Food on my mind (when isn’t it?)

 

Texas caviar

Tonight I had dinner with Carol, Kathie, and Subie, longtime friends who celebrate birthdays together—Carol and I both have July birthdays. Carol chose Fixe for supper, a choice I was reluctant about. But I put on my good-girl manners, and away we went. It was delightful. Fixe is rightfully known for biscuits—crisp crust, heavenly soft on the inside, served with butter, honey, and strawberry preserves. Of course for the rest of the meal my hands felt slightly sticky from the honey, but it was worth it. I had deviled eggs—three eggs with a dab of trout roe, good but not great, and a “Little Gem” salad which was delicious. Plenty of supper for me, and I enjoyed every bite. Of course, the camaraderie with old friends made the meal special, and it was a pleasant evening.

As always I had some misgivings about logistics—afraid I would have to walk too far, etc. But it was smooth. Subie let us out at a ramp right by the restaurant door, and I felt that both coming and going I walked with comfort and self-confidence. A real boost to my ego, after a flub with the family on Sunday. A thoroughly enjoyable evening. With tonight and last weekend, I am convinced I must get out of the cottage more often, though as I write I hear the locusts singing their song of hot weather to come. Nonetheless, I can do it—and I must.

While food is on my mind, I read a list of foods that are trendy on TikTok, and I must admit as a foodie I was appalled. I am not a TikTok fan, so this was all a surprise to me, but it came on Kitchn, the daily foodie newsletter that is one of the highlights of my morning email. Today, it has an article about irresistible TikTok recipes. I won’t comment on all, but here are a few that caught my eye.

Cowboy butter: A mixture of butter, lemon, herbs, and spices melted together for an easy compound butter dipping sauce for steak, vegetables, or bread. It looked like all grease to me in the picture, but the article raved about it adding flavor to everything from steak to vegetables and bread. I can’t imagine dipping a good steak in something so taste-disguising, but maybe it’s worth it. I might try that one sometime.

Blueberry cookies: they are a stunning shade of purple, and much as I love blueberries and, as an alum and retiree I have emotions about TCU’s purple, I don’t think I can do purple cookies.

Kool-Aid pickles: I don’t care if the colors are refreshing and the taste is a combination of sweet and sour, I just can’t get past the Kool-Aid of my childhood. No, thanks.

Buffalo-ranch butter board: Let it be said, loud and clear, that I love butter, I adore it. My kids have been known to say, “Have a little cracker with your butter, Mom.” But I tried a butter board, and I just couldn’t do it. I cannot believe that adding hot sauce, ranch seasoning, and scallions is going to make it any better.

Sushi bake – if you like sushi, why in heaven’s name would you turn it into a rich, hearty casserole. The two—sushi and casserole—are poles apart, and never shall they meet. At least not in my kitchen.

Pasta chip for dipping: You cook pasta, like bow ties, drain, cover with oil, season with Parmesan, garlic powder, and red pepper flakes, and bake until crisp and golden. Then use to dip in Rangoon sauce and other delicacies. Maybe healthier than chips? I don’t know. Color this one a maybe.

Cowboy caviar: okay this one is familiar, a spin-off on Helen Corbitt’s Texas caviar recipe. It just adds more things—and doesn’t have the black-eyed peas but instead has black beans, corn, bell peppers, etc. But the principle of marinated vegetables is the same. I just think Corbitt’s original recipe is better.

So there you have it—a lovely dinner, and a bunch of oddball recipes. If you really want to try any of them, I’m sure you can google them.

Bon appetit! No, that’s wrong. Too sophisticated! Y’all enjoy!

Out and About

My dinner pal, Betty, and I went out to dinner tonight—first time I’ve been off the “compound” since last weekend when I went for two short drives with Jordan. We ended up with Jacob as a companion tonight—his parents were going out, something I found only at the last minute. That governs where we go. I had actually picked out a local wine bistro—I want to try their tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwich. Talk about retro.

But I couldn’t see that Jacob would be comfortable there or find much he wanted on the menu, so we went to the Tavern where he likes the mac and cheese. He’s at the age where he always has an objection first to everything. This time it was that it’s always so cold in that restaurant—and I will agree with him. But then he said, “No, it’s fine,” and we gave up asking about other options, etc. It wasn’t as cold as usual, though my suggestion we eat on the patio fell on deaf ears.

Betty and I waffled from hamburger (they are soooo good there) to steak salad and ended with fried chicken, which turned out to be like chicken-fried chicken—two pieces of breast meat, so we split it. Good, but it might better have had cream gravy on it.

Dinner with an eleven-year-old is interesting. I am grateful that cell phones weren’t yet in use when my kids were that age. Betty has been eating supper with Jacob since the days when he, still a baby, spoke gibberish. He had the inflection of sentences down, but the sounds made no sense. I’d answer in perfectly normal English, and he’s reply in his own secret language. He obviously had a lot to tell. It sent Betty into hysterics.

Today, Jacob doesn’t have that much to tell. Left alone, he’ll ignore us and stare at his phone—who knows what games he was looking at. But when we once engaged him in conversation he was polite and talkative about where he wants to go to high school and college. Then Betty asked something about math, and he was off asking us about improper fractions. Say what? I proved to be a total failure at converting them to numbers. (First he had to remind me what an improper fraction is.) I am so glad I’m not in school and having to take math classes. After a bit I think he decided we were hopeless and went back to his phone. I suspect he’s not allowed to bring his phone to the table at home, but if I enforced that in a restaurant he’d be bored to tears by the things Betty and I talk about.

All in all, it was a pleasant evening, and I was delighted to be out and about in the world, but also glad to get home to the book I’m reading.

