A new word, gratitude, and hot water

 

Sometimes my experiments go awry. This is salmon with horseradish sauce.
I did not save the recipe. Enough said.

A quiet day for me, spent mostly at my computer. I said to Jordan it was awfully cold, but she replied, “Not as bad as the other day.” A friend pointed out, however, that what we in Texas are feeling now is Rocky Mountain northern cold, not the southern cold we are used to—a distinction I’d never thought about (and am still not sure I get). But when Sophie comes in leaving the door open, it feels cold to me, southern or northern be darned. I had let up on my “really cold weather” precautions and taken the extra cover off the bed. So of course in the middle of the night I had to get up and prowl in the closet for my mom’s crochet afghan. And this morning, I decided I’d wash my hair just to be safe if the hot water goes out again. There was—eventually—hot water, but it sputtered and spit and never came on in a strong steam, which gives me cause to worry. Tonight, though, I could scald my hands washing dishes if not careful.

I heard from friends in Omaha today, which gave me a bit of misguided schadenfreude—they are buried in snow and have had temperatures well below zero and wind chill factors down to -40^o. Even while I am rejoicing that I am not there, I do worry about them. They both have had Covid over Christmas, he a fairly heavy case and she a milder case but fearing complications due to some ongoing health problems. It shows me once again that I must be grateful for the blessings of my life which include fairly good health for a woman of my age.

My small online writing circle uses Fridays to “brag” about how we spent the week. The woman who starts us off on Friday, my friend Stephanie, used today to talk about what we are grateful for, and I used that prompt to think about gratitude and my life. I’ve been a bit out of sorts, maybe due to the restrictions of cold weather and related problems, about all the things that haven’t been done—starting to use my new composter (my kitchen sink cannister is officially full tonight and a bit smelly), my new battery-powered electric blanket isn’t hooked up, my new cuckoo clock needs to be hung and started—it plays bird songs, so I have to get into the instructions and  see if I can figure out how to choose a song. I’m not optimistic about my ability, and I am woefully ignorant about recognizing bird songs, so I figure this will give me an education. I think my mattress needs to be turned—remember when your mom did that at least once a month and all by herself? Amazes me yet. But there is a deep hole where I sit every day to change clothes. Colin told me to Google it, and I did—found the mattress is supposed to inflate. I sent him a picture of the hole, hoping he’ll find a magic solution from a distance.

These delayed chores or whatever depressed me. So did the fact that Zenaida, who cheerfully cleans the cottage and does my laundry every two weeks, hasn’t been here since before Christmas, and I am expecting company three nights this coming week—to a house that badly needs the thorough cleaning I can’t do. I had a little pity party, feeling frustrated because I am so dependent on others. But Stephanie’s reminder jogged me into gratitude. I think for a woman of eighty-five who needs assistance walking, I manage quite a lot on my own. Some days I want to make a list so I can say to Jordan, “Look what I did all by self (a phrase from my kids childhood) today!” I will have to continue to send myself that message—and be grateful for hot water and other blessings.

My new word: my youngest grandson had surgery two days ago for a torn shoulder (this is the third time soccer has gotten him—two earlier broken bones). We sent him Tiff Treats (ice cream and cookies) and when he texted his thanks, he wrote, “Thank you, shawties.” Well, of course that sent me to the online dictionary. It’s slang term of generalized affection, African American in origin. But sometimes it’s more specific, referring to a beautiful young woman. Was that sweet boy being sarcastic with his aunt and grandmother? If so, he’s a sly one. I was impressed one way or another that he knew the word, although I can’t figure a way to work it into my conversation or my writing. I guess for the nonce sharing it with you will have to do.

Good night, shawties! Sleep tight, sweet dreams.

 

Milestone day for the Burtons

 

Tonight, as I write, Jacob is at his first prom—the Nolan High School Junior/Senior prom. He and two friends left for Keller (a northern suburb) at 3:30, which I found astounding. I had thought they were leaving at 5:30, so about four I reminded Christian pictures would be nice, but I’d like a quick, in-person glimpse. He replied that I was already too late—they left while I was napping. Doubt I can get Jacob to model the tux again, so I will settle for the pictures.

