A memorable day in many ways

 

A trio of back patio pictures.

As Jordan and I drove out of the driveway early this morning, I was pleased to see the American flag flying at the curb of many homes. People on our street remember—as if we could forget this day. (The flags are a subscription service provided on patriotic holidays by our South Side Rotary—I have been a subscriber for years.) The internet is full of memories and images and lots of “Where were you when you first heard?” or “How did you spend the day?” We each have our memories.

This year, because of the withdrawal of our troops from Afghanistan, this day of memory is even more poignant than usual. It has led many to speculate on why we were at war in that country for twenty years. Should we have withdrawn once Osama Bin Laden was dead? Some called it the endless war. We apparently made life easier for the Afghan people, especially the women who were heavily oppressed, but when the time for the Afghan military and government to take over came, they buckled, as though the manpower, equipment, and time put in had been for naught. Not to mention the American lives lost nor, in greater numbers, the loss of Afghan life which was astronomical. Instead of uniting us, as the original terrorism act did, this newest direction has led to further division. Sadly, like the pandemic, the withdrawal has divided us into liberals and conservatives. It is not, to my mind, a way to honor those who died. Instead of calm discussion, we have reduced ourselves to shouting and anger and blame.

Still it was a moving day. I lost myself first in the special digital edition the Fort Worth Star-Telegram issued, featuring survivors’ stories, along with features about Muslim citizens and their treatment since, and children not yet born who lost parents in the devastation. It was I thought a particularly well-done tribute. And then on the internet, I ran across a video with graphic images flashed across the screen while “The Sound of Silence” played. I was mesmerized and you may be too. It’s on YouTube somewhere if you know how to find those things.

Jordan and I went to Calloway’s for fall plants—each of us had a list She wanted to brighten up the back yard (I think in preparation for her sister’s mid-day arrival) and I wanted additional herbs for my garden. I worried of course—would we walk farther than I was comfortable with? Would I be left in the car while she shopped, a situation that makes me uneasy. None of that happened, and we had a happy good time picking out plants. I do have to say Calloway’s is not an inexpensive place to shop—but it’s convenient, and it was easily accessible for me. When I got winded, I sat in my walker, and a couple of times she said, “Feet up!” and whisked me through the aisles. As my concern diminished, my walking strength improved. We had fun.

Once home, I became a armchair expert while Jordan planted and I suggested what plant should go in what pot. She blew the leaves off the patio and the yard really does look pretty. The new herbs are still in their containers in the wooden garden—Jordan left them for Megan and me to plant.

Megan arrived from Austin barely in time to give me a quick hug and head out to the TCU football game. The game was pretty much a nail-biter. TCU triumphed in the end—but barely, 34-32. And everybody came back to the house for dinner, where Christian had been marinating steaks and shredding Brussel sprouts. Jordan had made some super Parmesan/green onion potato cakes (wiped out our rather generous supply of Parmesan), and with Megan’s help I fried bacon and we made a wilted lettuce salad, using butter lettuce which for me is a treat and a splurge. When I said to Megan that it was expensive—something like $4 for a small head, she replied, “You pay more than that for a margarita,” and expounded that honey crisp apples are so delicious but three for $12. She tells herself she’d pay more than that for a margarita too. I did not point out that I don’t drink margaritas, but I am wondering about the scales against which she balances things.

dinner with happy people

We had a jolly, happy dinner, joined by David who was in high school with Jordan and has pretty much been family ever since. I don’t see him much these days, so it was a real treat to have him with us. We sat around talking about everything from gossip to anti-vaxxers, and eventually I announced it was time for me and Sophie to go home. When I ask, “Do you want to go home?” she is always so delighted and bolts for the door. Megan walked me out and came in and visited –I cannot tell you how much I treasure those mother/daughter moments.  

So today I’ve had two outstanding mother/daughter times—at the nursery and in the back yard with Jordan and tonight in the cottage with Megan. I am so blessed. Looking forward to tomorrow—Megan will be here all day. We have a date to plant herbs in the morning.

