Soft foods and a silly dog

This may be a repeat, but some time ago when I asked my primary care doctor if we needed to talk about my weight—in my happy wine-drinking, chocolate gorging days I weighed more than I ever had. He replied, a bit righteously, “We do not encourage the elderly to lose weight.” Now I know why: when major illness hits, we overweight people have a cushion to rely on. I don’t think this is exactly a license for gluttony, but I did continue on my merry way, loving the strip of fat on a good steak, a lot of butter on my toast—you get the picture. Now I know what he was talking about.

Limited pretty much to soft foods, I have lost a few pounds—not the way I wanted to. And I’m hungry, and a bit tired of soft foods. So I welcome any suggestions. (Maybe I’ve said that before too—I lose track of things these days). But then again, things aren’t all bad. In the picture above, I am enjoying tiramisu for dessert, having just had smoked salmon and good deli-rich cream cheese on toast as my entrée. Tomorrow I think I’ll dice some of that salmon into scrambled eggs with a bit of onion and tomato. But then, the prospect for breakfast is a dark chocolate protein drink. At least it’s easy.

Today was another day of doctors’ appointments and tests, this an out-patient biopsy that confirmed what doctors suspected I was dealing with and emphasized the message that it is curable. So rough ride ahead, but I’ll come out all right, albeit no doubt dramatically changed by the experience.

Meantime my kids, especially Jordan, continue to be amazing support. She was with me at the out-patient surgical facility all morning—would you believe we got home earlier than we expected? Medical matters never work that way! We were both touchy at first, but after all, it was five-thirty in the morning. But we sweetened up as the morning wore along, and she promptly appeared in the recovery room, full of good reports and good cheer. Her siblings are studying how they can best rotate being of help, but the scheduling, which is a mess, all falls on Jordan, with meager help from me.

Benji ready for tea

Benji continues to cement his way into our hearts. The other day, Renee came by, and Benji jumped into the chair next to her, looking for all the world like he too would like to have afternoon tea. “And two lumps of sugar, please.” Moments later I caught what I thought was an aristocratic look—turns out his attention was fixed on a fly on the ceiling. He is in and out of the flexible screen all day long, which means he inevitably brings some insects in with him. But he is also sensitive—he knows something is wrong and sticks close to me when inside, following me to the bathroom, sleeping by my desk while I work, settling by my bed when I sleep—though he doesn’t stay there long and prefers his crate. It’s amazing to me to have a dog who only has to be told once, “Go to your crate for a treat,” and he does. No attempt to bolt outside for one last bark at the moon. He was just now growling at something in the oh-so-dark back yard, and I pay attention, 

Focusing on a fly

Me? Wouldn’t you know I have a desk full of work—guest blogs to write about Irene and her ghost kitchen, a revision of my brother’s obituary to reflect his importance in osteopathic medicine (if you knew him, you’ll understand that and his “magic hands,”) and yes, Irene is tapping me on the shoulder telling me she doesn’t think her story is over. And then there’s that book about dogs. I welcome all this these days even if it does make me feel harried and hurried.

And politics to keep up with: my current indignation is about the amount of corruption all around us. As a friend said recently, it is incomprehensible that a justice on the Supreme Court flew a flag of rebellion and wasn’t run out of town on a rail. Made me think of the days when they tarred and feathered people for far less serious transgressions. And then there’s Judge Cannon in Florida, so obviously unqualified and biased that it leaves one breathless. And those are just the big names, supported by an unbelievable web of evil. Some days I just want to weep for my country.

That aside, I am working hard to make my days cheerful.

 

Monday all day long

 

A thoroughly unremarkable day, even with the presence of Colin. He worked remotely all day from the dining table in the main house, appearing only when he let Cricket out briefly. He even ate the sandwich—an Anthony?—that he brought in the grocery store while sitting at his computer. I have no idea what an Anthony sandwich is and can’t remember what he said, except that he thought they were only available in Houston. Turns out he bought two—so much for leftovers, including the salmon patty I saved for him.

And more leftovers—for some reason we had an unusual amount of leftover carnitas meat last night. We’d had a little problem with it for which I take half the blame—it just didn’t look like enough water, so I added a bit more than called for. And I should have started it earlier because it takes a long time for two cups of water or more to evaporate. That’s my part of the blame—the other goes to Jordan and Christian who tried to hurry it up by raising the heat, which brought the water to a boil. So the meat began to stick. It was tender and the flavor was great, but it didn’t have that crisp crust we all like. Lesson learned: next time I will start it earlier and not add water.

Tonight I simply put the leftover meat in a skillet with some olive oil and browned it to get the crust. So if it was good last night, it was better tonight. And I put out all the trimmings—grated Monterrey Jack, chopped red onion, chopped cilantro, guac, sour cream—a veritable feat. And then I ate too much!

The day was considerably brightened by Phil and Subie who came by to visit with Colin. We had a lively, delightful happy hour. Now, Colin is back at his computer, Jacob is at the driving range, and I am getting sleepy.

One other bright note, I guess, is the firing of Tucker Carlson by Fox News. But I view that as a blessing that might backfire. Carlson will only find another platform, probably sooner rather than later, and continue to spread his evil. The comeuppance is nice but won’t last. When Jacob came in for supper tonight, he was laughing about having heard someone say Carlson would make a great candidate for vice president. Heaven help us all. It was amazing how quickly his “parting of the ways” dominated all news sources. Which only makes me think it’s a bad indicator of where we are that someone of his ilk can command so much news space.

Which also reminds me that today when I replied to a friend’s comment online that I can’t understand why some Democrats are wishy-washy in their support of President Biden, the friend replied, “Lazy news media.” I hope that’s the answer, because I think he’s done great things and his policies are making America better. I know some are afraid of his age, but that offends me. I am eight years older than Biden, and I hope no one is betting that I’ll die in the next four years. I might, but so might any of us. Have a little faith, folks. I am pleased that the Democratic Governors Associaton has declared their wholehearted support for the president.

Yawn. On that note, I’m going to bed. Yes, it was Monday all day long.

