What do you do on weekends?

 

I know a lot who read this blog are, like me, retired, so I think a question is relevant that came up in a small online group I belong to: how is the weekend any different. I mean, if you can set your own schedule all week long, what if anything sets Saturday or Sunday apart?

I particularly thought about it today because it was a long, lazy day. The guests I expected tonight came last night accidentally, so I had nothing to do to prepare. Sophie somehow senses weekends—she still gets me up at 7:00 promptly for what we are calling her first breakfast. Actually she tried for it at 6:30, but I gave her a piece of cheese and told her to hang on for half an hour. She did. But then, after she had eaten and gone outside briefly, she let me sleep until nine. This is a boon because the shot-givers in the house don’t like to get up early on Saturday, but Sophie has to have her shot within an hour of her second breakfast. All worked out fine.

Jordan was in and out of the cottage all morning, mostly raiding my fridge. She had five sleeping teenage boys and a party mess in the house, but they cleaned it up promptly once they were awake. She armed herself with leftover lunch meat, chip and dip makings, and the like, but I don’t think they ever came back after the TCU game. This evening when I wanted to fix my supper, I had to ask for several pans. But I was glad for her occasional company. She and Christian apparently watched the TCU game—I checked the score occasionally—and then tonight, with guests, the Baylor game. They are a house of divided loyalties, as is Megan’s house in Austin.

Meanwhile, I read emails, checked on the daily news—there was a lot that upset me today, mostly about ways Republicans were scheming to take away more freedoms and benefits. In Texas somehow in connection with the anti-abortion law they are targeting highways. Not sure how that works but soon if we’re not diligent it will be illegal to drive a car with a pregnant woman in it. Some days I read the news from various sources and don’t share much; other days I share every third thing I read. Today was one of the latter.

I was almost through a novel which had an interesting concept, though it too often wandered into introspection. Anyway, I was determined to finish it today so I could write a brief report for a writers' group that had expressed interest. The novel was inspired by the iconic Dorothea Lange Depression photograph, “Migrant Mother,” as was my award-winning short story, “Sue Ellen Learns to Dance,” and so I was comparing the handling of the core material in the two pieces. Glad to get it done.

Saturdays are often cooking days for me, and today was no exception. But I ran into a couple of roadblocks. I always have packages of frozen petite peas on hand, so I put one out to thaw for pea salad. Only after about an hour I discovered what I thought was peas was lima beans. I think I must have bought them by mistake, because I don’t particularly care for them. Fortunately, I had an almost full package of peas. Often if I’m eating alone on a grocery delivery day, I order one serving of fresh fish, so today I ordered a quarter lb. of Dover sole—and got a whole pound. After some deliberation I cooked the whole thing, figuring leftovers will make lunch. It’s such a delicate fish—in taste and texture—that every time I sauté it, I end with fish hash. Tonight, I baked it, and it was delicious and held together better, though I still didn't get a perfect filet.

So here I am, on a Saturday night, me and my computer. It’s been a good day, not a lot different from many of my days, and yet I had the sense all day long that it was Saturday, a day set apart. One thing jolted me tonight: at 5:30 I turned the TV on to see what Channel 5 reported on the day’s news—and got a football game. Suddenly I realized it’s that season again—football will pre-empt the news programs I look forward to. That does not brighten my Saturdays, though I know at least half the rest of the world is delighted.

What about you? Are Saturdays different?

A cooking weekend

 

Jordan hard at work in Costa Rica

Fort Worth has enjoyed a lovely, rainy, dreary weekend, although I admit the temperatures are a bit cool for my taste. But I’ve enjoyed every minute, doing the things I love to do—writing, reading, and cooking. Lots of the latter, and some experiments I’m proud of.