I tried a couple of experimental steps today without the walker and without holding on to anything. The good news is I didn’t fall; the not-so-good, my hip seemed to buckle, as it did when I first could put full weight on the walker. Guess I have to keep at it.

Procrastination

Writers have many ways of avoiding that empty computer screen—some clean the bathroom, others scrub floors or wash windows, a few go for long walks (for inspiration, of course), still others dig in the garden or mow the lawn. My preferred method of procrastination is cooking, so today, the day I had marked to charge back into my work-in-progress, I made black bean soup and pesto.

I’ve shared my recipe for black bean soup here before, so I won’t repeat it. Suffice to say it is one of those things that I cannot make without spraying it all over the kitchen—counter, wall, floor. The pesto went a bit better, but I also cannot cook without spilling, so now my relatively clean jeans have a big spot of olive oil on them. In my own defense, I will say that cooking from a seated walker is not easy—lots of standing up and sitting down, Probably good exercise.

I am not faithful about my exercises these days. I think that hospital stay demoralized me in more ways than one, and my walking program has taken a backward slide. Some days I can’t imagine walking unassisted. When I say I can’t walk, everyone from my daughters to the technologist at a mammogram yesterday says to me that I am walking, just not alone. So that remains my goal, and days like today when the difficulty of cooking, making the bed, even getting dressed when you have to wheel from one place to another fill me with determination to reach that goal.

But then my days are so busy they get away from me, and I realize it’s nine o’clock and I haven’t exercised, and I’m too tired. Mind you, these are not strenuous exercises—some are done in my desk chair and some standing at a grab bar in the bathroom. But they are tedious. I need to put myself on a rigorous schedule where exercise comes first in the morning (my best time), followed by time spent on the work-in-progress until I reach my daily goal of a thousand words. Takes will power to do that.

On a bright note, I wrote about 500 words on the WIP today. Number four in the Blue Plate Mysteries. Some days I think it’s great; other days I wonder what fool wrote that drivel. Tentative title: “Murder at the Bus Depot.”

Hurricanes and not much else

This is me, checking in to say I have nothing to say. A pleasant but not essentially outstanding day. We got our daily dose of rain this morning, but it was light and didn’t last long. Teddy and I walked, and since the weather was cooler, I did better, but everything makes me breathless. The cure of course is to keep doing it, until I build up my endurance again. After I took a shower this afternoon, Jordan asked why I was out of breath, and all I could say was exertion. I didn’t even realize I was a bit breathless. I don’t think the house exercises I do make me out of breath, but I’ll start paying more attention.

My most unusual accomplishment for the day: have you ever tried mopping a floor while seated in a Rollator (rolling walker, which you are not supposed to sit in while it’s moving, but I do). I can’t mop the floor with the wet Swiffer pads—they have chemicals not good for my wood floors. Felt very clever when I dampened paper towels, attached them to the Swiffer mop, and got up all those muddy paw prints. Half an hour later, there were more prints, not as pronounced, but still mud. With this rain, Sophie brings half the outdoors inside. My newly cleaned rug is filthy. Need to get that ground cover in place.

Nice lunch with friend Jean today. We wanted to go to Carshon’s but were running late and there was no parking by the time we got there—which meant the restaurant would be crowded and noisy. We went to Chadra and had salads—gyro for me and chicken for Jean. Both outstanding.

Tonight, Jordan and I walked again—nice breeze. And I have written my daily thousand words. Could have gone farther, but I’m finding it best to stop there. It’s respectable progress, and I have a review book to keep reading. I had occasion to be specific about forensic findings at the scene of a shooting, so I consulted Fred, who was helpful as always. You’d think I could keep .38 caliber weapons and the difference between automatic and semi-automatic in my head from book to book, but apparently not. I decided the forensic team found a wad of chewed up gum someone had spit out—phew!

Of course, tonight all eyes are on Harvey as the storm roars ashore around Aransas Pass and Rockport. Several kind friends from across the country have emailed to check on me, and I’m glad to tell them all we may get out of it is some rain, though we have been warned to gas up cars in case supply from Houston is compromised. Two of my kids are in the heavy rain and storm belt—Colin in Tomball, and Megan in Austin. I’m hoping they check in fairly frequently, though this storm is supposed to be around for a very long week. Praying for people in its path. It’s a monster.

But even in storms there’s levity. I saw something on Facebook that was so typically Texan it made me laugh out loud. It was a map of the expected landfall, with wording to the effect, ‘You think that eclipse was something? Here, hold my beer and watch this shit.” (Pardon the profanity, but I bet it made you laugh.)

My other favorite from Facebook for the week: a redneck saying, “You mean the moon is going to cover the sun? Thanks, Obama!”

Over and out. Happy Friday, everyone.

Was the eclipse a jinx?

Eclipse be darned. The important thing around here is that it was Jacob’s first day at middle school. Looks ready to take on the world to me.

The consensus in the Alter/Burton household is that, in Texas, the eclipse as pretty much a bust. Jacob and his classmates were issued glasses and ushered outside, appropriately during science class, but he said it was one of the most boring things he’s ever done—ah, young exaggeration. Jordan and friends went to a restaurant with a patio, and she said she should have stayed home and worked, but she’d have felt she missed something if she didn’t go look. A friend came for lunch with me, and we kept looking outside but really didn’t see much darkening. Apparently, Texas only had 70% whatever that means.

I’ve seen places in the central path where it got dark, and from reports of people who were in Oregon, Wyoming, Carbondale (IL), it was an awesome experience. All it meant here, far as I could tell, was a jinx. I had a lot of work on my desk, but everything I touched turned to mush. I was trying to put together the neighborhood newsletter, but files acted funny, others were formatted in ways that made them so difficult to deal with I threw my hands in the air.