 

A clean sweep

 

My favorite Christmas elf

Nothing like starting out Christmas week all clean and sparkly. We had a cleaning trifecta today—the house and the cottage got a thorough cleaning, Sophie and one of the Cavaliers got baths, and the yard guys cleaned up the leaves. I noticed last week not many leaves had fallen, although the oak trees still had lots of brown leaves on their branches. Then this weekend, all of a sudden, they came swirling down in a torrent. So it was good to get them all blown away (yes, they do bag them and don’t just blow them into the street) and to have the lawn mowed so that some leaves turned into mulch. Tomorrow is supposed to be the nicest day all week, and we will have neighbors for happy hour around the fire pit.

We haven’t had our houses cleaned regularly since pandemic started, in spite of our absolute love for Zenaida Martinez who cleans them. At first during that strict lockdown we were afraid; then Jacob was at home weekdays doing virtual school—hard for Zenaida to clean around him. And she didn’t often have Saturdays free. But today, Jacob had no school, and she was free by late morning, so we juggled and adjusted. Since Jordan keeps me in strict isolation, I can no longer work at my desk while Zenaida cleans, though we both used to much enjoy the visit. Now I am exiled to the house, where I finally wailed, “I want to go home,” echoing Sophie’s perpetual wish to go home. She is always excited to get in the main house but then pretty soon she gets antsy, and if Jordan asks, “Do you want to go home?” she bolts to the back door.

I do my best to keep the cottage clean, but it had been a long time between deep cleanings this time, and it really needed Zenaida’s fine touch. When she was through, we passed like ships in the night, with masked wishes for happy holidays, and I opened my door to a cottage that smelled wonderful, so fresh and clean. The shower, which had temporarily served as a greenhouse, was once again sparkling white; I had fresh linen on my bed, and all the furniture glowed with new polish. Sophie, who adores Zenaida, had been out here while she cleaned and seemed to take pride in showing off our clean quarters.

Sophie’s bath was the final part of our cleanup. We have recently switched to a new grooming service, and none of us can say enough good bout Aussie Westoplex Mobile Groomers. They do an outstanding job. Soph didn’t get a haircut this time, but she came back smelling sweet and her coat all fluffy and soft, her nails trimmed, etc. The groomer, whom I’ve not met and don’t know her name, also bathed June Bug, for whom bathing is a traumatic experience, and managed to tease all the mats out of Cricket’s ears.

Sophie patiently waiting her turn

Sophie was third in line for her turn with the groomer, and Jordan took her in the house a bit early. She seemed to know what was going on and sat patiently staring at the front door, waiting for her turn. Bathing may be traumatic to some dogs, but Soph apparently loves it.

Somehow it seems a good omen to me to start the holiday week so cleaned up, as though we’re all ready and waiting for the arrival of Baby Jesus. May your holidays be merry and bright--and clean! 

Domesticity

Quite a bit of domestic doings today at the Alter/Burton compound. Jordan was at work, so I presided over it all.

Sophie had a spa day, which means she begins barking and dancing the minute the Whisker Washers trailer pulls into the driveway. Then she has to wait patiently while Bobo hooks the trailer to the water and gets it ready for her. She’s been scratching badly lately—especially in the early evening, she gets under the coffee table, which is just right for her to rub her back. I give her Benedryl, and it stops it within a few minutes. So I asked Bobo to check for hot spots, and he found one full-blown, two developing. Says the shorter hair and getting more air to the area should clear it up. I hope. Sophie is now zonked out, exhausted from her grooming.

The yard crew appeared. I thought they were supposed to put deconstructed gravel in the driveway groove and along the new fence, plus dig out one more corner for gravel and decorative grass—our solution to those corners where grass just won’t grow. Instead it looked to me like they were shoveling brown old plain dirt on top of the lovely sand-colored gravel. I called the owner, and he said that was gravel—they just had to wash it. Then the foreman knocked and said it was wet gravel and would lighten as it dried. Who to believe? It is turning light now but will likely get deluged tonight. Far as I can tell, the “worker mans” (a granddaughter’s term when she was very young) didn’t do any of the new stuff. They did fix the spots in front where the dirt washes onto the sidewalk and creates a slippery, dangerous condition. We worry about children walking to school.

Every other Tuesday a wonderful woman named Zenaida cleans my cottage—makes the bed, does the laundry, all the things I can’t do. We always look forward to her visit, and today I was especially anxious for her to vacuum because the pecan tree over my patio is shedding those little green worms. They stick in Sophie’s coat, and she brings them in the house. I cannot begin to tell you how many I have laboriously picked up with my grabber, and Jordan has vacuumed. Still they come. Jordan blows them off the patio, and by the time she gets the blower put away, the patio is covered again.