Last night, friends came for happy hour, one of whom needs to eat carbs on time because of diabetes. So I was concerned to have something with bread. With my order from Central Market, I included a small jar of dipping spices. When the order came, they had removed that—apparently, they no longer had it. But my whole appetizer plan was based on those spices! I was going to put out individual dipping dishes (actually some lovely china coasters), a small pitcher of olive oil, a dish of Pecorino, and the spices. Somehow, cheese and oil didn’t do it by themselves. So I went online—often my savior—and found a recipe for making your own spices. I had almost all of them on hand, and I just left out the two I didn’t have—dried parsley and dried rosemary. There were so many other spices, it was just fine. In fact, really good. I also left out the fresh garlic, because everything else was dried. I served it with a sliced baguette from Central Market. I’m not sure anyone else was as enthusiastic as I was, but I thought it was great. I also put out a crock of pub cheese from Trader Joe’s, which I thought was sharp and good. As you can tell, I was pleased with myself.

And last night after everyone was gone, I fed Christian and Jacob British baked potatoes—more about that another time.  But we loaded them with bacon (yes, real bacon, chopped), green onions, grated cheddar, sour cream, salt and pepper and called that supper. So good.

smoked salmon appetzier

Tonight Jean came, and I fixed us appetizers of garlic-rubbed sourdough topped with goat cheese, softened, halved grape tomatoes, chopped scallions, and smoked salmon. It would have made a prettier picture if I had put the tomato and green onion on top—but then
everything would have rolled off. The salmon on top kept It in place.

For the main course: white bean soup, a new-to-me recipe for which I followed every step religiously. Well, almost—I did fudge a bit on the red pepper (and it was fine, not at all noticeable), and I wish I had not put quite so much chicken broth in it, but it was good. When I told her what the garnish is she balked a bit but then declared the garnish made the soup. It was pickled celery, with the celery minced. Pickling it was easy, and we both agreed it would not have been as good an accent if it were not pickled. I will admit the soup was a bit complicated and I used every pot and pan in my kitchen--and I don't have a dishwasher.

Kitchen sink 
after cooking

And my cooking weekend is not over. Tomorrow night, I have committed to fix schnitzel for the boys and me. Jordan will be home for Costa Rica but not until later in the evening. I’ll do roast potatoes and Christian will do Brussel sprouts. And Monday, when supper will be hamburgers on the porch, so we can be ready for trick or treaters, I’ll contribute a green bean salad. I’m a bit intimidated by the schnitzel, though I have an “easy” recipe. But the green bean salad is a snap (no pun intended).

First thing every morning, with my hot tea, I read emails, and that was the closest I came to work today. I read both for messages from friends and for news reports, though I recognize you have to be careful about what you accept as truth. Still, even on a lazy Saturday, that’s part of my day, and a part I enjoy because it keeps me in touch with the world. I am not these days reading the emails of hysteria from various Democratic campaigns. If one more person assures me they’re packing it up and going home, I will scream. We know that Mark Kelly and Val Demings and John Fetterman and others are not giving up ten days before the election. I know it’s a fundraising technique, but I think it’s a poor one, as likely to turn away undecided contributors as to convince them.

Reading rounds out my day, and today I’m lingering over Big Shot, the latest in Julie Mulhern’s Country Club Murders series. It’s a spoof on the eighties upscale, country club life as seen in Kansas City, Mo. It tickled me last week when our minister announced that our visiting preacher was from Country Club Church in Kansas City. Sometimes fiction hits close to home.

So now I’m going to read, but I leave you with a funny picture that popped up on my computer today. Two transported Texas middle-aged ladies comparing their turquoise What could be more of a stereotype?

Texas Literary Hall of Fame, 2010

Will success spoil Judy Alter?

 

Carnitas plate
I prefer mine this way rather than rolled into a tortilla

After my resounding failure with eggplant last week, I am happy to report a cooking weekend with a couple of successes on my part and a culinary home run for Christian.