I had to straighten out an insurance matter and none of the options on the automated menu covered it. The robot on the other end didn’t understand what I was saying. So I went online and tried the ”chat” option but when I tried to respond it froze. Finally, with help from the broker who arranged the insurance (through TCU) I got a real person at the insurance company. Of course, it turned out that I really did owe that overdue payment I was challenging.

Then I tackled the problem of an eye exam. My insurance doesn’t pay my doctor of 30 years because he’s an ophthalmologist—that comes under medical, so I have to go to an optometrist. It took literally a half hour on the phone to get the name of the area optometrist my doctor recommends.

Anybody want to calculate the amount of time I spent on the phone, mostly on hold? I don’t even want to think about it.

One bright spot: Teddy came and walked with me. I determined to be confident and to take it slow. Thought I did really well. Pleased with myself, and he, eternal cheerleader, was complimentary.

Tonight the world looks a bit better. I finished all of the newsletter I can do with what I have on hand—waiting for late submissions. I got the medical insurance straightened out, and a mammogram appointment made, with a note on the calendar to schedule an optometrist appointment (got to space those appointments out). I finished the mystery I was reading. No work on my own novel today, but that was pretty much a given.

Whoosh. I deserve wine and supper.

Walking goals and a pleasant visit

Teddy walked me the length of the driveway today, but the gas people were replacing sidewalk, so we couldn’t go to the stairs. I suggested we do a toe touch to the street instead, which we did. But this meant I didn’t have stairs to get back up the incline. He warned me to lean into it and use my body to help me go up, but I didn’t realize how hard it would be. Teddy’s wisdom: going down the incline is a psychological problem; going up, is a physical problem. Apparently, I used new muscles or at least those unused for a long time. By the time we got back to the cottage, I was winded…and hot!

But now I have two goals: to walk with a walking stick (not a cane) and to make it to the end of the driveway to meet friends who can’t drive up—and then back down—my skinny 1920s driveway. Teddy says at least two or three weeks before we try the walking stick, and that’s fine—I view it as a step toward walking independently. I could make it to the end of the driveway today with the walker, but that incline remains a psychological barrier.

My good, longtime friend Fred came for lunch today. He was my major professor in graduate school and has remained a friend ever since—that’s a lot of years. He reads and critiques everything I write, and I always feel like he’s a cheerleader. We lunch about once a month, discussing everything but politics (we agree, but it’s pointless) and mostly we talk about our writing projects. A true scholar, he is writing articles and reworking a manuscript on pioneer women in aviation. He is also one who does not handle my driveway well, and I won’t ask him to do that

So today I made turkey burgers and a wilted lettuce salad. Did your mom make wilted lettuce? Mine did. She’d take fresh leaf lettuce from the garden, douse it with a bit of vinegar and then pour warm bacon grease over it. Of course, crumbled bacon went into it too. It doesn’t wilt the lettuce but simply coats it with deliciousness. The first time I mentioned it to Christian he said, “I’ll pass,” but when I fixed it he said it was delicious. Turkey burgers not so much—I really like them at the Old Neighborhood Grill but have not been pleased with my two at-home attempts.

We topped lunch off with frozen peach custard—a sweet end to a meal. And we had a most enjoyable visit. Having had to stand me up for lunch two or three times, Fred tells me he’ll take me anywhere I want to go. So that’s my goal—to walk the driveway to his car so he can take me to lunch.

Goals are great. So far, I’m doing well with my thousand words a day goal, in spite of other things going on in my life. Christian paid me a great compliment the other night, and I wish I could remember the way he worded it. But he essentially said I have the best of both worlds—the world of the mind, because I work at my computer every day pretty much alone, and the world of a social life, because I love being with people. I am lucky, and I know it.

Cooking up a storm

Oh, wow! I think I used every pot and pan in my tiny kitchen tonight. On the menu: fireplace trout, squash casserole, broccoli with anchovy/garlic butter. The company was my longtime friend Linda who lives in Granbury but travels so much it’s hard to catch her. I did tonight and even sent her to Central Market for trout filets. Another night when I learned a lot.

About the trout: when I unwrapped it, I was astounded by how much there was. I asked Linda how much she bought, and she said she told the fishmonger two filets. What she got was two trout, fileted. One trout was plenty for us to split. Christian got the other one. I had found a recipe called fireplace trout that called for cooking the fish in an iron skillet in your fireplace. Showy, but the magnetic skillet on the hot plate turned out just as succulent a product. Salt, pepper, a bit of flour so they didn’t stick, and sauté in a combination of butter and olive oil. Cooked just barely underdone—delicious.

The squash: I found one of those recipes that said it was absolutely the best you’d ever eat. I believed it, but for two I had to cut in down (Jordan and Christian won’t eat squash, though I may teach them better). I thought it would involve complicated steps but when I actually got to it, it wasn’t bad at al. Sauté the squash and some onion; mix together grated cheddar, egg, mayonnaise, sour cream, salt. Stir the squash into the creamy ingredients, and top with buttered cracker crumbs. Baked nicely in my toaster oven. I used two squash and have one small casserole left for tomorrow.

The broccoli: Linda loved it, but I didn’t, and it was my own fault. The recipe was quite clear about using butter, garlic, and a bit of anchovy, but Jordan pointed out she still had the anchovy/caper butter I’d made for salmon the other night. Why didn’t I just use that? I did, and for me, the flavors were too strong. Takes a lot to say that. Now I need to go back and try the recipe the right way.

Linda and I collaborated on cooking, though she, poor dear, ended up washing a lot of dishes. It’s not easy for two people to cook in a tiny kitchen, and I fear I rolled my chair over her toes more than once. But we had fun, and as she pointed out, cleanup in a tiny kitchen is pretty easy.

