Observations from isolation

On a Zoom call the other day, someone reminded me of the distance between anecdotal evidence and proven scientific fact. It’s one of those things you know but so easily forget about. So when someone says, “Masks don’t work because my second cousin once removed wore one all the time, and he got Covid,” or “Every rich person I know will vote for trump for president again … my ex-husband’s mother’s third husband said so,” you believe it, at least on some level. Now that it’s been brought to the front of my sometimes-illogical mind, I am seeing anecdotal evidence in every little thing—like a dog who just discovered how good bones are! I find this both encouraging and discouraging, but it helps me discount some scary posts. I’ve decided anecdotal evidence and extremism go hand in hand.

Meantime, when I’m not leaping on obscure facts, life in semi-isolation is getting a bit better. I can, after all, see most folks, just not my family who’ve been to the rodeo. So Tuesday night Mary came for happy hour and brought crackers, cheese, and fig jam—so good. As I write, I’m having the rest of the jam on what I think was meant to be a slider for breakfast.

Wednesday evening Jean came so I could fix her a birthday supper—can you believe she is thirty-eight😊 I fixed Tuna Florentine—I’ve decided it’s one of my signature dishes, which would send my kids off into gales of laughter. After all, who fixes tuna as a signature dish? But it is one of my favorite recipes. We had mini chocolate-dipped ice cream cones for dessert and felt very festive.

Thursday Sue brought lunch from Carshon’s, and we ate on the patio on that gloriously beautiful day (with me still in pajamas). She set a precedent, and Jordan ate lunch with me on the patio yesterday. Unfortunately the cold front put an end to patio days for a while—and blew over one of the patio umbrellas as well as Jacob’s practice screen for golf.

One thing that has made life seem a bit more normal is that I am cooking again. We have a transport system between the house and the cottage—it mostly involves Jordan coming and going, but it works. One night recently Christian fixed chicken piccata—one of his best, with plenty of sauce—and another night I fixed German potato salad, one of Christian’s favorites. It’s based on a recipe that over the years I’ve altered and made my own, but it was originally called Polka Dot Salad because you chunked up hot dogs with the potatoes and made it a one-dish meal. I don’t do that for the family—traditionalists to the core, they want their hot dogs in buns. But I did mine that way—made it a whole different dish, but still very good. Last night I fixed a pork sausage/hash browns/egg/cheese casserole and found it meh, but that’s probably because I didn’t follow the directions on the hash browns. Tonight, crab cakes (on sale at Central Market), asparagus, and salad.

Yesterday it had been five days since the Burtons went to the rodeo, so they could come out here masked—and Jordan did. But then she went to the rodeo with her girlfriends last night—an annual outing—so we start the five days all over again. Meantime maybe Christian will come have a drink with me—he says he’s not going to the rodeo again until Wednesday. I need to report—this is a bit of self-justification because I know some think I’m being too strict about this and missing life--my doctor says five days isolation after high-risk events (that would be a crowded, dusty rodeo) and then five days masked. So if the Burtons aren’t isolating, I am. They do self-test frequently.

I’ve been lollygagging somewhat. Some of you will have noticed I’ve not blogged quite as regularly as usual. I have done other work—answering interview questions, answering lots of emails, etc.—but I haven’t touched the Irene novel I claim to be working on. And that finally has hit my conscience. I woke up this morning determined to write last night’s blog and then move on to Irene Keeps a Secret. I’m so out of touch I’m not sure what her secret is or if it’s worth a whole book, but I will persevere.

Stay safe and warm—it’s wicked windy out there today!

 

Busy day at the cottage

 

Front yard trees
festooned with toilet paper
Not funny.

If you asked me what my occupation was today, I would not have said retiree (I never say that because that’s not what defines me), nor would I have said author (which is the identity I mostly cling to). Today I would have said cook. A friend was coming for lunch, and I had promised “killer tuna salad.” But then I got ambitious and decided to try a recipe for chicken hand pockets that’s been in my file forever. I had it in my head the filling was chicken salad, but when I got to making it I realized it was not salad at all, but a meat filling with mushrooms, onion, broth, flour, crème fraiche, and a bit of thyme.