Friday night, in the midst of the found dog episode (read last night’s blog) I made salmon en croute. I’ve never made Beef Wellington, though the idea intrigues me. But if you get right down to it, I like salmon better than beef. And truth is, I’ve been collecting salmon en croute ideas for a while. When I’d go through my recipes looking for things to cook, I’d linger over several versions, including one where an anonymous cook just winged it and described what she did. Finally last week, I chose one recipe, put the ingredients on our weekly grocery list, and fixed it. It was really good, but I won’t describe it here because I’m quite sure it will be my recipe of the week on Thursday’s Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog. I will hint, however, that I used the new canned salmon I ordered from Alaska Gold, and it was every bit as good as a fresh filet. If I haven’t said this before, Alaska Gold is a cooperative of small fishermen, so the fish is wild caught.

I read an article today about the recommendations of several chefs on ordering seafood, either to cook or in a restaurant. Unanimous, know your source. They particularly advised against farm-raised Atlantic salmon and any tilapia, which is always farm raised, often in less than sanitary conditions. From the small-boat supplier from whom I’ve boat tuna for years, I’ve learned that farmed fish is also taking over the Pacific salmon market. But there are reliable cooperatives, like Alaska Gold. And from Central Market I often order Verlasso salmon which is farmed in ocean water off the coast of Chile.

Anyway, to continue with our good weekend. Yesterday, Jordan said Christian would either try the turkey burger recipe I had or order in. He came out, and I showed him the recipe, and he said he’d try. Confession: I hadn’t really meant to bully him into cooking. I was prepared to do it myself, since this recipe clearly called for skillet burgers rather than grilled. But he took the recipe and disappeared into the house. What he created was really good. He added basil and something to a very basic recipe, but it was flavorful. And more important, it held together, which was his concern. The recipe called for a bit of mayonnaise, and I think that was the binding agent. Made delicious burgers with cheese, tomato, and mayo on a bun.

So tonight, It was my turn again, and by request I made carnitas. I’ve decided everyone’s carnitas are different, and I’m about to call mine “Gringo carnitas.” Most that you get in restaurants are shredded pork; mine are cubed. Years ago from a co-worker who had lived in Arizona I learned to cook a pork butt without the oven: you cube it and simmer in salted water until the water evaporates and the meat browns in its own juices. That plain version was served with a garlicky lemon sauce. But then I found a recipe for adding seasonings—bay leaves, cinnamon, clove, onion, oregano, orange peel—to the cooking water. And there was our carnitas meal.

Still cooking it was a problem. Several times I put too much water in, and it took so long to cook down that it was almost midnight before we ate. Tonight I measured scrupulously—2.5 lbs. pork butt and two cups water, but I decided my idea of simmer and what the recipe meant was far apart. When I kept it at a low boil, the liquid evaporated, and the meat browned.

Jordan and I have often served this with black beans straight out of the can, but today I gussied them up a bit. Sauteed chopped shallot in oil, added cumin, garlic, and oregano, omitted the green pepper the recipe called for (I really can’t tolerate them) and called it beans. Really a vast improvement. 

Can you tell I had fun this weekend? Otherwise, it was sort of ordinary, with the exception of the dog incident, of course. A lot of reading, a bit of writing, a lot of thinking, a couple of light rain shower for which we are grateful. Every bit is precious.

And so we head into another week, with the world in turmoil, here at home and abroad. I am inundated with political emails, which is probably my own fault for contributing to various races and speaking my mind. But what wears me out—and comes closes to antagonizing me—is that I get five or six emails a day from the same candidate. One minute the message is, “We’re pulling ahead. We can do this.” But not five minutes later an email will bemoan their loss and proclaim, “We’re packing it up. Going home.” Well, I know they are not going home.

I am a loyal Democrat, have been all my life, but it is frustrating to get repeated messages urging me to renew my membership. When I first tried, the Action Blue website said it could not perform this action; later, it accepted my money, but I still get lots of messages urging me to renew. I wrote once to complain about something and got a standard letter apologetically explaining that they simply can’t answer individual emails.

I hope it’s not an omen. I remain optimistic about a blue Texas.