We sat on the patio tonight briefly. Lovely evening, but large, splattering raindrops drove us inside—and then came to nothing.

I had anticipated a busy day, but it was only sort of. The groomer came for Sophie about 8:30 this morning. Sophie thinks being groomed is a great adventure and loves it. Then Teddy came to walk with me around eleven—as always, he boosted my confidence immensely. I did what for me was a marathon—down the driveway to the sidewalk, including the incline, over to the stairs, up to the porch, down the side steps and back to the cottage. I was tired, and my back hurt, but neither was unbearable. And I was pretty proud.

Really a good day.

Skiing—and this Business of Walking

I bought some new skis. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve never skied in my life and am not likely to start at this age and in my current physical state. For one thing, I’m the opposite of naturally athletic; for another, I’m afraid of height. I cannot imagine myself at the top of a mountain slope, preparing to take off downward on a couple of pieces of wood with poles that would probably be useless in my terrified hands.

No, I bought skis for the back legs of my walker. Previously I had to move the walker ahead by lifting it slightly after a couple of steps because while the front legs rolled, the back were plain and either balked or squawked. Now it glides, even going easily from one surface to another, and enables me to walk normally, one foot after the other, without unnatural pauses, I think ultimately the skis will help me improve my walking strength.

Monday will be five months since my surgery, and I’m still not walking unassisted. I do great on my walker and can go lots of places, which has allowed me to resume a semi-normal life going to church, shopping a bit, out to lunch and dinner. About a month ago a neighbor with whom I had lunch and who had hip surgery about three months before I did, emphasized that I was making progress and full function comes at different times for different folk. She was back-pedaling from her statement that by four months post-op she had given up her walker. And I have a neighbor close by who has had two hips operated and; his wife tells me he was off the walker quickly, and I remember him offering to do a dance at supper one night. I feel slow, retarded, lazy, inadequate—you name it.

And I fear I’ll never walk again. My brother brought me a brochure yesterday about a fancy, very stable, very expensive walker he thought I should consider. When I said I hoped not to need a walker forever, he warned that I might not but I will probably never have much stamina again. I didn’t tell him, but I was crushed. In my dreams, I walk freely and confidently.

My surgeon warned against comparing myself to anyone else because he said he’d never seen a hip in the shape mine was in. (I’ll spare you the gory details.) But don’t each of us think our situation is the most dramatic, the most extreme? For me, the comparisons are inevitable. I see both him and my family doctor next month, and I’m anxious to hear what they have to say.

Meantime, grateful for every invitation, I get out as often a I can—my goal is once daily either to go out or have someone in. I do my leg and shoulder exercises almost daily, and I walk, with help, down the driveway or in the backyard. And I dream of driving my cute VW convertible, doing my own grocery shopping, and running free again.

The Daily-ness of Life

Are those not guilty looks?

I’m struck by the daily-ness of life in these perilous times, as the fate of our country literally hangs on one man’s testimony tomorrow. In truth, I don’t expect it to be as earth-shaking as the media seems to expect. I’ve already heard three or four times about “Breaking news”—Comey said Trump told him, “I expect loyalty.” Pressure, yes. Obstruction of justice? Probably not. Comey has already said he will not say Trumpf tried to obstruct justice. I will watch tomorrow’s hearing, at least for a bit, but I don’t expect any “real” breaking news. Would be nice if I’m wrong. For those who remember Watergate what we need today is another Deep Throat with a source and an Alexander Haig to hold things together. Trumpf does not have a Haig around him.

But what I’m struck by is that with all this drama in the background, we all go about our daily lives. Today was an ordinary day for me—desk work, dinner with Betty at a fairly new Italian place. Really good food but limited and pricey menu. Highlight of my food day: I made myself a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch and didn’t burn it. My hot plate that operates by magnetic force is great for low, slow cooking—or fast and hot that burns things.

I’m editing the sequel to The Perfect Coed. The new book will almost for sure be titled, Pigface and the Perfect Dog. Someone pointed out that could be a children’s book, but it will have a subtitle: An Oak Grove Mystery. And I’m thinking about cover art. I liked the cover of The Perfect Coed. Today I tracked down the designer and queried to see if she’s interested in doing the new cover. I’d like to use her for a consistent look. A small accomplishment but one that makes me happy.

Thanks to a hint from friend Mary Dulle, I am taking small practice walks holding on to someone but not using the walker. I’m awkward, and Christian says it’s obvious I put more weight on my right leg, but I’m doing it. We figure I just have to practice every day and eventually I’ll make it.

Off to bed to read. What a delicious part of the day.

 

Grandson Ford is a happy and loyal TCU fan

School daze coming to an end

As school winds down, my grandkids check in. These are my Tomball children with their mom, Lisa (Colin's family). So proud of them. They are fortunate to go to a school in Tomball where their mom teaches 7^th grade math. Morgan will be 12 over the summer and going into—oops, I’m not sure. Sixth grade, I think but maybe seventh. Kegan is ten, and going into fifth grade. Didn’t hear a report on Morgan’s grades, but Kegan made straight As and Es—I assume the latter is a behavior grade.

He’s my long-haired grandson. When I was in the rehab facility, he came to visit, and a nurse asked, “Is that your granddaughter?” (In addition to the long hair, he is slightly built and has fine, almost delicate features). I replied proudly that he is my grandson. Colin later said Kegan is used to that misidentification. He is a dedicated and talented soccer player and wanted to grow his hair out so he could have a man-bun, like the European soccer players.

Morgan hasn’t shown such dedicated interests, as far as I know, but she is great in the kitchen and apparently likes to cook. She’s a neat mix of half tomboy and half girlie-girlie. I’ll find out more about both kids this weekend, because that family will come up for Maddie’s graduation and take me to Frisco. I haven’t seen the Tomball Alters in quite some time, so I’m really excited about their visit.