A sociable day—and a mind-boggling one

 

A gorgeous salmon filet ready for the oven.

My resolve to focus on the Helen Corbitt project went all to hell today. The day began with a brief trip to a medical laboratory for instructions on a test. Then home to make tuna salad for a lunch guest. I had jammed in some work before the 9:15 appointment, including checking corrections on the last pass of Finding Irene proofs. Home again, with an hour between the tuna salad and arrival of good friend Melinda for lunch, I wrote exactly one paragraph and then did odds and ends.

Melinda was as anxious as I was to watch the January 6 committee special hearing, so while we munched on tuna, we stared at the TV screen. So much for catching up with a friend I haven’t seen for six months. But we were both mesmerized, and she more reactive than I. When something extraordinary would come out, Melinda pumped her fist in the air and yelled, “Yes.” At one point, when it was revealed that trump wanted the magnetometers removed even though they were detecting scary arms among the protestors, Melinda said, “He’s toast.” I hope she’s right.

I did find the proceedings riveting and Cassy Hutchinson one of the most admirable young persons I’ve seen in many a year. I applaud her bravery, even in the face of death threats. And I am, like many Americans, appalled at the things that came out—like the former guy throwing a plate of food against the wall or attempting to strangle a security aide who wouldn’t follow his wishes. There’s been some fallout, but I am anxiously awaiting various news analyses to, I hope, confirm my reaction to today’s explosive revelations.

While watching the hearing, I was also trying to watch the memorial service for Bob Lyon, father of my friend Sue Springfield. Bob was a Canadian law enforcement officer, serving with the Provincial Police for over thirty-four years. He was also a genial man who enjoyed a glass of wine and loved to tell a good story. I thoroughly enjoyed his annual visits stateside, and I will miss knowing he is not among us.

Somehow, I snuck in a nap in mid-afternoon and then was up and ready when our regular Tuesday night happy hour neighbors arrived at five o’clock. Talk ranged from what children were doing to real estate and preparations for moving out of an older home, long loved. Then about six, my niece Jennifer arrived.

I haven’t seen Jenn, I don’t think, in over a year. She is a busy single mother of two daughters, fifteen and twelve—not quite driving and requiring a lot of chauffeuring for their various activities. We had a lovely visit—caught up on her, the girls, her dad (my brother), her stepmom—just sharing old times. I’m hopeful that this is the beginning of a renewed relationship. I have told her all along that I wanted her girls to know me, but her busy schedule didn’t allow for much leeway.

We had salmon for dinner—not unusual in this house. But the way I cooked it was different. Slow roasted, which I never thought of. I rubbed a 1.5 lb. filet with olive oil on the surface, skin side down, and then seasoned it with salt and pepper, minced parsley, and assorted herbs from my garden. Cooked it at 250 for twenty-five minutes. Perfectly cooked. No need for lemon or anything else. It was delicious. Christian made asparagus with Parmesan and smashed wee potatoes—and I do mean wee--to go with it. A good dinner. I hope Jenn didn’t get the idea that we eat that way every night.

Now it’s nine o’clock—not late, but later than I want to do any extensive writing or research, so I will probably read and prepare for what I hope will be a heavy workday tomorrow. Even without rain these cooler days have been a blessing. May they continue, although the weatherman tells us they will not.

Christian tells me everything in the garden is in survival mode because of the heat and the drought. I believe it because I too am in survival mode. Because of weather, the January 6 committee revelations, the ongoing outrageous decisions spewing out of SCOTUS. Some days, it’s hard to keep the faith, but I am trying. You try too, please.

 

 

A nostalgia-filled day

 

Jacob on the left, and his buddies at the pool

Jacob Burton will be sixteen on Monday—yes, driver’s license and all that goes with that significant birthday. Today was his “party,”—swimming at the neighbor’s pool, with three of his buddies and a very few of Jordan and Christian’s friends who have been close to him as he grew. Christian grilled hamburgers—and sent one home to me—and I gather they all had a good time. One of Jordan’s friends presented Jacob with a clever gift—a picture frame into which she inserted her own material. The heading was something like, “In case of ….” And then there were a variety of suggestions of troubles each accompanied by a couple of twenties. At the bottom it said “Break glass.” The giver, a girl I’m fond of, requested a picture of Jacob and me with the plaque or whatever you would call it.

I was not invited to the pool party. I’m quite sure that is because I would not have gone—can’t get into a pool anymore, never liked lying out in the sun (why do they all say laying out—so wrong!). So while they were swimming, I had a long visit with Carole Tayman, Bill Sheridan, and my goddaughter Kate. My Tex-Mex casserole was a hit, but it wasn’t enough to lure them to retirement in Fort Worth. Carole said if the weather was not so beastly hot this week, they probably would have considered it. My protests that this is unusual fell on deaf ears. They are not coming to Fort Worth, even though one of Carole’s friends this week urged her by saying, “We need your vote.”

And yes, we talked politics. We have all long since been on the same page. Back when they lived here, Roe v. Wade was also under attack, and Carole was a big proponent of the single-issue vote. Even though we agreed today, we brought different viewpoints and bits of knowledge to the table, so it was an interesting discussion.

And Carole had a long list of people she remembered from the eighties and nineties—she wanted to know what happened to them. As I retold the stories, we all realized how many people from those days are gone now. I shed a few tears and laughed a lot. She told a funny story about my Jamie, in high school, staging the house so his friends would be impressed. And it turns out thanks to Kate they had discovered a wonderful, off-the-beaten-track taco restaurant they visited twice. None other than Jamie’s longtime favorite, Ernesto’s.

It was a good visit. Was it yesterday in the blog that I quoted someone who said one of the dangers of retirement is feeling like you don’t matter? These are people who make me feel that I matter—and they mean a great deal to me.