How soon can I go back to bed?

 

Do some moments from your childhood—ordinary moments, nothing of special importance—come back to you with amazing clarity? I remember one morning going to the garage with my mom. She was going to drive me someplace—not school, because I walked to elementary school and took public transportation to high school (and I’m so old that we didn’t have middle school in Chicago in my day). Out of the blue she suddenly said, “I woke up this morning wondering how soon I could go back to bed.” For her, at that time in our lives, the answer was at least ten at night. I can’t date this incident precisely but we had the pale blue Ford (I can see it clearly in my mind’s eye), so it was undoubtedly the Fifties, and I was too young to drive but old enough to understand what she was saying.

This came back to me today because that’s the way I’ve felt all weekend. I’ve said before that even though my schedule is my own, I somehow let down on weekends, move at a slower pace. And this weekend I wanted to sleep a lot. Two things kept me from it: the first is Sophie, though she slept until eight yesterday, praise be! And today her snuffling and coughing woke me at six-fifteen, but I gave her a Benadryl and talked gently to her about it not yet being daylight. She went back to bed and slept until eight.

The other thing that calls me to get out of bed is my conscience. I don’t remember it ever being said directly, but in the house of my childhood, sleeping late was a bit slothful. There is the world’s business to be up and about. This morning I finally got up for real about nine and felt terribly self-indulgent. One of the things that distinguishes weekends is that I generally don’t try to write fiction. I don’t know why Saturday and Sunday feel different, but they do. I did today read some background material and work out the genealogy of a family whose history I hope will play into the story—found I needed to slip in another generation or I would have had women having babies in their sixties.

And I had the neighborhood newsletter to get out. We will lose two working days this week, so I was anxious to get it to the designer in the hope that it could still come out about the first of December. I had done most of the work on Friday, proofread what I’d done yesterday, and waited for stragglers to send their stuff today. Frustrating. But tonight it is in the hands of the designer, and one more thing is off my conscience.

Last night, Jean came for supper. I made a chicken casserole and cooked an artichoke a neighbor gave me. The casserole is part of my current interest in retro food—used good old cream of mushroom soup, with chicken and hard-boiled eggs and a lot of diced celery for crunchiness. Made a sauce of mayonnaise, lemon, garlic, and pecorino cheese for the artichoke. Another time I’ll leave out the minced garlic—just hard little bits you don’t want to bite on. The dinner was so good, I had it all over again tonight.

But before I had my supper tonight, friends Subie and Phil came for happy hour with their son, Sean, and his girlfriend. I haven’t seen Sean in a while and as glad to meet Roni. We had a jolly time, arguing over literary figures and movies and somehow avoiding politics. Sean and I are Facebook buddies, on the same page about everything from Kyle Rittenhouse to covid vaccinations (he’s a nurse practitioner). When the Rittenhouse name came up tonight I simply said, “Don’t get me started.”

Now I’m off to read a mystery I just started: Funeral Food, by Kathleen Taylor. Set in a small-town café in South Dakota and so gritty you can smell the dust off the prairie. There’s a lot of focus on sex and inuendo, and the narrator’s tone is irreverent and wonderful to read. The story involves two Mormon missionaries adrift in this town but more than that I don’t know.

Tonight, I read; tomorrow I get back to work.

It’s a dog’s life

My war with Sophie escalated and took a drastic turn last night, and today I am awash with guilt. Poor thing had to go out between every hour and every two hours. She would come to the edge of my bed, dancing in impatience so that her nails went clickety-click on the floor. Honest, if she could have spoken, she would have said, “Please don’t be angry with me. I can’t help it.” She wagged her tail and looked at me with hope in those big eyes. Every time I let her out, I cautioned her to come right back in. Went through a half slice of Velveeta, coaxing her back into the house with tiny tidbits.

