot-Plate-KItchen-Recipes-ebook/dp/B07JC75FC5/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1542326849&sr=1-1&keywords=gourmet+on+a+hot+plate&dpID=418DO2VvEpL&preST=_SY445_QL70_&dpSrc=srch

Soup’s on! (on the hot plate, that is)

Our chilly damp weather continues. Yesterday afternoon it occurred to me that it is definitely soup weather. So I made a clean sweep of the freezer, scooping up a bit of corn, both beef and chicken broth, a serving of beef and barley soup, and I’m not sure what else. This morning I added a can of tomatoes (turned out to be whole plum tomatoes when I wanted diced, but I didn’t discover that until I’d opened the can), some egg noodles, the peas and carrots combo from last night’s supper. Cooked it all morning at a low simmer—I have to watch because the hot plate turns itself off every so often and for long cooking, I have to go re-start it.

When my kids were young, we called this soup of the week. They used to identify Monday’s meal, the stew from Tuesday, the hamburger casserole from Wednesday. And it always came out sort of tannish brown, often that muddy color author Dan Jenkins called the color of Texas food. Today my soup was a rich brown because of the tomatoes and beef broth.

A good friend was coming to pick me up for lunch, but I surprised her with my pot of soup. She appeared delighted, and we had a good quiet visit without contending with restaurant clatter and chatter. She said her late husband used to make what they called “leftover soup,” and if it came out especially delicious, she warned everyone to enjoy it now because it could never be duplicated. It never does come out quite the same way.

It’s sort of appropriate that I made soup on the hot plate today because I’m excited to announced that my new cookbook, Gourmet on a Hot Plate: Tiny Kitchen Tips and Recipes is now available for pre-order on Amazon. Here’s the link: https://www.amazon.com/Gourmet-Hot-Plate-KItchen-Recipes-ebook/dp/B07JC75FC5/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1539811421&sr=1-1&keywords=Gourmet+on+a+hot+plate It will be for sale November 15. Right now, you can only pre-order the digital version but on publication day it will also be available in paperback.

So if you’re wondering how I cook a full meal with a hot plate and a toaster oven or how I make tzatziki or why I put a pinch of sugar in spaghetti sauce, the cookbook has your answers.

In November, I’ll announce an ongoing blog page where I’ll add recipes and welcome your comments, recipes, and suggestions so we can have a conversation. Putting together a cookbook is fun but there are always those recipes you come across later and wish you’d included. And some I either haven’t had time or nerve to try, like Cacio de Pepe, literally cheese and pepper pasta—think Parmesan and Pecorino.

Stay warm and dry, folks.

Alabama and a cooking dilemma

It’s a strange world when you can’t decide whether to blog about politics or cooking, so here’s a bit of both. Like much of our country, I’m jubilant over the Alabama results. A good friend is coming for lunch tomorrow, the man who years ago shepherded me through the Ph.D. program and continues to read and critique almost everything I write. He emailed to suggest he bring champagne, so we could celebrate the Alabama election—so out of character for him and so perfect for the occasion. I told him I’d supply chardonnay—can’t quite do champagne at lunch.

We were not only spared a pedophile, we were spared a man who openly defied the Constitution, who wanted to abolish the Bill of Rights (or was it the first ten constitutional amendments—who can keep track of his radicalism?), who called some minorities “reds” and “yellows,” who thought homosexuality should be illegal. And who incidentally can’t ride a horse and shouldn’t try publicly. The list goes on and on. We were saved from the worst of the alt-right, but it’s frightening that 68% of whites who voted in Alabama voted for him. We owe the black population of that state an undying debt of gratitude.

Debate rages over the most significant aspect of this victory. I am not a political analyst and can’t begin to understand all the implications, but to me it’s a clear defeat for Mr. Trump, who had endorsed Moore and led his weak party to follow him. It’s a signal that if Mueller doesn’t get him (which I believe he will), the women of this country will. In my dreams, Trump and Moore pay for their sins behind bars and Franken is restored to the Senate—and higher office should he wish.

As for Ryan’s promise that they’re coming for Medicare and Social Security, it’s so wrong it makes me sputter, but I’ll save it for another time and move on to cooking. As I said above, my mentor Fred is coming for lunch. He doesn’t like to back out of my driveway, so I fix lunch here, and he claims to be amazed at what I can turn out without a kitchen. I decided to “amaze” him with chicken pot pie. Found a good recipe.

Then realized I couldn’t do that crescent roll braid in my oven. Decided on puff pastry. Bless Jordan—she tried; first she brought me phyllo dough, which the Albertson’s person convinced her was the same—it’s not; then on a trip to Central Market she triumphantly brought home puff pastry. When I looked at it today, it’s pastry shells that come with a strict warning against baking them in a toaster oven. I debated baking one as a test, or using the crescent rolls dough I’d bought, or asking Jordan to cook the pastry shells—or giving up and asking Fred to bring lunch.

Tonight, I made the filling—looks good though it violates my purity theories and uses Campbell’s cream of chicken soup. But tomorrow, I’ll put it in a Corningware dish, cover it with roll dough that I’ve pressed together into one piece, and bake it in the toaster oven. Cross your fingers, please. Maybe the chardonnay will be so good the pot pie won’t matter. Do I need a salad? Ah, indecision.

This is, though, exactly the kind of situation that leads me to work on that cookbook, Gourmet on a Hot Plate. It’s about exploring what you can and can’t do in a tiny kitchen and what’s the best way to do it. Puff pastry? Crescent roll dough? Forget it?

As for Roy Moore, no sympathy. Cheers for Doug Jones. He’s got a huge task ahead of him, because the country looks to him to make an impact in what seems to me a corrupt Senate. And, of course, McConnell is rushing to push the horrendous tax bill through before Jones is sworn in. Is that legal? The trickery and deception never end.