After they left to go to the final session of the competition, I tidied the kitchen—I’m a speed master at that—and worked for a couple of hours, then a long, satisfying nap. And for supper tonight, the cheeseburgers from Jacob’s party You can see it flung on my desk in a baggie in the picture with Jacob. When I said, “I guess it comes with no trimmings,” Jacob laughed. I “trimmed” it with lettuce, tomato, and mayonnaise, and left it on the cutting board for just a minute. Turned just in time to see Sophie reach for it and miss. I scolded long and hard, and she’s been sort of hangdog ever since. But I was really looking forward to that burger and would have been sorely disappointed if she got it. It was really good.

Finished a project tonight, so I’m feeling a bit smug. May read the rest of the evening.

Happy Father’s Day to all the dads, single dads, adopted dads, almost-dads, next-door dads, wherever you are!

Family fun, work and play

 

The Frisco Alters at Santa Monice Pier.

A mixed bag today. The Frisco Alters are in LA, settling Eden into her first year at UCLA. All pictures indicate they are having a wonderful time visiting Santa Monica Pier, Catalina Island, Hollywood studios, etc. This will be the first empty-nest year for Jamie and Mel, with Eden in LA and Maddie in Colorado pursuing her plan to add a nursing degree to her brand new, shiny bachelor’s, so I’m doubly glad they can have this time together.

Jacob is in the very middle.

Meanwhile, Jacob was playing in the second day of the Bart Granger Memorial Golf Tournament. Thirty-six holes yesterday and eighteen today. He shot 78 and 79 yesterday, though I didn’t hear today’s score. And, no surprise, he came home exhausted. His mom was pretty tired too, having gotten him to the course at 6:15 yesterday and 7:15 today. 

While they were all playing, it turned out to be a workday for me. A marketing webinar sponsored by the Buckeye Crime Writers kind of attracted me, but webinars don’t always hold my attention (may be my problem and not the presenter’s). Anyway, I tuned in sort of idly, and—wow! I learned so much that I was definitely in information overload. I usually find later that the hour and a half of information boils down to two or three useful things that I take away for keeps. And so it was today. The presenter was a real go-getter, a former publicist who makes her living teaching authors how to market their books. Her website is filled with helpful information and forms—the latter for sale, of course. But she was engaging and interesting.

The session was obviously geared to authors who are traditionally published and are building their careers. Neither of those things apply to me. While I’m still, I hope, writing strongly, I realize I’m at the tag end of my career. Some days I wonder how many more books I have in me. But it made me a little sad—one of the first times I came even close to regretting my age, because I wished I had known all this twenty or thirty years ago. Then, slap! I had to tell myself twenty or thirty years ago social media was unheard of, independent publishing was frowned upon, and the publishing landscape was totally different. So, I guess what I do is take advantage of what I can and not worry about the rest. So now I belong to a new Facebook group (more time spent) and get a weekly bulletin (do I really need that?), and I know that some things, like an Amazon imprint, are beyond me as an unagented author. But I have some useful tips—like boldly ask readers for reviews and make it easy for them by giving them a link and a template. And what I’ve always suspected is confirmed—Amazon is where the action is. Comforting that I am already doing some of what she suggests. My scorecard isn’t too bad.

Tonight, was the annual dinner for my Berkeley Place Association. Over a hundred neighbors wandered and visited and then dined at tables in Joe and Mary Dulle’s spacious backyard. There was an occasional breeze, and toward the end of the evening, a bright moon. Tables were tastefully decorated—who needs much in that setting?—and dinner was good Mexican food from local restaurant Enchiladas Olé. Because I can’t move around freely and schmooze, I didn’t meet that many new people but some. Several good friends came and visited with me at the table where the Burtons parked me. And because I edit the neighborhood newsletter, people I know by email but don’t recognize in person came by to say hello. I was glad to put faces to names. Music was skewed toward folk songs—“Blowin’ the wind”—and I liked the selections, but it was so loud I couldn’t hear conversations—always a problem. All in all, a lovely evening.

Me with host Mary Dulle

And an amazing day. I’m sleepy. Sweet dreams, everyone.

The inevitability of birthdays

 

Birthday happy hour at the cottage
left to right, me, Pru, Victor, and Jordan
Photo by Mary Dulle
I thought I was off-camera, hence no big smile.

You know that old quip about growing older being better than the alternative? That’s kind of how I feel tonight. Friends and family seem determined to mark that I am about to begin yet another journey around the sun, and I am having a long, drawn-out birthday. A pre-celebration weekend at the lake was followed by a neighbors’ happy hour tonight where I was feted (love that word!) with a bountiful charcuterie, plenty of wine, crème brulee, and lots of good discussion. “The girls” as we call them turned our regular happy hour into a truly festive occasion—and Pru’s husband, Victor, joined us so we weren’t all gossipy girls.

This happy hour has a history. Several years ago—I’d say six, seven or eight—Mary Dulle and I used to go on Tuesday night to join several neighbors at the Old Neighborhood Grill. Mary’s husband played—and still does—tennis on Tuesdays. When Jacob was quite young, he joined us, and I have funny stories from those times: like the time I asked if he wanted fries with his grilled cheese and he said yes. But later when I asked if he was going to eat them, he said, “No, they’re bad for you.” Pause. “May I have a cupcake?” He was quite the hit of the table.

There was a regular group—the Alan Barrs, the Paul Harrals, Lyn Willis, and sometimes others drifted by. Of course, at the Grill, you always saw other neighbors you knew, and I was pleased that Tuesday was always meatloaf night. The staff knew and welcomed us, and we all visited. One big neighborhood family.

Somehow it fell apart—I’m not sure of the chronology. With severe hip pain, pre-surgery, it was increasingly difficult for me to get out; Peter sold the Grill; Jacob grew up. Mary and I fell into the habit of having happy hour at my cottage, either inside or, depending on the weather, on the patio. Two or three years ago (who keeps track of these things?), Prudence and her family moved down the block from Mary. There was some unpleasant controversy over a fence, zoning regulations, and flaring tempers. I reached out to Prudence to squelch the unpleasantness and welcome her and her family—four children—to the neighborhood. She came to happy hour one night, and boom! She was a regular. And Jordan began to join us.