But I guess there was picture taking in Keller, followed by a dinner, followed by the prom which was somewhere in Keller rather than at the school in East Fort Worth. Then there was to be an after-party back in Fort Worth, not far from here. Big excitement, several trips to the tux rental store, etc. I asked his parents and finally Jacob about the girl who invited him and was rewarded with “She’s a girl I know.” Glad it’s not a stranger! The only other comment he offered was, “I’m really excited about it.” I’m anxious to hear a

report tomorrow, though I don’t know that he’ll be any more loquacious.

By serendipity I was reading some old blogs tonight and of course Jacob was prominent in many of them—the New Year’s Eves we shared, dinners that were memorable and/or disasters, storms we weathered. In one, I came across this picture of him ready for his first Cotillion. If he ever sees I’ve posted it, he will undoubtedly not be pleased. It’s easier for me to accept that my other grands have grown and changed, because I didn’t see as much of them when they were younger. Jacob I saw every day, so the change was gradual but when I contrast today with six, seven or eight years ago, it’s pretty dramatic—and calls up a bit of nostalgia.

Otherwise, it’s been a quiet day—I wrote a book review of All Stirred Up, by Brianne Moore, a culinary novel set in Edinburgh and involving a tangled romantic relationship but much more—Edinburgh daily life, the high-end restaurant scene, and lots of food. A really good read. I answered emails, sent some out, corresponded with an editor—nothing remarkable.

Tonight, I was planning to have a leftover salmon burger for supper, having already had one for lunch. Then I decided I really had a taste for barbecue, but Jordan and Christian were going out. So then I decided I wanted spinach and scrambled eggs—in the interest of efficiency, I tried to bake them together. An awful experiment. One of my worst—and I’d put so much good butter into it. My dinner, after a few bites of that, was cheese toast and salted caramels.

My new word for the day: frumious. It means very angry and when I saw it online it was used in the context of someone who is always frumious. Comes, not unexpectedly, from Lewis Carroll’s “Jabberwocky.” I can’t wait to ask someone, “Why are you always so frumious?”

Happy Saturday night. I’m off to read Mastering the Art of French Murder.

A day of trivia—and one big thing

 

So nice to wake up to sunshine this morning. No rain forecast until sometime next week. Everybody seemed to like the better weather--the yard guys came, having been delayed for two days by the rain, and Sophie stayed outside much of the day. The only glitch came when Jean came for happy hour. I put together a cheese tray with the Hunter cheese and Port Salut I bought at Central Market yesterday and the herbed goat cheese spread I made. Jean carried everything out on the patio but soon had to carry it back in. There were flies everywhere! I had little covers on the wine glasses, and we put a sheet of wax paper over the cheeses, but it was hugely ineffective. So we ended up inside. I do hope this is not the end of patio weather, though I admit it was pretty steamy out there this evening. The humidity is still high, even if it has stopped raining.

When I turned on my computer this morning, the first thing I saw was Richard Rohr’s meditation for the day: “Clearly, what this world absolutely needs is more love.” Anyone else hearing the Beatles in your head? There’s your earworm for the day. Speaking of earworms, the other day I woke up with “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” repeating in my mind. I have no idea why, but I, who these days can only do the first verse from memory in church, could clearly remember all the verses. My childhood must have been coming back to me.

More trivia: my new word for the day: collocation. I was writing my once-a-month column for Lone Star Literary Lifestyle and found myself writing about a woman who calls herself an authorpreneur. She referred to a collocation, so I looked it up—being able to do that at the computer is such a blessing to me—and found it means the repeated use of two words cobbled together to make one word. This woman used the collocation because she is an author and a publisher—the indie imprint under which she publishes her books is Black Mare Books. (She once had a black mare mustang.) Well, shoot, my imprint for indie published mysteries is Alter Ego Press. I just never thought of calling myself an authorpreneur, but now I am grateful for the word.

On Wednesdays, in a small online writers’ group, my tradition is to ask where everyone’s bookmark is. Of course, I have to start off with my own, and this week I had a rather weak explanation that I hadn’t settled on a book for over a week but had been toe-dipping in several. I forgot to explain that I picked up a Scottish mystery solely because the housekeeper in a castle is the amateur female detective. Her name is Alice MacBain—my mom’s name, even spelled the same way. The clan is usually McBean, but my dad changed his spelling to what he thought was more authentic. The book unfortunately was a spoof that didn’t quite come off—a closed room murder in a castle, and all the family members were snobs. I didn’t get very far.