I was truly leery of rolling out the puff pastry. As you can imagine, I don’t have a lot of rolling out space in the cottage. But it worked well, and my hand pockets went together easily. And they tasted good. I was proud of myself. Enjoyed the visit with a TCU colleague I hadn’t seen since way before covid. And now I’ll try some more things with puff pastry—a great learning lesson.

My first chicken hand pies.
Hopefully, they will get prettier, 
but they tasted delicious

Just before four, Jordan wakened me from a sound nap to tell me a church friend was here, with copies of The Most Land, the Best Cattle: The Waggoners of Texas in hand for me to sign so she could give them for Christmas gifts. It took me a couple of minutes to get myself together, but then we had a delightful visit, and I signed four books. “This,” she said, “is Texas history, and my family needs to read it.” I applauded. My kind of Christmas gift.

She had barely left when Pru and Mary came for our usual Tuesday happy hour. Good, relaxing time. Mary brought tiny mincemeat tartlets from a Zoom class she taught today, along with tomatoes she couldn’t resist buying because they were on sale and the promise of artichokes tomorrow because they too were on sale. I am encouraging her to keep shopping sales!

We had a slight dinner crisis. We had planned to have fish in a piccata sauce. I ordered cod from Central Market, and Jordan picked it up. But she said, “There’s something wrong with the fish.” I thought perhaps it smelled too fishy, a sign it was old. Nope It was one small piece weighing 0.25 lbs. I thought I ordered a lb. Central Market’s online order got me again. It said the fish was sold by the lb. and, thinking Jacob wouldn’t eat it, I ordered a lb. Or thought I did. Apparently is it actually sold by quarter increments of a lb. So what to have for supper? Christian to the rescue: he grilled burgers, Jordan pulled some slider buns out of my freezer, and I washed and snapped the asparagus that really needed to be eaten.

But the day wasn’t done with us yet. While Christian was grilling, Jordan sat on the porch to keep him company. They turned off the bright overhead light, and sat in the dark, with Christian using his phone light to check the burgers. As they sat there, some of Jacob’s friends came by, clearly intent on toilet-papering the trees. They had done this a week or so ago, and Jordan was clearly not ready for a repeat. The boys drove by slowly several times, apparently put off by the presence of parents. When the hamburgers were ready, Jordan and Christian left Jacob on the porch, hiding, with the hose in his hands. 

All for naught. Jacob came out to the cottage to say they were back—I don’t know what happened to the hose—and by the time Jordan and Christian got out there, the front yard was festooned. I know it’s a prank, but frankly I’m angry. It’s not harmless because—it’s bad for the environment, especially our new, delicate tree, and toilet paper is apparently in short supply right now. Plus what are these kids doing out on a school night? And doesn’t it cost them a lot to buy all that toilet paper? Jacob has another cleaning chore ahead of him when he really should be doing homework. A conundrum. For the sake of his social standing, his parents can’t tattle on the boys, but it is a frustration. And me, being old school, would like to box their ears and explain to them why it’s not cute. It’s wrong on so many levels. Besides, I thought it went out of fashion once kids got out of middle school. 

I am going to spend the rest of the evening with a good mystery. And I guess tomorrow I’ll order more fish from Central Market and pay closer attention.                                                                                    

On becoming a recluse

          

I went out to dinner with a good friend tonight and enjoyed it thoroughly. We went to the Tavern, had chicken sliders, deviled eggs, and a bottle of wine. It was the first time I’ve poked my nose out of the cottage since last Saturday night. There are, of course, extenuating circumstances, like the extreme cold snap we’ve suffered through the last few days. In the low twenties in the mornings, never higher than the forties. The cottage is not as cozy as I’d wish, but it’s warm if I wear layers. Who wants to go out in that extreme cold?