Now we are a close-knit group, sharing joys, successes, worries, and more. During pandemic, the others shopped for each other—whoever found Lysol shared it with the group. We celebrate birthdays and other special occasions, but most Tuesday nights we just gather for an hour of talk about whatever. I like it best when we can sit on the patio, and truth be told, it’s cool enough these days, but some of the others are more sensitive—or attractive—to mosquitoes than I am. So tonight, we were indoors.

I am blessed and grateful to have these women as friends who care enough to celebrate with me.

And a good day in other ways: Jacob played in a high school golf tournament today and scored a 77. Pretty darn good for a fifteen-year-old, if you ask me who knows nothing about golf. But even he, who is reluctant to ever say he had a good day on the course, acknowledged it was pretty good and looked pleased when we congratulated him.

And I worked hard this morning and early afternoon, getting my neighborhood newsletter almost done—now waiting on articles and reports from others—and got my Lone Star Literary Life column for August drafted. A lot of detail, intensified by several people who called with last-minute changes or corrections to their contributions. Answering emails kept me busy much of the day. Tomorrow will be a catch-up day as I finish details on the newsletter and edit the column. Plus a bit of cooking.

Life is good, and I am grateful to be growing yet another year older, because, yes, it is much better than the alternative. For the record, the birthday is Thursday, and I will be 83. I am so comforted by Wally Funk who rode Jeff Bezos’ rocket into space today—she’s 82. Of course, she had a lifelong ambition to travel to space, something that is the farthest thing from my mind. Different strokes for different folks.

Tis the season

 

You know how I know? This happens every year. I put my work aside to prepare for Christmas and then find myself, a week or so before Christmas, all ready for the holiday and even more ready to get on with my daily work. This year is no exception. I’d been feeling a bit down—my first time in this long slog of quarantine—and I attributed it to no work on my desk. Then I realized it may well have been the spicy beef on my taco salad from a local Mexican chain over the weekend.

At any rate, today I am feeling brighter—and I have lots of my desk—Christmas cards from cherished friends which I will answer by email because my handwriting has gone too far south for cards and, besides, today Jordan discovered the local post office is sold out of stamps—which may be why the stamps I ordered three weeks ago haven’t arrived yet.

And then there’s a new assignment from the Handbook of Texas: a profile of Electra Waggoner Biggs. I’ve studied Mrs. Biggs—Texas ranch heiress, international celebrity, and sculptor of note—off and on for years and have a forthcoming book (due next fall) on the Waggoner family. So that one should be a fairly easy project, but it will take some time. But now, my entry on Helen Corbitt, doyenne of food at Neiman Marcus, is one of the newer entries in the ongoing online Handbook project.

I’m particularly pleased to have been part of a project titled MysteryLovesGeorgia in which mystery writers pooled their talents to raise money to support the election of Reverend Warnock and Jon Ossoff in the Georgia senatorial runoff. As I mentioned before, I lowballed my prices for what I offered, but I was still pleased that I had takers on a signed copy of Saving Irene, a critique of a thirty-page sample of a manuscript, and the naming of a character in a forthcoming novel. I have sent off the autographed copy and made notes for the named character, but I will have to settle down and study the sample for critique.

And then there’s that ongoing novel, Irene in Danger. Perhaps it’s because I am now committed to naming a character for a reader, but I did move ahead on it today—wrote a thousand words for the first time in a couple of weeks and felt fairly good about them. Feeling really good will depend on tomorrow’s re-reading. I now have a whopping two-and-a half chapters. Long way to go.

Meantime, Jordan and I are making Christmas plans. Most of my Christmas gift-giving this year is either online or by mail, and Jordan mailed off a bunch of things for me today. But still, we’re deep in menu planning. Since we’re having a smoked turkey and not fresh for Christmas, we’re trying to come up with different sides. Today Jordan suggested Paula Deen’s corn casserole but was astounded when she looked at the calorie count—something like 208 per serving. I said, “Hey, it’s Christmas, and we’ll have small servings.” She is counting all the dishes we’ll have with cheese in them. And I’ve ordered something special for Christmas Eve, but it too is rich. We shall roll our way into 2021 and diet thereafter.

Why not? 2020 has been a real bitch of a year, and we can only hope for better in 2021. At least, we can see 2020 out with some really good food. In lieu of sharing the holiday with family, an absence which still makes me sad. Still, I like Jordan’s attitude—when I asked tonight If she missed the excitement of Christmas that she knew as a child, she said thoughtfully, “Well, we all have to grow up. It’s just different. We’ve tried to recreate that excitement for Jacob, and now he’s too big for Santa, so we’ll wait for grandchildren. We just have to make the best of what we have.”

When she turned the tables and asked me what I missed, I confessed I miss the days of shared Hanukkah and Christmas when my four were young and excited. But I am grateful for the love and sharing we have today.

Happy Holidays. Stay safe, healthy, and warm—it is really cold out there tonight. Jordan wanted to have our regular Tuesday neighbors for wine by firelight, but I said I refused to sit out and freeze. Next Tuesday will be in the sixties—we’re looking forward to it.

A better day

No, I did not eat this much

You know the feeling you get from a really productive day? That was mine today, and I rejoice in it. I began by tackling some things that had been niggling in my mind, things I’d chewed on for days with no decision. So today I took definite action. I had a professional favor to ask from a fellow mystery writer, asked, explained, and got a favorable response. I determined to go ahead and keep my dental appointment tomorrow—my impression is that they keep you very safe and isolated, and I want to stop worrying about whether I should go or let my teeth could to rot and ruin—well, it wasn’t quite that bad, but still….

And there was a social gathering that weighed on my mind: I had issued the invitation but then I began to feel uncomfortable about it, and Jordan reinforced my discomfort. So I flat out cancelled it, and everybody understood. Finally, I worried a bit about my fat leg. Jordan looked at it last night after her several days away and pronounced it no less swollen and red in the lower part of the leg. So I emailed the doctor. I have heard nothing but am assuming that no news is good news.