Of course, first thing this morning I was on the phone to the vet, and double of course, they needed to see her. They suspected, as I did, she had a bladder infection but didn’t want to prescribe antibiotics without seeing her. Jordan was tied up all day—delivering breakfast to a family who had just lost the mother (the daughter is one of Jordan’s good friends) and then this afternoon with the funeral and reception afterward. So I had no one to take Sophie to the vet, and I cannot manage my walker and a dog simultaneously. Called good friend Subie who was here in 20 minutes, and we dropped Sophie off. Subie said poor Soph was reluctant to go in the door, and when the tech came for her, she stiffened her front legs as though, “I am not going in there.”

Poor dear. It was mid-afternoon before Subie could go back and get her, but she’s home now and asleep in one of her favorite spots. I did take advantage of her absence to take a long nap, hoping to make up for the sleep I’ve missed. After this little adventure, my wallet is quite a bit lighter. I have to admit that I found the cottage a little lonely today without Sophie.

In a different way, it was a bonus day. Both my sons called me, coincidentally on the same day. I had been chasing Colin for several days about a business matter, but he had let his mailbox fill up and I couldn’t leave a message. But today he took care of business and called. This weekend he and his family go skiing, but he has promised to clear out his mailbox.

Jamie had intended to meet us in San Antonio this weekend but called to say his oldest, Maddie, would unexpectedly be home for the weekend. He’s excited about seeing her. Maddie is at U/Colorado and will be in Dallas with an ambassador group as part of the school’s recruitment program. So proud of that girl.

And the prospect is there that I may see both of them soon. Colin and his family will stop briefly a week from Saturday on their way back from skiing, and Jamie says his travel schedule is lightening up and he should be able to come from Frisco for a visit. Meantime I get to spend a weekend with both daughters and two grandsons.

No blogs for a few days. Jordan, Jacob, and I will take the Vonlane executive bus to Austin tomorrow mid-day, leaving Christian in charge of the compound and all three dogs, including getting medicine down Sophie. Wish him luck, please.

Megan will pick us up from the bus, we’ll gather Ford (Sawyer has three gigs all weekend), and head for San Antonio where I will sign my new book at the annual meeting of the Alamo Society. We have intriguing dinner reservations, including one evening at the restaurant affiliated with the Culinary Institute of America. I’m also hoping for a visit with a treasured old friend I haven’t seen in several years.

Yes, I have a bit of trepidation about travel in general and San Antonio in particular. A quarantined woman there was released by mistake, visited a mall and a hotel, and the city declared a public health emergency. Jordan is going to disinfect the world before we are allowed to touch anything. Lots of handwashing ahead. I do not normally panic about diseases, even flu epidemics, but the emphasis on the danger to those over sixty spooks me this time. I am well over sixty, as everyone knows. Still it will be a fun weekend, and I plan to enjoy it.

After that, if the virus spreads, I may become a recluse. Not hard for me to do, as I’m content staying in my cottage, but I do like visitors. And I do need groceries. Darn this disease!

Just looked at pictures of Nashville and surrounding towns. So awful. Pray for the people of Tennessee, even as we pray for those all over the world affected by the novel corona virus.

PS. Gourmet on a Hot Plate will be back next week.

Life’s Milestones and Other Matters

A milestone in Jacob’s life tonight: his first Cotillion. I’m not sure he recognized the significance and I hear it was “great” from his mom, but I am waiting for a full report. All week he groused about going but above he looks pretty happy or pleased with his new clothes. His aunt, uncles, and mom went to Cotillion. Colin hated it, used every excuse to sneak out early, etc. There as some problem about making sure Megan was included—I don’t remember what and she did go but it was another instance when I was inept as a mother (when we went to Santa Fe and they wanted to ski, I had no idea how to make that work—the kids had to figure out about renting skis, ,etc.). But if all her friends were going to Cotillion, there was no way Megan was going to miss it. Jamie was in his element at Cotillion and came home one night referring to himself as the “party animal.”