So this morning, when I got word Zenaida would not be here, I had to make my own bed (perish the thought) and wash last night’s supper dishes which I had lazily left in the sink. Maybe she’ll come tomorrow.

I’m enjoying food threads on Facebook immensely, especially the NYTimes Cooking Community. But recently someone asked what to do with pork stew meat, and it seemed like a thousand people responded, most with the same suggestions: posole, carnitas, green chili stew. I wanted to shout at them to read the comments before adding one and avoid duplication. Only one person suggested kraut and potatoes, which seemed like a no-brainer to me.

Now on a page called All Our Scottish Memories, there’s a thread about whelks, which people either relish or despise. Somehow you eat them with a pin—haven’t figured that out. Naively I asked if they were the same as escargot, and someone replied no, they were whelks. So I looked up whelks—it’s a generic name for edible snails, so I’m sure it could cover escargot but not whatever people were pulling from the Scottish seas. They didn’t look too appealing to me, and I am rethinking any fondness I ever had for escargot.

I sense an uneasy air of expectation tonight. All is still, but storms are predicted for early morning. We’ve had this prediction often lately, only to come to nothing. I figure it will catch up with us one day soon.

Patio and book day

Jordan and Christian worked on the yard this afternoon. It’s that time of year when the pecan tress drops those “worms” all over. You can blow them off in the morning and by mid-afternoon, the patio is covered again. Sophie, with her woolly coat, brings dozens of them into the house—this morning I could follow a trail where she went from French doors, down the hall, and into the bedroom to get into my still-unmade bed, where she dropped more “worms.”

Jordan was so proud that she cleaned the patio while I napped, but by the time I got up, it was littered again. She spray-painted our two metal flamingoes. The paint had been the subject of great controversy. Jacob painted the small one a year or so ago, with a Pepto-Bismol spray paint that was way too pink. I insisted we go to the hardware for a better shade, but that was all they had. So our big flamingo is now an unnatural pink.

I am reminded of my friend, Carol, a purist about many things who once complained, “Why are all my friends’ gardens sprouting this tacky Mexican tin art?” Guilty!

We sat on the patio tonight for a pre-dinner glass of wine. Lovely, peaceful, and green—but those worms dropped all around us. Luckily, none landed in the wine.

Sometimes I feel Sunday is a good day to dedicate to a book, and that’s what I did today, reading most of Ruth Reichl’s Save Me the Plums, the title taken from that marvelously intimate poem by William Carlos Williams. This is Reichl’s memoir of her tenure as editor-in-chief of Gourmet magazine. I wouldn’t call it charming, but I would call it mesmerizing. She is honest and frank about her own insecurities as she ventured into the corporate world, one where she was never completely at home. She admits to anxiety attacks, feelings of inadequacy, guilt about her mothering skills—all this makes her so human.

The memoir is in a way an exposé about corporate America, the kind of revelation that makes me grateful for my small-time, no-pressure, no-big-success writing and publishing career. But it is also a book about food, and Reichl is a skilled food writer, one who can talk unselfconsciously about carousels or explosions of flavor in her mouth, bread that makes you think of a forest on a sunny day, flavors that reverberate. I think I’m a fairly adventuresome eater, but she relishes things I would never try, like squid guts and cod sperm.

A few recipes are scattered throughout the text. In spite of the exotic food she eats and her extensive knowledge, the recipes for such things as jeweled chocolate cake or spicy noodles are easily accessible for the average home cook, a thing she kept in mind during her years at Gourmet.

As in most of her books, the shadow of Reichl’s mother hangs over this one. A troubled woman who suffered from grandiose desires and frequent depression. As Reichl enters the Four Seasons restaurant, she remembers how her mother loved going there for a martini and wished they could afford to go for dinner. It made me realize I under-appreciated the one time in my life that I dined in that hallowed spot.

But there was also Reichl’s father—a quiet, gentle man, a book designer with a marvelous understanding of typography and the importance of the interior of a book (or magazine) but also a clear recognition that cover art was not his forté.

Reichl’s style is casual, chatty, friendly. Reading her memoir is like reading a novel, only you know the end—and it’s not good. I haven’t quite gotten there yet, but the handwriting is on the wall.

Me? I wish in another life, I could have a career like Reichl’s, only without the corporate pressure. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.