Oh, and I nudged the graphic designer who is doing cover design for Saving Irene, my forthcoming mystery. Watch for a cover reveal in my blog and elsewhere in the next couple of days. I’m excited about it.

I may have mentioned that I’m to teach an online course in creating a fictional chef this fall, for a subdivision of Romance Writers of America. That, too, has been weighing on my mind. I am to have twelve “lectures”—about 600 words each. Today I roughed out the first two lectures—one introducing me, and one presenting the questions I thought a writer needs to ask him/herself before creating this chef. It was a lot of work, but I was pleased with it—except that I had earlier outlined the twelve lectures and today, in two lessons, I used up the first four topics. I may run out of material. Still, pulling all this material together has been fun for me, and it syncs beautifully with my first truly “culinary” mystery, coming in September. So tonight I am feeling productive, proud, and self-righteous.

Of course there’s always a cloud on the horizon. I tried to attend a Zoom meeting of a church book club discussing Grit: The Power of Passion and Perseverance. I have not yet mastered Zoom, but I managed to log in. The group greeted me cordially—but the trouble was I couldn’t see me. They assured me they could. About halfway through I decided to log out and log back in—that worked, and now I could see me, except I was sideways. They all said I was sideways on their screens too, but my friend Renee, who was moderating, said it was okay because it made me distinctive. I’ve got to figure out how to do that.

Got my fried chicken craving satisfied today. My generous and bountiful neighbor, Prudence, emailed that her husband was going to pick up fried chicken from Drew’s Place and what did we want. My good friend Carol and I used to go to Buttons for lunch occasionally, just to have the good, bone-in fried chicken with mashed potatoes and green beans, which were, I’m sure, seasoned with fatback. But then Keith Hix, chef at Buttons, moved on. I blogged about this a few days ago when Christian, Jacob, and I had a pale imitation for dinner one night. When pandemic hit, Carol and I had already made a date to go to Drew’s Place, source of the best fried chicken on this side of Fort Worth. Of course, that had to be cancelled. So I was overjoyed today to munch—down to the bone—on a thigh and eat green beans. I have enough green beans to feed Coxie’s Army or, as I told Pru, her family of six. So generous, so good.

So, yeah, it’s been a good day. I hope yours has been too.

One of those days

The view from Jordan's window

Final pictures from Blanco. Jordan comes home tomorrow, and life will resume its normal pace. Thanks to Christian, who has done a great job of seeing that I have company each day and pretty much tending to supper. Tonight was designated a leftovers night, and I had some in the fridge, but I opted to make tuna salad and have it with cottage cheese—my favorite combination. Maybe it was because Sam Sifton’s New York Times cooking column this morning said this was a week for tuna salad.

It was certainly a salad day for me—one of my favorites for lunch: tomatoes, avocado, hearts of palm, and blue cheese, all doused with straight lemon juice, no oil. So good. If I’d had watercress, I would have added it for a pungent taste.

Otherwise, I’d almost write the day off. I spend most of my days and evenings at my computer—it’s where I work, eat, read, “talk” to friends. And today I wanted to throw the darn thing through a window. I tried to log into an online organization—they had recently completely redone their web site, and I guess there are some bugs not yet worked out. The password I had carefully copied, pasted, and saved wouldn’t work. The webmaster got me by that, and I have a new password—still not a sensible combination of letters and numbers that I can remember. So I cut and pasted again.

Over the weekend, I read voraciously to finish a book for review, and last night I wrote the review, remembering a thousand-word deadline. Today when I got into the site, I read the directions—500 words. I cut mercilessly, really butchered my golden prose—and got it down to 840 words. An unusual problem for me, since I usually write short.

I filled out the form for book review submission, but it would not accept the ISBN (international standard book number)—the form had it spaced a way that the number didn’t fit. Back to the webmaster, though I was sure by this time, she thought I was incurably tech-challenged. Not at all—others had the same problem. So I got around that one too, and the book is officially reviewed. Will be up on the Story Circle Network site tomorrow or the next day.

Then I turned to my entry on Helen Corbitt for the Handbook of Texas and discovered that several of the editor’s questions were beyond me. I ended answering questions with questions, which made me feel totally inadequate. I realized that’s why I write fiction—I’m not a dive-deep researcher, as is my good friend who is editing these entries. More frustration.

I think I’ll spend the rest of the evening with a good, cozy mystery and escape all this worrying. Tomorrow, back to editing on my own cozy mystery. So glad and grateful that I have meaningful work to do in retirement. Makes me a happy camper and, I hope, keeps my brain active and me young.

This morning, after that lovely six o’clock rain, weather people forecast wild storms today. Nothing. By tonight, when Jean came by for a glass of wine, she reported that there was no rain in the foreseeable future—but suddenly, the sky has that funny cast to it. I wouldn’t be surprised if we have a storm headed our way. Stay safe, everyone.

Shopping on the square in Blanco

Jordan says they only got ice and soft drinks

No browsing in t he stores

and they are nicely masked. Good girls.

A semi-cooking weekend and some—uh—problems

I didn’t cook as much as usual this past weekend, mostly because I was invited to Saturday supper with a longtime friend and her companion. Another friend and I joined them at his apartment, and while Morris gave Jean the grand tour of his art collection—and it is amazing! Gallery hung, even in the bathrooms!—Kathie and I had an overdue visit. I enjoyed the art from an easy chair in the living area of his small but spectacular apartment. Kathie fixed us one of the gourmet meals I’ve come to expect from her—ending with a made-from-scratch pound cake with real whipped cream (I was so impressed by that!) and berries. Lovely evening, and I think both Kathie and I agreed that we need to get together more often. She and Morris travel a lot, and she keeps a packed schedule when in town. But I told her I have a special recipe with her name on it, so I’m hoping we can fit in another visit soon.

Jordan was in Frisco Saturday night and much of Sunday to visit with her brother, Jamie, and her half-sister, Dylan, who was in from California. But Sunday morning, Christian, Jacob, and I went to church. Jordan was home mid-afternoon, and I fixed us Sunday supper—baked salmon and smashed potatoes. They’ll show up on the Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog on Thursday, but I will say in advance they were really good.