I had my last physical therapy session today. Walked around the cottage—I can make a circle from my desk, down the hall to the bedroom, over to the kitchen, and back to my desk--it's not very far. I held on to the therapist’s hand, and she insisted on the cane. I can walk almost normally with the walker; without it my legs are stiff and awkward as though I had some muscular condition. Really frustrating, but I guess the only thing to do is keep at it. The therapist bragged on the progress I’ve made since she first saw me, and when I suggested it was due to her, she said, “It’s yours. Own it.” We had a sort of sentimental parting—the kind where neither of us were going to show how touched we were. Why do we do that to ourselves?

It's been a social week so far and promises to continue that way—lunch today with a longtime friend I don’t see often. We went to a restaurant on Magnolia, and I had lobster bites. Which meant I thought I shouldn’t have lobster sushi roll tonight at the Tokyo Café. Betty and I went. It has long been a favorite of ours, and we missed it when fire closed it. I have only been once since they re-opened, now several months ago, so it was good to be back. Food and service are always good, but the main dining area is high-ceilinged with lots of slick surfaces—hard to hear.

A good day but nothing spectacular to report. I’m working myself up to a blog on how I feel about all the people who saw 45 has irreparably damaged the country. Meantime, busy days and a family weekend are on my horizon. I’m filled with anticipation.

PS. Just after I wrote the above, Jordan, Christian, and three friends descended on me, with four dogs--Sophie, the two Cavaliers, and a 12-week golden retriever puppy. Sophie gets so excited she tears around the cottage frantically, and she and the pup barked and barked at each other. The pup kept barking at the Cavaliers, but as Jordan said, "They don't play." It was delightful pandemonium and brightened my evening.

Walking, walking, to….anywhere

I dream about walking all the time. Last night, I suddenly walked across a room, said to a friend, “Look at me!” and walked everywhere thereafter. My steps were sure and strong. In reality, I can take two faltering, shaky steps without the walker, and that’s all. My surgeons is not worried about this at all, says someday I’ll find myself in the kitchen and the walker is elsewhere and I’ll walk (I didn’t ask how I got to the kitchen if I didn’t have the walker with me.). He should know, and I suppose he’s right, but four months after surgery I’m impatient.

The surgeon also advises against a cane. He says a cane doesn’t give enough of a support base, and if you fall, you have to rely on your wrist to stop the fall. Most of us don’t have wrists that strong. I used to use a cane as a security stick before the fall, but it does no good now, so I take comfort in his advice. A friend had extensive back surgery last week and walked her cul de sac (with a walker) yesterday. I know I couldn’t do that less than a week after surgery, and it makes me feel timid, scared, inadequate. Jordan repeated the surgeon’s words, “Do not compare yourself to others. Your surgery was different from all others.” But the comparison is inevitable.

I do worry that it’s lack of confidence that keeps me tied to the walker. With it, I’m more confident than I was without it before surgery. Which to me means I could probably walk better if I’d just let go and do it. But when I do, the results are shaky, and I’ve been cautioned so often about the terrible things that will result if I fall again. It’s obviously not a case of pick yourself up and try again. There might be no second chance.

Feeling puckish tonight—love that word. I think it’s the rainy weather. Tomorrow will be better—the weather and my mood. A bright spot tonight: Jordan and I are eating leftovers—bean salad on toast and cucumber/avocado salad. But she, sweet thing, planted and nurtured some leaf lettuce for me, and I will make wilted lettuce, like Mom used to. All I had to say was “wilted lettuce,” and Christian said no thank you. Irony: he loves green beans seasoned the same way—bacon drippings and vinegar. He’s not home tonight for supper, and Jordan has promised to try it.

My Dancing Shoes

I bought dancing shoes last night. Okay, they’re not—they’re shoes to start me on the road to dancing again, good, serviceable shoes that support my ankles, lessen my tendency to walk on the side of my left foot, and help my feet heal, particularly the swollen left one. They are, forgive me, plain, ugly shoes. Serviceable. That word keeps going through my mind.

They come from a store recommended long ago by the podiatrist I see and known for their serviceable (there’s that word again) shoes. I resisted when the doctor first mentioned, but now I find that tendency to walk on the side of my foot increasing (it’s called pronating). The saleslady, Nita, was skilled, knew what she as talking about. Subie, the friend who drove me there, kept finding cuter shoes, but Nita nixed them—they didn’t offer the right support, they weren’t deep enough for my foot, etc. The ones she showed me were the only ones in the store that she recommended for me at this time, and no, they weren’t the most expensive. Nita held out hope that in six months I can get a cuter pair. She even intimated I might gradually work my way up to sandals.

“You aren’t going to wear these without socks, are you?”

My answer: “Yes.”

She launched into a discussion of how dangerous blisters, etc., are, especially when you have neuropathy and can’t feel them. Dire visions of infection and worse danced in my head.  I succumbed and bought two pairs of diabetic socks (no, I’m not diabetic), which she said would help the swelling because of the way they’re woven. To cheer me she threw in a pair of turquoise laces and a multicolor pair.

Subie meanwhile launched a full pr campaign about how sturdy the shoes are, how much cuter they looked with socks, how much steadier I already was walking while wearing them. All this was good until we were headed home and her car phone rang. It was on speaker, and Subie said “I just took Judy to SAS to get shoes.”

“Oh, sorry,” was the reaction. All Subie’s pr campaign vanished into thin air.

Today going to lunch, Betty laughed heartily and then said how glad she was I’m being so sensible, etc. It was too late.