Still, I’ve been pondering the advantages and disadvantages of becoming a recluse, because much as I enjoy people and being out in the world, I find it increasingly easy to stay home. I don’t have to dress, don’t have to put on a public face, am not obligated to do anything but I want. At home I can lounge in comfortable clothes and do what I want. I have work at my desk, plus reading, recipe reading (a great time suck), the internet—I can easily keep happily busy all day.

As a young child and even a teen, I was almost painfully shy, something I’ve pretty much overcome over the years of a professional career. I made myself be social and learned to enjoy it, so much so that I often say I feed on the company of other people. Still that shy girl emerges every once in a while, and maybe that keeps me home from some occasions. I never was one to go alone to art openings or lectures or receptions. The best receptions,  to me, were the ones my work dictated that I organize. Then I was at work and in charge. Turn me loose in a large crowd, and I tend to be los.

There’s the complication of my walker. Increasingly, I follow Jordan’s dictate and don’t go places by myself where I would have to get out of the car and get the walker out alone, then reverse the process to get back into the car. And, tonight, when Betty asked if I wanted to go to a church supper, I said yes, but it’s a pain to take me to a buffet because I can’t go through the line for myself. I am forever grateful for the mobility that my walker gives me, but I recognize that it is a handicap. I’m grateful for the friends who willingly put up with loading and unloading the walker, letting me out at restaurant doors, etc. But if no one wants to go to a church dinner, for instance, I will choose to stay home.

Finally, there’s the possibility that my lack of ambition to get up and go is simply a symptom of aging—maybe it’s true subconsciously that I simply don’t have the energy that I did fifteen or twenty years ago, but I’d like to reject that as a way of thinking. I truly believe we’re only as old as we think we are—and I sure don’t think of myself in my eighties.

So there are all the excuses for my increasing tendency toward reclusiveness, but that’s just what they are—excuses. And I’m going to reject them all, because I think the life of a recluse is neither happy nor healthy. And I do recognize that is not healthy. Doctors tell us we need the Vitamin D from being out in the sunshine daily, and I know that I don’t get that, even though I spend most of my day by a big window.

There is a caveat to all this, and maybe it’s part of what’s spoils me. I am blessed with family and friends who visit often enough to keep the cottage from being a lonely place of solitude. I have happy hour guests two or three nights a week, and Jordan usually comes out in the morning—I look for her to start my day—and a couple of times during the day. Jacob tells me these days he’s too busy, and Christian is indeed too busy—I often don’t see him during the week. But I know they’re close by.

Here’s my resolve: I’m going to get out and about more—but only if it warms up.

PS: As I often do, I did an internet search for free images to liven this post. When I typed in "recluse," I was rewarded with multiple images of spiders. There's a moral there someplace, but I'm too tired to pursue it.

Chili on a cold, rainy night

Day three of being housebound by the weather. Today was one of those cold wet days that chills you to the bone—seems like I’ve said that a lot lately. But even my cozy cottage was chilly, and I went around in a sweater all day. And it rained all day, sometimes a drizzle but other times steadily. Praise be that we missed the ice storm to our west though in some areas surrounding the Metroplex the rain was so steady that flooding was a problem. I do hope this nasty winter means a beautiful spring.

I found I can be quite social staying at home. Yesterday, Jean came for a most welcome coffee visit, and I cancelled any thought of dinner plans—too nasty to go out. The same reason caused me to cancel tonight’s standing Wednesday night dinner with Betty. But Lewis, the contractor who keeps both our houses in running order, came to install my new kitchen shelf and provided some human company this morning.

When you have limited space, as I do, a new shelf can be cause for rejoicing. This one is over my butcher block/cutting board/rolling table. The shelf let me clear off a lot of junk from the cutting board—sugar, salt, pepper, garlic keeper, etc. Looks ever so much neater. The picture above it is deliberately off-center, at my request. But the picture is original artwork from my friend Barbara Whitehead for the cover of The Gilded Cage. When we used the InstaPot the other night, I realized the art was about to get steamed into oblivion and quickly moved it.