And so here we are at Monday. It was supposed to be 80 today, and I guess it was, but it was not bright and sunny, so I still felt a chill. Shh—a neighbor whose name I shall never reveal came for happy hour. She was supposed to be home cooking dinner for her family. We sat on my patio and had a high old time discussing recipes we’ve tried. My kind of conversation. I am amazed at the conversational settings where I have nothing to contribute—Saturday night’s discussion of people in the Pentecostal religion—and I sit like a lump. But tonight, talking about cooking, I could hardly wait to get my two cents in, politely of course.

I finally excused myself to cook supper. Chicken thighs with red onion and artichoke hearts, braised in white wine. Made the cottage smell wonderful and tasted just as good. The recipe called for a cup and a half of wine, but Jordan and I hated to part with that much of the chardonnay that is our house wine. She had a pinot grigio that she said was awful---for one thing, it had bubbles like Prosecco. So I ignored that dictum that says never cook with a wine you won’t drink and used it. Result was good. Artichoke hearts and red onion slices soaked in white wine are wonderful. It’s a New York Times recipe, if you’re a subscriber.

There was a dark side to my weekend—a plumbing problem. I didn’t quite want to put that in the headline to this blog. How do you combine cooking and plumbing problems—that’s an instant yuck! But on Saturday my commode stopped up for no apparent reason. Christian plunged, waited, plunged again. It got better, but clearly there was a problem. I found I could use it with discretion, but by today it was obvious I needed my favorite plumber. The dispatcher said he might could squeeze me in this afternoon in Keith’s schedule. I had no hope, but Keith, bless him, came by on his way home, thinking he could knock it out quickly.

It was not to be—there is something stalled deep in the pipes. At his advice, I called a roto-rooter company, who said they would schedule it between seven and eleven tonight. I was not looking forward to a night-time vigil and the exorbitant after-hours costs. When the commode showed signs of being amenable to careful use, I reschedule for tomorrow.

Pray for me tonight that I don’t have a plumbing emergency. Jordan offered, jokingly, to get down the potty chair I had just after hip surgery. No thanks.

Otherwise, today was a good day—I edited my speech for the book club of the Arlington Women’s Club and wrote a column for Lone Star Literary Life. Lots of projects on my desk for the week ahead, and that makes me happy. Jacob tonight teased his father by saying he had the day off but still went to work. I told Jacob I understand that completely. Work makes me happy and, I hope, keeps me young.

All work and no play….

That’s me this week—a dull girl due to all work and, mostly, no play. I’ve been working on my work-in-progress and finding it slow and painful, like pulling teeth. But each day I add a few hundred words, though rarely the thousand words a day with which I often sail through manuscripts. It’s fun, even though painful, and I find each day when I quit, I know where I must go the next day. So I plug on.

And a new project came my way yesterday. An author on one of the lists I follow asked for an author who was a chef. Taking my courage in hand, I wrote that I was a wannabe chef with some cookbooks to my credit. We talked. It seems she wanted someone to develop a month-long online course—12 lectures with in-between q&a sessions—on creating a fictional chef. I did a little background study before I talked with her, so by the phone conversation I had some ideas to present. We decided on a deal. It’s easy to commit to something that is fifteen months away—yep, October 2020.

My first thought about that date was what an election frenzy we’ll be in by then. But my second thought was that gives me a lot of time to work up those lectures. I will be away from home for a few days this summer at least once, maybe twice—trips on which I can take my computer but not all the research books I need for the work-in-progress. So maybe I can work on those lectures, where all the material is online—or in my head.

My isolation has been broken two evenings in a row by welcome happy hour visits from neighbors—good talk, a bit of gossip, a pleasant time. I have made a batch of creamy jalapeno/cilantro dressing—I think it will be the Gourmet on a Hot Plate column this week—so I’ve been serving that with the wonderful potato chips we get from Trader Joe’s. It is so good but so addictive—I think because of the salts in the ranch dressing packet which goes into it. Like eating Buffalo Chips at Hoffbrau—you can’t stop and then you wish you had. Tonight, Mary and I deliberately put the dip out of reach after having more than we should. I surprised myself by eating a large salad and then deciding I also need a piece of meatloaf.

Running errands today also broke up my isolation. I went to the gas station where they told me if I parked by a pump, with my handicap sticker hanging from the rear-view mirror, they would come out and pump my gas. So I did that—and no one came. Finally I drove around to the mechanic’s bay where I could inquire and was told that the trick was to honk—which would have seemed rude to me. But I did and it worked—and they fell all over themselves saying they would get used to me, would recognize my car, for me to please be patient. Then on to the cleaners, where I get cheerful curbside service, and to the Speech and Hearing Clinic at TCU where someone comes out to make sure I get in safely. Got a new battery for one aid which was acting iffy, but some minor repair and cleaning made the old battery take on new life. Nice to hear with both ears.

Jordan is due home tonight from five days with friends in Key Largo. I am perfectly self-sufficient, but I do miss her when she’s gone.

The Gift of a Day

This is last night’s blog but perhaps you’ll understand why I didn’t get it written. Jamie, my third child and second son, called about 8:30 yesterday morning from downtown Fort Worth. I knew there was a possibility he’d come from Frisco for supper that night, but I didn’t expect him so early. I scrambled to get dressed and cancel a morning appointment, because downtown is only ten or fifteen minutes from the house. Jamie can take longer to get from point A to point B than anyone I know—it was a good 30 minutes, because he stopped to make a business call.

But there he was! We went to Ol’ South for breakfast--he loves the German pancake, and when I was first recuperating from surgery, we shared many breakfasts there. I think he was a bit disappointed that I ordered a blueberry waffle instead of the corned beef has which has long been a part of our tradition. But I’ve noticed my tastes changing lately. I never had a sweet tooth, except for chocolate, but lately I want more sweet things, especially at breakfast.