Jacob’s buddies were also all going tonight so I’ll be curious to hear if they banded together or circulated nicely. Do you suppose Jacob will dance with me?

I went to the hospital for pre-op pre-admission today. They have all this down to a science and sometimes ask the most minute questions—very thorough. But it’s a smooth process. We saw an admissions clerk and two nurses and were at the hospital an hour and a half.  So far the personnel we’ve met have all been extremely friendly and helpful. The hospital is new—it was privately built, went into bankruptcy and was bought by Teas Health; if I understand orrectly it is an orthopedic hospital. It’s all open and sleek and thoroughly modern but with clearly Texan touches—one area was partitioned off by a panel of upright untreated tree branches bound together, like fences you see around jacals in South Texas. I’m not anxious to have this surgery, but Clearfork seems a good place for it. I feel I’ll be comfortable and in caring hands.

Tonight an old friend came for supper—my idea of entertaining is sending her to pick up sandwiches at a local upscale bakery. We both had croissants with turkey, goat cheese and vinaigrette. Good and really filling. We topped them off with huge chocolate chip cookies. Nancy and I have known each other over forty-five years although we lost touch for many of those years. Today, the nice thing when we get together is that we don’t dwell on our past lives (both married to physicians) but talk about our lives, our city, and our kids today. We both have rich and full lives, and I much appreciate that we don’t dwell on the past.

A long, lazy weekend stretches ahead of me, after a week that has been filled with doctor and hospital visits. I hope to make real progress on my novel—and to do some pleasure reading. Looking forward to it. My life is neither busy nor hectic, so it strikes me as funny that I am glad for a lazy weekend.

Going to a banquet, sort of

I went to a dinner party tonight—Jordan’s first dinner to cook in the house in the six weeks they’ve been there. They finally have things unpacked enough that she can use the kitchen. Christian was in Minneapolis for the Ryder Cup, and Jordan wanted fishy meals while he was away. So I picked three, two of which you know about from last night’s blog. I have to add for all my moaning and complaining about no lemons, I forgot I had lots of limes. Put some on the tuna today, and we both enjoyed it for lunch.

prep for salmon tacos

Tonight’s menu was salmon tacos. Jordan assured me Christian wouldn’t be home in time for supper—I had hesitated because he will eat some fish but particularly dislikes salmon. So we started fixing tacos, when he called to say his plane had landed. Then we fiddled and postponed. Jordan made our salmon tacos—with avocado, cilantro, lime, and feta. For the boys, Christian and Jacob, she made hamburger tacos with lots of avocado. Jacob loved everything but the feta, ended up eating three or four tacos. But our cook couldn’t find any of her spices—I know the feeling.

beef  taco

salmon taco

This was the third time I was in the house since I moved to the cottage. That first night we ate dinner inside; I was briefly in there the morning we flew to Chicago, and it was an empty mess. Jordan had been wanting me to see it—tonight it looks like a house someone lives in, with living room, dining room and bedroom furniture attractively arranged. Their furniture is bulkier than mine—much of it Christian’s before they married—it reflects that masculine sensibility. The rugs are Oriental pattern—but probably not Oriental—and darker in color than mine were. There’s a preponderance of plum in upholstery and accessories—it’s a fashionable color this fall again. What goes round, comes round.

It’s been a good weekend—lazy and slow, and I got lots done. Am in the midst of reading books submitted for the Sarton Award from Story Circle Network. And I’ve caught up with some insurance work. And, oh yes, I prepared my mail-in vote today. So I start the new week with an almost clean slate.

To end on a happy note, I would not want anyone to think Sophie is not completely at ease in her environment. I keep telling her position is all in life, but above you see how she disregards that bit of advice—Back legs straight up in the air, head twisted in an unnatural angle, front paws curled around. Sound asleep. They say when a dog sleeps on its back, with legs spread akimbo, it means the dog is perfectly happy and feels safe. So my lectures on ladylike posture fall on deaf ears, but she’s happy and secure.