Lewis’ visit—and we did chat a bit—was followed by John, the landscaper who is going to put in my tiny, tiny garden for lettuce and onions. We chatted a bit too, mostly about wilted lettuce and the salad his mom made that sound similar but with cabbage instead of lettuce. I’m waiting to hear an estimate from him. I’ve no doubt it will be the most expensive lettuce I’ve ever eaten, but once installed, I hope I can keep the small space full of vegetables, even after the lettuce dies out in June.

This morning Jordan said it was a day to have chili for supper. I volunteered to cook, but Christian wanted to do it. A little after five, Jordan came out with a basket of groceries—Christian would be late and couldn’t cook. So we made hurry-up chili. She makes a great sous chef.. By 7:30 we served a credible pot of chili, but I laughed at the “service” and told Jordan her grandmother would have thrown up her hands in dismay. Saltines in their wrapper and sour cream in the carton. I think I’m a casual person, but sometimes my mom comes to mind reminding me of manners. When I was a kid, we had linen tablecloth and napkins for dinner, and nothing ever was served in the store contained. Ah, but it’s only one of the many ways life has changed—and a minor one at that in the overall scheme of things.

I anticipate one more housebound day, and I’m almost looking forward to it. I’ve got my routine down. But I will be glad to get out of the house and into the world. Friday, grocery shopping. Saturday, a funeral. Sunday, church. Life is pretty exciting.

Jordan said today she had a moment of reflection and thought how lucky she was to have such a good husband who, when it seemed necessary, uprooted their lives and moved into my house—and believe me, it was a big upheaval for all of us. Then she said, she thought about the scary days when my kids feared I’d never get back to being myself, and she realized how grateful and happy she is. All of us are well and flourishing. Her question was, “Now who can I reach out to and help?” That’s my girl. And a big hug of gratitude to Christian for being who he is.

I too am blessed…and happy.

Stormy days

My dinner tonight

Lovely early this morning to be wakened by crashing thunder and heavy rain, the kind of noise that makes you want to snuggle down in the covers and stay there all day. It was not so lovely when a wet dog jumped in the middle of my bed and refused to be budged to give me any space. Sophie, once brave and undaunted, is now terrified of thunder. Jordan had let her out at seven and put her right back in. Hence my wet visitor.

Spent the day spinning my wheels, taking one step forward and two backward. Tried to uipload a book to several digital platforms, on review found a typo, went back to correct it, and now I can’t get the text to upload. And similar frustrations/

Planned to finish reading the book I’m almost through with tonight, but I had young people here until 9:30—finishing that book goes on tomorrow’s agenda. I wouldn’t trade the company for work time. I’ll have plenty of that over the weekend.

Big achievement today was cooking a good, balanced dinner from scratch. I planned for it to be the first meal I cooked all alone but Jordan and Chandry came out here and nothing would do that Jordan took over the cooking, laughing about how much fun it was. We fried a potato in olive oil, then quickly cooked four cut-up stalks of asparagus and seared a ground sirloin slider. Good, and I ate most of it, but I have to learn to cut the amount of olive oil. Good grease but still grease, and I felt the dinner was heavy because of all that oil.

The young people are all getting old—it’s 9:30 and they’ve gone. And I’m getting older—woke with a touch of a rainy day headache, and it’s back tonight. Time to take myself to bed. Hoping for another storm tonight.

Sweet dreams, everyone.

Another day at the cottage

A quiet day in the cottage. Jacob came out to walk Sophie—we can’t let her out in the backyard because it’s so muddy and the gate is not secure. After that, Jacob and his dad were both in and out. His other grandmother came to take him to the zoo for the afternoon, and then he and his dad went to the TCU football game tonight.