Jamie brought his laptop and his guitar—and barely left his dog at home. He was all set for the day, and his business lunch never materialized, so we spent the day in the cottage. There is going to sound awfully “mother-ly,” but it’s a joy for me to see him hunched over the coffee table, buried in papers, working (he owns a toy manufacturer’s representatives’ company). I sat at my computer working, though I admit I was so glad to have him around I never fully focused on my work.

In the late afternoon, Jordan came out, and we shared wine while Jamie demonstrated his new guitar—a Taylor, as if I knew the significance of that, but he was proud of it—and showed us the improvement in his playing. Then Jacob came out, and they were off discussing fishing. I had to get quite firm to get us out the door for supper, because we were meeting Jean, and I didn’t want to leave her sitting alone in a restaurant. Sushi and good conversation for supper. I was glad Jean got a chance to know Jamie because Lord knows she and other friends listen to me blather on about my children often enough.

Jamie got caught up in his work again when we came back to the cottage, and I had to gently remind him it was eight o’clock…eight-thirty. Finally, he was out the door about nine, happily carrying the Black Forest cake and coconut chiffon pie he’d bought at Swiss Pastry, the pie a special gift for his wife.

My intention, writing this blog, was not to chronicle every minute of the day, which I somehow ended up doing, but to say what a wonderful gift Jamie gave me—a day of his time. I have read elsewhere that when looking for gifts for an older person (I will not call myself elderly, though my kids do!) who has everything they need, you should consider a gift of yourself—the time for a cup of coffee, a visit, a meal.

From a motherly perspective, there’s another point. I have four children, and I treasure all of them equally (in spite of their squabbles about who I love best), but any chance to have time alone with one of them is a gift. We talk about our lives, our hopes and plans, in ways that we don’t on those joyous occasions when we’re all together.

Yes, yesterday was a gift. Thank you, Jamie.

Adjusting to standard time

Don’t count me as among those grateful for another hour of sleep. Even as a teenager, I never could sleep late. Nine o’clock was a record for me, and when I had teenage kids of my own I was astounded that they could and did sleep till noon. These days I never set an alarm clock, but I’m almost always up by eight.

Last night Megan spent the night on the couch—her boys were all in the house. She pulls every blind on every window and turns out all lights. The result is that the cottage is a dark cave, even when the sun comes up. I was acutely aware of not wanting to disturb her, so I managed to doze until 7:45 the new time. But then I’d had it. I crept around, making a cup of tea as quietly as I could and turning on my computer. Finally, one of her boys came out to ask something and woke her. Then the world started to turn as it should.

We had biscuits and sausage gravy for brunch—delicious, though Jacob passed on the gravy and wanted honey. His two cousins thought he was crazy. Then everyone sat and talked for a while, and the Hudgeons family was off to Austin by eleven. At one point, Jordan said, “It’s only ten o’clock. I’m loving this.”

I came back to the cottage and worked a bit, but I was off my stride, and my body had definitely not adjusted. At one o’clock—which would have been two o’clock, I was unbearably sleepy. Napped, but that meant I got up with a long afternoon ahead of me. Somehow, lying there, I scolded myself for being lazy and unmotivated, so boy have I gotten a lot done.

Hung up several days accumulation of clothes, tried on some shoes I ordered and discovered as I suspected they were narrow, not the extra wide my feet have demanded since surgery (sob, the days of thin feet and trim ankles are forever gone). Took me the better part of an hour to arrange the exchange, print out the label, and package up the shoes for return. Washed dishes. Talked to the son of an old friend about a complicated family matter for a long time. And wrote my requisite thousand words for the day. I’m beginning to feel my way slowly with a new novel—very slowly.

The world goes on its shaky way—the shooting in Texas has everyone horrified, and I’m with those who are tired of prayers and hugs. We need action, but most of all we need to overcome the divisions in our nation, the sanction that’s been given to hate and anger. Who knows what makes people snap, but who can doubt that the uncertainty of our world contributes.

I was scolding one of my grandsons for talking about hating someone, and Brandon popped up with, “I hate Donald Trump, and I’m enjoying it.” I said that was like drinking a cup of poison and expecting Trump to die, but he denied it. Said his insides were not in a turmoil—he was just enjoying the hate. I doubt that’s a fair assessment. My brother said tonight a friend had said, “Oh, woe is me. I just found out one of my sons is a liberal.” When I asked how anyone could be anything else these days, he cut the conversation off. My sneaking suspicion is he won’t talk about Trump and Republicans because he knows how cruel and wrong they are.

A typical retirement day NOT

Retirement is so boring—at least that’s what I feared, though everyone said I’d be so busy I wouldn’t know what to do. Boy, were they right. Today was a whirlwind.

Doctor’s appointment mid-morning. I went on my walker which in itself is a big accomplishment. He praised my progress, relieved my worries about the hip buckling and a couple of other minor things and decreed I was doing so well he doesn’t need to see me for three months.

Home to fix lunch. Elizabeth, who lived in my garage apartment for a year, was coming. The world calls her Beth but I stubbornly call her Elizabeth because 20-some years ago, as a work-study student in my office, that’s how she introduced herself. She moved in several years ago for three weeks and it stretched into a year—we had a wonderful time. At one point she looked at me and asked, “What if I never again have this much fun in my life?” But she went off to be with the love of her life in Pennsylvania—yuck, snow and cold—and is perfectly happy but we look forward to visits on her trips to see her family and teach some yoga classes.

Today we had salad plates—I remember the things she likes—tuna salad, ham salad, cucumber slices, avocado slices, cherry tomatoes and tiny dill pickles plus Frango mints for dessert. So good! And such a good visit. I’m delighted to hear that her life is going so well. Jordan took her through the house which, in her day, had been my house, and they had a good visit.

By the time I did dishes, my nap was calling. Slept soundly with weird dreams. Then at 5:00 a TCU colleague came by—she’s dean of the library, and I had sent one of my books there. It’s still in transit but when we talked about it she said she’d come by, and she was full of praise for my new living quarters—inside and out. It was good to hear news of the library and the ever-changing academic scene, plus TCU Press which falls under her umbrella. We had wine and snacks on the patio—lovely tonight, though it’s supposed to rain tomorrow.