The best comment came from a young female physician whose birthday we celebrated with happy hour and dinner tonight. “I wear those every day,” she said. “They’re the only thing my feet can stand.”

Another food day: lunch at the relatively new Heim Barbecue, now that the lines have dwindled. I found the chopped beef good, the potato salad and cole slaw outstanding. Still have half a sandwich in the fridge. Then tonight we had happy hour at the Wine Haus (with slices of a decadent mousse cake), followed by dinner at Chadra. Still full from lunch, I had tomato/basil soup and a salad and couldn’t finish either one.

Now I’m toddling off to bed, much work left undone.

Limp dishrag and other excuses

No blog tonight. I feel like a limp dishrag that someone just wrung out.  I went ‘to the doctor this afternoon and walked much farther with the walker than I am used to. Everyone praised how strong I’m getting, etc., and it would have been music to my ears—except I was concentrating on walking and the pain in my left hip—which has miraculously disappeared again right now. It comes and goes but with no regularity or predictability.

Doctor’s report confirmed what I suspected: I am in excellent health, but I’m lactose intolerant. There go my bowls of cottage cheese for breakfast, my cheese slices on a ham sandwich, my bowls of yogurt. Ice cream is not a problem, and no I won’t substitute tofu, well beaten, for sour cream. I am using almond-free milk with my cereal and it’s fine. This is going to be a learning process, as I find what I can tolerate and what I can’t.

Tonight I really wanted the meatloaf plate from the Grill, so we picked it up and brought it home. Didn’t taste nearly as good as I anticipated but I imagine it will make a good sandwich tomorrow.

To add to my list of semi-disasters, my computer has acted wonky all week and required frequent calls to TCU’s support staff, but I am beginning to suspect what one friend suggested is true—it’s time for a new computer.

I’m off to read a good book and stare at the rapidly changing sunset. No dramatic streaks of red and gold \tonight but patches of a soft rosy pink set against patches of light blue sky—a delicate sunset, calming to the soul.

Beating myself up over a shoe

From this......

To this

I did trade the boot for a brace this morning, but it turned out not to be a direct trade-off. I am to wear the brace an hour or so at a time until I am used to it, gradually spending more time in the brace than the boot. Nor is it a simple procedure to fit it—the brace is clear plastic, molded after my foot. But still the technician put my foot in it and marked here and there where she could trim it. In response to her suggestion of a larger shoes, I took two pair—new OrthoFeet in a Mary Jane style and a pair of Croc lined slippers.

The brace goes inside the shoes—a bit of a trick to get it on, but I imagine it will work out as I break the shoe in—literally. But she trimmed until she had the right combination of fit and protection. Then she checked to see that I was even, and then I walked between parallel bars. I felt like a kid who had passed an exam in school—she said I did a perfect heel-toe walk, which should prevent tripping, and my ankle did not offer to collapse to either side.

Alas the Croc did not work as well. I had taken it because it’s wide and boxy, but she pointed out it has no give, whereas the OrthoFeet shoe is stretchy. We tried and tried, but it would accommodate the brace. Meantime, I who have always avoided Crocs was loving the left shoe that I wear with the boot. Crocs were too stiff and hard—they hurt my feet. But with the lining, it’s comfortable and I think a better height so I’m more even. All of this should alleviate the pain in my left hip.

By the time I got to the prosthesis office this morning, I had worked myself into one of my anxiety attacks. I was afraid of walking between the parallel bars, which turned out to be a piece of cake. I was sure I’d never walk unassisted again. I berated myself for being lazy and a coward because I don’t walk more—and major confession, I don’t often do the exercises that the physical therapist recommended. That’s unlike me, because I have faithfully done exercises, walked, done yoga whatever. I convinced myself that I was useless, lazy, lacking ambition.

I realize tonight, of course, what I was doing to myself—sending all those negative messages. On the other hand, regaining my earlier physical strength and balance compares to my thinking on my career: at 78, I am neither as ambitious nor as determined as I once was and probably that’s okay.

It’s been a long, difficult day, with my morning anxiety and in the evening several urgent trips to the bathroom. I really thought at noon I didn’t feel well…and slept for two-and-half hours this afternoon. Jordan’s friends were here when I got up, and one said to me, “Are you all right? You don’t look like yourself.” I explained it away with allergies that made my eye run but then I started the negative messages all over again. Listening to an account of another friend’s bout with West Nile didn’t help either.

I hope it was a better day for you. I’m putting this one to bed and plan to wake in the morning a new person.

A recluse blessed with friends

I have been blessed by a lifetime filled with good friends—some of us are finding we’ve been hanging out together for almost forty years; others have come into my fold within the last ten years or less. All have been wonderful during my recent housebound phase when I could not put weight on my broken leg. They came to visit, probably in itself the most important gift I could have; they brought food; they offered to help with various chores. I won’t try to name them all because I would surely leave some out.

This week, my longtime friend Carol Roark has marched to the front of the pack, taking me to overdue appointments—the dentist, the podiatrist, and a mammogram. Plus in Carol’s care, I’ve been out to lunch and dinner in one day—living the high life.

Carol is not an easy caretaker. Yesterday she gently bullied me into using the walker.
A trip with the walker scares me because it begins with the ramp at my front door. The walker goes downhill faster than I want it to. Yesterday Carol went in front of me, acting as a brake. This morning Lewis said he wouldn’t be a brake but would be a bumper. I made it to the car both times.

Yesterday with the walker I went from car to imaging clinic to mammography room and back again, though I was shaky when I got back in the car, either from nerves or exhaustion, though I would like to think that small bit of effort didn’t exhaust me. For the podiatrist and lunch, I asked Carol to use the wheelchair.