I also tried Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential, figuring that a foodie like me should read some Bourdain and that title is probably his classic. He has an incredibly sensual way of describing food—like his first encounter, as a young boy, with a raw oyster. But as one critic said of his writing, “It’s too masculine.” There was all that testosterone fueling the dialog. It quickly became too much for me, too in-your-face. I know that will not sit well with Bourdain’s many fans, and I truly recognize that he earned his place as an icon in today’s world of chefs. I just don’t want to read about it.

So now I’m going to explore Killing in a Koi Pond, by Jessica Fletcher and Terrie  Moran. Terrie is a friend, recently anointed the latest collaborator on the long-running series, and I’m anxious to see how she handles stepping into those very big shoes. And I really want to cheer for her. And then, I want to read While Justice Sleeps, by Stacey Abrams. I wanted to see if she does as well at writing mystery as she does in getting out the vote.

But the big excitement for me today was a haircut. I’d been thinking about this for some time, and when Rosa came this morning for our appointment, I told her we needed to talk. She knew instantly what I wanted to talk about, and we reminisced about the days when I had short hair and lamented my present shagginess. Next thing I knew I had a new, short haircut. I admit I didn’t look in the mirror for some time after she left, but when I did, I was pleased. Rosa has been doing my hair for over seventeen years, and she’s pretty tuned to what I want and need. And she long ago told me when I couldn’t come to her, she would come to me. I am so blessed.

Sweet dreams, everyone. Dream of sunny skies for a few days.

 

 

The tax man cometh and does not bring happiness

carnitas for dinner

I’m one of those compulsives that people love to scorn. I start organizing my income tax return on New Year’s Day or shortly thereafter, not because I am anxious to give Uncle Sam the money (particularly not this year with the new tax law) but because I hate the chore and want to get it behind me, so that I can take a deep breath and say, “Wow! That’s done for another year!” This year, more than ever, I’ve dreaded it because of all the reports that people who previously got huge returns were now owing great amounts—thank you, the Republican swamp.

Much as I hate it, I rely on a tax planner from my accountant to organize my returns. That usually comes in the mail about mid-January, by which time I have things sorted into categories. This year, it didn’t arrive, so by the first of February I dashed off a note asking about it. Seems that the revised tax law made new planners necessary, and the software wasn’t up to speed yet. Without really chastising me, the accountant was saying, “Chill, and be patient.” As I read in various news sources about other people filing and getting bad news, I was increasingly nervous. Saturday, I sent another of my gentle queries—not minutes after I hit Send, Jordan came out with my mail, which included the tax planner. So guess what’s the big thing on my calendar for Monday.

But not today. Today is Sunday, and once again I went to church online. The fragile dog in the house was not doing well this morning, and concern kept Jordan and Christian home. The sermon was “Deep Joy in a Shallow World.” Among the takeaway lines, “We have learned to make a living, but not life.” Russ Peterman stressed that happiness does not come when you are seeking it but only when you forget yourself in service to others and God

It made me think of the new word I had just learned this morning: hygge. It’s a Danish word used when acknowledging a feeling or moment, whether alone or with friends, at home or out, ordinary or extraordinary, as cozy, charming or special. It cannot be purchased or learned—it just happens. Sort of the polar opposite of Marie Kondo. But I’ve known those moments, often in a small gathering of people I care about, sometimes around an outdoor fire. To be treasured.

During the church service, much of the camera work involved shots that put the viewer behind the organist, looking over her shoulder as she played. Remarkable experience—four keyboards, all those stops, and the footwork that we couldn’t see. For someone who can’t rub her belly and pat her head at the same time, it was impressive—and the music, as always, glorious though it never sounds quite as full online. This morning, the church presented third graders with Bibles. It was sort of a nostalgia moment—was Jacob really that young just four years ago? Dr. Peterman stood by to shake hands with each child—someone should prime those kids about shaking hands with their right hand. About half offered him their left.

Weekends mean good food at the Burton/Alter compound. Last night, Christian fixed a pot roast with gravy and roasted potatoes, Jordan made a salad, and I contributed a killer

Roast pork done on the stovtop

vinaigrette—new recipe. Look for it on Thursday at the Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog. Tonight, we had carnitas—sort of tacos without the tortillas, though Jacob and Christian had theirs in corn tortillas. I’m not a fan of tortillas and always eat the filling without the shell, and Jordan is avoiding carbs, so we just had the meat and accompaniments. The recipe for the meat is in Gourmet on a Hot Plate. Gosh, I really am becoming an obnoxious self-promoter. Sorry about that.

And now we head into another week. Have a good one, everybody.