But I had visitors. Subie and Phil brought lunch and we had a good visit—they are just back from a month in New Mexico. We talked and laughed and had a good time. They had barely left when my brother and sister-in-law arrived—he has taken our mother’s antique clock from the mantel and needed the instructions for maintaining it.

I piddled away the day—emails, Facebook, cleaning my desk, dealing with those visitors who popped in and out. I had one box to unpack, but I procrastinated and finally finished the mystery I was reading. Then I looked in the box—and it’s all stuff that can go in the shelves behind the couch—my hidden storage space. But I need someone to put it there for me.

I have been walking at least 50% of the time just around the cottage-it’s much easier to walk holding on to the walker on the carpet than to try to roll around seated on the walker. I have a dilemma—can’t find any of my shorts that I’ve been living in. This morning when Jacob came to walk Sophie, I was in a T-shirt and underpants and told him I needed him to get me some pants. He promised he would as soon as he got back from the walk. I had to point out the cargo pants I wanted. Of course Jacob found the whole thing giggle-worthy.

Turns out my pants are still on top of the washing machine in the house and not clean—easy for Jordan to dismiss as she visits local bars in Key Largo and parties with her friends.

I am seriously considering a new name for my blog: Tales from the Cottage. It signifies a whole new start in my life, one that I hope will bring me renewed creative energy. Let me know what you think about the new name. Would I lose followers? Even if I made a big fuss about changing the name?

My friend Subie doesn’t like the word “Tales,” and her husband was full of suggestions with the word “Driveway”—at the end of the Driveway and worse. I told Subie to take him home.

Tales from the cottage-what do you think?

A day in my life on wheels

 What do you do all day when you can’t put any weight on one foot? Well you scoot around the house on a walker. The big problem there is that walkers are designed to be pushed forward. If you put the seat down and ride it, as I do, you have to go backward in order to steer with any effectiveness. Great exercise for leg muscles—in fact it mimics an exercise I did in physical therapy. Hard to carry a plate of lunch, but I’ve learned to put my lunch in a small baggie and put it in the basket behind me. I can even put a cup of hot tea there, though this morning I got splashed and thought at first that something had stung me. Only thing that doesn’t work is wine—after dumping two glasses on the kitchen floor, I’ll not try that again. But I can scoot with a glass of wine in my hand, because it’s pretty much hands-free steering. Your feet point you in the right direction.

And while I’m on the subject of exercise—I’m getting upper arm strength pushing myself up from the chair. Hardest transition is from chair to commode and back again. And in the night last night as I swung that heavy boot into the bed, I thought what a Herculean feat it was.

I’ve been sleeping a lot and let inertia overcome me, but this morning I was up and dressed—well, teeth brushed and hair washed—and at my desk before nine o’clock (of course, I went to bed at eight last night). Today I’ve done email, Facebook, written not one but three blogs, and read a bit. Will read more tonight.

Food is problematic—I’m not much interested, though I do better if someone prepares something and hands it to me. At lunch today, my brother and sister-in-law came, bringing burgers which I declined. But Cindy fixed me a bowl of cottage cheese and a big glass of wine—and I was a happy camper. Tonight I cut up leftover steak into bites and put it in a baggie; washed raspberries that were fading fast, and that was dinner.

Company is the most welcome part of my day—and other than John and Cindy, I’ve had none today. Yesterday for a brief while there were three people here for happy hour. Sophie is my great companion. She sleeps with me and cuddles in the bed, her front paws proprietarily over my arms. And she wanders from room to room as I scoot, watching me with a puzzled expression. I’d be lost without her company.

I don’t know how long this will go on but I’m aware I must be prepared to scoot for a while. I’m sure the routine will change—maybe I’ll even be inspired to start another book. Also I should get to the point that the swelling in my foot goes down and the pain disappears, so I can walk in the boot. That’s where I was until last Wed., but the boot was too tight and the foot kept getting more and more painful.