But today I walked across the parking lot and into the dentist office. This was double jeopardy because dental appointments always make me shaky—like everyone my age, I grew up in an era when dentistry was brutal. I had particularly bad teeth and a taciturn dentist, a distant relative—not a cool combination. At any rate, after an hour and a half getting my teeth cleaned, walking was an effort of will for me. So was going back up the ramp, though Carol was an efficient godsend.

The relief I felt when finally settled in my cottage, at my desk, gave me food for thought. I am safe here and happy and not anxious. The temptation to become a recluse is strong. I still love to go to restaurants, but sometimes I find myself wishing I was in the cottage. I think, however, that becoming more reclusive is a path to aging, and I’ll have to resist it and to stop being so fussy about what interests me and what doesn’t.

Carol said my new blog is in part about aging gracefully, and she is helping me do that. Staying in my comfortable cottage is not part of that plan. Lesson learned.

Concrete lessons

My new living space has lots of windows and light. Most of the windows are covered with paper until the blinds come in, but the French doors across from my desk and the window to the right are bare. As a result, I’m like a fish in a gold bowl—except there’s usually no one out there to see. Today there was a whole crew of concrete people—preparing to pour the patio, taking up the old sidewalk and getting ready to pour a new one. I was treated to a fascinating study in people’s behavior and a construction process.

These men work hard. They were here when I got up at 8:30—okay, I overslept—and some were still working at 5:30 tonight. They work with picks and sledgehammers, slamming them into the ground, picking up huge chunks of concrete and pitching them into some kind of motorized wagon that disposes of them. I saw them standing around frequently and figured they had to take breaks from that hard labor. They churn up the dirt, then rake it and pounds it flat, painstaking work. By the end of the day they had made an absolute mess of my back yard, which was already a mess. But the forms were in place, and I could see where the patio and curving walkway will be.

I had intended to ask neighbor Greg to mow the grass in back today, but he came back to the cottage before I could do that and said there was so little grass anyway he meant to go after it with the weed eater. The worker mens (a grandchild’s phrase) even tore up my large, flourishing turk’s cap but Greg says you can’t kill them, so I guess it will bloom again.

Today’s work was not as noisy as I’d dreaded but they apparently cut through concrete because occasionally the air was thick with a white powder—that can’t be healthy. It was that way when the physical therapist came, and I knew he intended for me to walk down the ramp. I balked, because I didn’t want to go out in that thick dust.

 We walked in the house. I asked if he was comfortable with me using the walker when home alone, and he said he was. “Are you?” he asked. I figured I have to be, because if I don’t start walking more, I’ll never walk again. And the surgeon recommended a lot more walking. So watch my dust! (Bad pun)

On a completely unrelated note, my Scottish heart beat faster tonight. I found on Facebook a lovely rendition of “Loch Lomand.” I can remember singing it with my dad on one of our piano nights. We had a book of folk songs-I have it still—and would sing the Scottish ones with special fervor. Dad loved “Loch Lomand.” His signature song on the piano was “Red Wing.” I can still sing the chorus to that one. What a fine memory to have.

This is my fourth night in the cottage, and I am still happy as a clam. Tonight my dining pal Betty brought spaghetti from Chadra—so delicious. I am one lucky lady.

Overcoming a disability

I don’t think of myself as having a disability, except for things like a handicapped parking permit. I can’t drive these days, but I carry the permit for whoever is chauffeuring me.

I am handicapped in that it’s hard for me to reach things on high shelves, etc. But I view all that as temporary, and it has gotten better with permission to put weight on my broken leg. I resisted this, but the physical therapist said weight bearing builds layers on bones. Remember that walking is prescribed for osteoporosis patients.

With the PT’s reminder in mind, I was a bit taken aback when the orthopedic surgeon said yesterday that he saw no change. I though it wasn’t working. But he went on to say that we had to challenge the new bone to see if it would hold up—so, to me, that meant no change was a good thing. Yes, I heard the implied last of that—hold up to my great weight.

I haven’t weighed myself in a long while, because I can’t stand with both feet and not holding on to anything, but I suspect I’ve lost weight. Friends tell me my face looks thinner, and I know I’ve been eating lightly—lots of tuna fish and cottage cheese, yogurt and applesauce.

I asked the surgeon if I could walk up three steps (from the driveway to the front porch—much easier than the ramp that is like riding a roller coaster, something I never liked). He gave his blessing, so yesterday, with Jordan’s help , I walked from the car to the steps—maybe six feet—and up the steps. The surgeon’s ditty to help me remember was, Good foot goes to heaven, bad foot goes to hell.” It means going up you put your good foot up first; going down, you put the bad foot down first. I haven’t tried going down yet so am a bit puzzled how that will turn out.

But yesterday all went well. I did fine on the steps, and Jordan wheeled me across the porch. The door sill at the front door stymied her however, and she finally announced I would have to walk. There were no grab bars, nothing for me to hold on to, except Jordan who was behind me. It made me very nervous, and I swear I came close to falling a couple of times. Got to work on that technique.

But being able to put weight on my “bad” foot has made life so much easier. I stood at the sink tonight and hand-washed a few dishes that wouldn’t fit in the dishwasher. I can also stand—carefully—in front of a cupboard to reach a spice on a higher shelf. Life is good. Handicapped? Who, me?

Moving on to 2016

I thought this was a sweet picture to begin 2016. These are the seeing eye dogs belonging to my friend Phil. The one of the left is Santiago, now retired, and the other is Porter, now the active service dog since February. It's wonderful that they are so close instead of rivals for affection, but don't let innocence fool you--they are both terrible table surfers. They are also sweet and so affectionate. Porter particularly is a cuddle dog. My poor Sophie caught the short end tonight because she too is a surfer--she got crackers and came close to getting cheese grits. It seemed that everywhere she turned someone was scolding her, and she did get locked in the office once--stood looking pitifully at the rest of us.