Rain is okay. I have lots of work on my desk to keep me busy. And it’s been another good day.

From drought to floods—overnight

I was mesmerized this morning, watching the eleven o’clock news report—pictures of flooded streets, reports of closed highways. It rained much of yesterday afternoon but overnight a gentle rain turned into downpours which continued all day. Newscasters advised people not to drive unless they had to and particularly not to head south out of the Metroplex.

Just as Jacob headed for school, a horrendous clap of thunder hit right over my house. Impressive thunder continued off and on throughout the morning. Sophie usually is not bothered by storms, but this morning she needed frequent reassurance that she was safe. She spent much of the morning at my feet in the “safe spot” under my desk. It made me think of my Aussie, Scooby, who was terrified of storms and hid there often, raking my legs with his nails in his fright. I wondered if it rains and thunders on the Rainbow Bridge—probably not.

So where was my Fort Worth family headed during all this? Waco. Straight into the worst of it. They were going for the Baylor homecoming, and I knew it was useless to try to dissuade them. I didn’t even try. Just said a prayer for them, fed them lunch, and sent them on their way. This afternoon, after a late nap, I woke up to a message that they had arrived safely, and pictures on Facebook testified that they were enjoying the activities.

It all sounds like a miserable experience to me, but I am neither a Baylor fan nor a football fan. I am mildly interested in TCU football, but I wouldn’t go to a game in the rain. It’s supposed to rain all day tomorrow too. Thank you, monster storm Patricia. We wanted rain, but not like this. I worry about the people in Mexico, many of whom are ill prepared to deal with the worst hurricane in history…and the people in Puerto Vallarta, who thought they were going on a carefree vacation.

Meantime I spent the day playing the recluse—mostly at my desk. Sent off a guest blog, made great progress on formatting Desperate for Death for publication, sending in an insurance request. Periodically it pours and then all is quiet. Kind of spooky.

I’ve enjoyed allowing myself time to read mysteries this week. Just finished A Dish Best Served Cold: An Italian Kitchen Mystery, by Rosie Genova. Recommend it highly. Looking forward to starting a new book tonight—quite a selection on my iPad and choosing will be hard.

Y’all stay safe and dry. Don’t go out if you don’t have to.

 

Ho-hum--and a new veggie dish

Another day of being shut in. Since last Sunday (maybe Saturday) I have been out of the house twice. This is getting old. Tonight my solitude was nicely broken by my Canadian daughter and her partner who came for wine and then went on to a party. Made me feel almost social. They reported driving is easy but walking is treacherous. I'm glad I stayed home.
I discover that if I sit at my desk too long, either writing, checking email, etc., or reading, I develop a sort of inertia. So this afternoon I folded the laundry I'd left in the dryer a shamefully long time, made the first layer of a casserole for tomorrow, and made myself a new dish for supper--pea mash.
I asked my Canadian daughter if she'd ever had pea mash, thinking it sounded British. She said it sounded like bangers and mash (which I love) but no she'd never had it.
I sautéed some defrosted sweet peas in olive oil and mashed them with a fork. Lesson learned: they don't mash with an old-fashioned potato masher. The peas just roll around between the tines of the masher. I seasoned them with a bit of garlic, lemon juice, salt and pepper (got a little heavy on the pepper, which is often a failing of mine), and added a chopped scallion. Really good. I'll do that again. Good thing because I have two full bags of peas in the freezer.
Not a bad day--200 emails, 1000+ words written, some reading, couldn't nap. Tomorrow it's supposed to be fifty, so the great thaw will come. By Tuesday, in the seventies but thunderstorms. I think I'll sing and dance in the rain.

My kind of day

Yesterday I was in a funk. I started the day with a teeth cleaning, which took a good chunk of my working time out of the morning. Then thing after thing piled on my desk--who knew I'd agreed to judge a contest? Why did people send me pdfs for the newsletter when I can't work with them (probably my basic program plus lack of computer expertise)? When am I going to read that book for my class? Homework with Jacob seemed interminable, and I had to firmly convince him that I had not made the deal he said I did--yes, he alphabetized those words. Even a belated birthday dinner at LaMadeleine with Jordan and Jacob didn't cheer me much, though it was good and fun (Jordan's great car wreck happened on my actual birthday). At the end of the day, knowing I'd written over 2000 words, I was still in a funk.  This morning Elizabeth offered an opinion that hit home: she said every time I go to the dentist, I'm in a funk for the entire day. Hope she hasn't jinxed me for future dental appointments. I really like the hygienist.
Today was much more to my liking--I had no obligations until I got Jacob at three. I wrote 1700 words, worked on the upcoming issue of the newsletter, did my yoga, and did a bit of reading on The Virginian for my class--it's been years since I've read it. Jacob's homework went smoothly, and the world seems in its place.
Sophie likes this kind of a day too, because she's inside with me, except for occasional trips to the back yard. This afternoon, she cuddled with Jacob while he sat in a big, comfy chair and played on the iPad for a few minutes. That dog is so spoiled--she doesn't realize what the world is like for many dogs. I think, though, she senses Elizabeth is leaving us because when we meet for wine at night, Sophie sits and stares into Elizabeth's face. "I'm so cute, how can you leave me?"
I've noticed a new pattern in my life: I like to eat lunch at home and have supper with friends because I get so much more desk work done that way. Tonight was dinner with Betty at the Blu Crab Café. We split Chilean Sea Bass with Potatoes Dauphinois, a stacked dish with some kind of tomato relish and microgreens on it. Good but rich--I couldn't have eaten the whole thing.
To top my day off, I got a birthday present from my brother and his wife today--there must be something about the full moon that calls out belated birthday celebrations. It was a package from Amazon and when I saw a gorgeous, oversize cookbook called Charcuterie my first reaction was, "I didn't order this but it sure would make a great present for John." Then I saw the note that it was from John and Cindy.
Later tonight I'll finish the day off with a glass of wine on the deck, while Elizabeth and I catch up on our days. Life is good.