We’ve eaten ham black-eyed peas, and collard greens, so we should have a prosperous and happy year in 2016. Plus rolls, cheese, grits, chocolate chip cookies, banana bread. We will all be fat as little pigs in 2016. We had a quiet gathering of our regular neighborhood group tonight—quiet either because we’ve all seen too much of each other over the holidays or because we are just plain worn out. But the food was delicious—pot-luck—and the company pleasant. I for one was glad not to have a crowd of people all talking at the top of their voices so that I couldn’t hear any one individual. A thoroughly pleasant evening.

We agreed that nobody knows what day of the week it is. Holidays on Friday are hard. I have a lunch date Monday and started to lay out clothes for it tonight—then realized it is two days away. I take several medications in the morning and several vitamins in the evening, so I put them in day-of-the-week pill cases. Totally confused today on which pills to take when.

But the first day of the new year was the kind of day I like. I did housework by jumps and starts, sat at my desk in-between. Finished proofing the novel I’ve been working on forever, keyed corrections into the manuscript, and loaded it to Amazon’s print division. Promptly rejected because they found seven major problems. Before I corrected it, they had accepted it, so I’m not sure where I went amuck. I will worry about that tomorrow.

A long, lazy weekend looms ahead of me, and I couldn’t welcome it more. I’m going to follow my pattern of getting back to work, but I’m also going to read and sleep late and maybe cook a bit.

A cheering thing for me: I find myself landing in one room or another of the house and wondering where I left my cane. It means, yes, I’m liable to fall if I don’t lift my feet off the floor, but it also means I’m feeling confident enough to move about without the cane. I feel like a different person than I did a month ago, and I’m grateful and happy.

Yes, 2016 will be a good year.

Yoga again

This is so not me!

I probably haven't done yoga for four months. Physical therapy threw me off track--it was a shock to my self confidence to think that I needed it, and much as I appreciated the program, it threw me to realize I was in a balance program for the elderly--hate that term, though with a birthday fast upon me, it applies. I cannot say enough about what the program did for me--main thing is now I walk, not shuffle. I didn't realize I was shuffling, but several people have pointed out that improvement in my walking. And I am bolder about where I walk. I assume my self-confidence will gradually return.
But meantime therapy so occupied me that I put yoga out of my mind.
I don't know if the two are related or not, but my brother noticed that I have gained weight--and he was right. His words, "Don't talk to me about carbohydrates and diets. It's all a matter of intake and output. You need to move more." The physical therapy exercises weren't doing that.
So yesterday I did my yoga routine for the first time in forever or so it seems. I was pleased at what I could still do--and dismayed by what I couldn't do. Plus I forgot some of the major poses as I went through the routine--omitted Warrior, which would stretch the leg muscle that's been giving me grief.
Jordan is already discouraged that I didn't do it again today, but the day went by--a doctor's appt, followed by a desk full of small chores, birthday lunch with a good friend which included wine and sent me straight to a long and lovely nap. Dinner with neighbors at the Grill and now getting Jacob to bed--he has showered and memorized his Bible verse for tomorrow, so I feel pretty efficient.
My immediate goal: yoga three times a week. More if it works, but I'm not going to beat myself up about it. And I am eating less--couldn't finish a good chicken salad at lunch and brought home a piece of meatloaf tonight for lunch tomorrow. I know we older folks don't need as much food and do need movement. Working on it, but not going to let it dominate my life.
What I really think I need to work on is the meditative, calming aspect of yoga--training my mind to go blank and recharge. It is always to busy, jumping ahead to the next thing I need to do. I'm working on it.
 To repeat my new motto: I am who I am.

The temptation to be a recluse

Holiday weekends are sometimes long for people who live alone--friends are busy with families, my local family often has plans (like the PGA tournament this weekend). I had Jacob for company Friday night and part of Saturday, company for brunch Sunday. But my lunch plans for Monday fell through and I didn't have much work on my desk. It looked like a long day inside looking at the rain.
Two things happened: Jordan asked Sunday night if I wanted to go to brunch with them to meet friends (their friends are incredibly nice to me) and several projects, one big, landed on my desk this morning. I decided I'd change my mind about going to brunch and stay home--after all, I was used to being home alone from Saturday and most of Sunday.
But then I thought when you're tempted to stay home is when you should get out of the house. I went with them to Joe T.'s, had huevos ranchero and enjoyed the company, saw Jacob's signed golf ball and pictures of his hat and glove, signed by the winner. Jordan came in for a few minutes when we got home, and then I got back to work.
I find when I stay home a lot, it's hard for me to make myself go out, even for things I enjoy. In fact doing just that after being home sick for a week accounted for my last fall, the one that sent me into physical therapy. It's so easy for me to wrap myself in a cocoon and stay home.
At the same time, I'm a social being by nature, and I need to get out of the house. One friend said I bring people to me rather than going out after them, and that's something I must work on. It's like a lot of things, like my walking exercises--you have to take it one day at a time, and instead of drawing the circle tighter around you, always push at its limits.
The comparison to my physical therapy is apt too. I have too many people willing to help me. Sunday in the rain the newspaper  was in a place that was hard for me to get to. I decided to go down the driveway and approach it from the street, but I had one of those moments--instinct or fear turned me back, and then I was mad at myself. The friends who came for brunch brought my paper in and assured me they were glad I didn't go get it.
Today at Joe T.'s I was walking on a brick walkway--sometimes uneven surfaces make me less certain but this really wasn't bad. But because either Jacob or Jordan were next to me, I held on to them. I've got to learn to think of my cane as the person I'm holding on to. Beating myself up about that one too.
Enough with the confessions.