Lost in Another World

For a couple of days, I've been lost in another world--the Navajo culture, specifically, because I'm reading Anne Hillerman's Spider Woman's Daughter, which picks up her father's characters of Leaphorn and Chee and carries on their stories, with Bernie Manuelito, Chee's wife, as the main character. It's one of those novels that keeps me reading, draws me away from the other things I should be doing.
All my life, I've been blessed by the ability to get lost in a book. Not all books, but that's my criterion for a good novel: I have to move so completely into that world that I am immersed and almost removed from my own daily world. I remember years ago it was the Frances Parkinson Keyes novels that first introduced me to that feeling. I dived into the world of steamboats and post-bellum New Orleans. Steamboat Gothic held me captive for a long time, since it was a longish book for a young girl.
Even before that, I remember in grade school riding to the public library on my bike every summer morning, coming home with four or five books, and spending the day reading on the front porch. The neighborhood kids thought I was nuts but they remained friendly.
Today it is mostly mysteries that drag me into their worlds. I can get lost with Diane Mott Davidson's Goldy or July Hyzy's Grace and Olivia or Deborah Crombie's Duncan Kincaid and Gemma Jones. Confession: sometimes I even got so entwined in the world of my own fictional characters that I hate to come to the end of a story. You know that rare and wonderful feeling when you hate to finish a book?
I worry about people who don't read, about how they spend their time. I read listservs by crime writers discussing TV shows and I think, "When do they have the time? Why aren't they reading instead of watching TV?" Most but not all of my children are serious readers--and that's what I'm talking about here, serious reading. Not picking up a magazine and reading an article or two, but spending hours in the world of the book.
It's a blessing. I see one of my grandsons doing it. When his cousins are playing, his nose is buried in a book, and when I gave him two Rick Riordan books for his birthday he was ecstatic. I love it. I'm trying to make a reader out of Jacob, my local grandson, but it's an uphill battle, and I don't want to push so hard I turn him from it. One day recently he began The Boxcar Kids and was enthralled. "I see why you love to read," he told me. But he hasn't brought it over since, and he wants to watch TV or play on my iPad most of the time. I'm hoping things will improve.
Meantime, blessings on all of you who can get lost in the world of a book. Excuse me, I have to go see what Bernie Manuelito is up to.

Putting on my teacher's hat

I don't wear my teacher's hat often, so it doesn't sit securely on my head. Tonight I led the first discussion of my four-session non-credit class, "Why Cowboys Are Our Heroes--or Are They?" It was supposed to last an hour and a half--we made it to an hour and ten minutes, only twenty minutes short.
I had outlined a discussion that included figuring out where the American West was, who the mythic cowboy was (they wanted to talk a lot more about reality), who went West, where the women were. But with five students, who were sort of talkative, it was hard, and I went through my notes too quickly. On the other hand, as the discussion ranged, I was pleased with the bits of knowledge that I dredged up from the back of my mind--like a fairly long discussion of the influence of Celtic culture on cowboy culture. One man said he's taken every class that had to do with the American West, so I asked him toward the end if we were repeating things he already knew. I was reassured when he said, 'No, not at all." I would judge the evening not one of my astounding successes but neither was it one of my great failures. I hope none of the five drops the class.
We meet every two weeks, but the next meeting is at the Amon Carter Museum of American Art for a docent-led discussion of the work of Frederic Remington and Charles M. Russell.
So it's a month before I put my teacher's hat on again and then it's to lead a discussion of The Virginian, Owen Wister's classic 1903 novel.
Meantime, tonight, I'm going to sink back into Diane Mott Davidson's The Whole Enchilada, a culinary mystery I'm enjoying thoroughly. I've written my 2300 words for the day. I guess I can sleep well with a clear conscience tonight and put my teacher's hat aside for a bit.

Memoirs and food blogs

Last night, we had a satisfying memoir class, the last of this session. Two women presented, two very different papers, and yet in both cases. I think through discussion they came to see what they were feeling and writing about more clearly. It's so satisfying when that happens. I always feel "on" at these classes because I know as facilitator or moderator or whatever I am, I'm expected to pull things together and make meaningful comments. One of our ladies has missed several meetings because of her husband's illness but she was back last night and wonder of wonders, she had a proof of the first volume of her memoirs. That's a pretty exciting accomplishment for this class, and we all cheered and wished her well. She does not plan to market publicly--this is a book for her family and friends and I'm glad she had no delusions of fame and fortune.
Our next session begins June 23, and most of the ladies are returning. In the year I've taught it I've only had two drop-outs; others come and go, saying they have too many committments for one session but they'll be back. And they do return. We are like a group of sorority sisters or something. One of the women who presented last night said she would never share her piece with anyone else, except perhaps her prayer group, but she felt free to discuss a difficult topic with us. I think she may have inspired me to write a piece and keep it handy in case we ever run out of presentation pieces. It will be titled, "The Road Not Taken," with appropriate bows to Robert Frost.
When class ended last night and I got the kitchen cleaned and myself settled down, I had 80 e-mails. Being OCD, I checked them all--hence no blog. Tonight, I have not much more to blog about. It's a lazy weekend, with Jacob out of town, his mother going out of town. I sort of floated through the day, which was pleasant, but tonight I've been working on my food blog.
I'll post a reminder again--all over, on Facebook, Twitter, whatever--but the first post will be up Sunday night on what I've decided to call Judy's Potluck. Friends Weldon and Beth suggested the name because they thought it implied the community participaton I want--y'all bring something to the potluck! I'll get it started with a few posts and then hope others will jump in with comments, recipes, recollections, even guest columns.
In the initial column, which I drafted tonight, I'll stress that I'm not a professional, trained cook--except by my mom, which was pretty darn good training. But cooking is my avocation, the thing that relaxes me. I guess I'm what they call a nurturer (is that a cliche these days?) but I love to feed people, and I love to try new recipes on guests--and myself. 
I want to hear about your cooking, so I hope you'll join in.
Excuse me, but there's this Diane Mott Davidson book I've been trying to read all day. Gotta go.

Food Network, Star Cafe, and how to know when you can leave a book behind

One way I got through all our snow and ice days--five in the last two weeks--was to watch the Food Network channel. When I was doing idiot work at my desk, I kept the volume on; when I needed to concentrate I muted it but kept the picture so I could check every once in a while. Some of those chefs have become friends of mine, though they don't know it. Ina Garten is cheerful, soft spoken, and the kind of person you'd like to eat lunch with (if she catered it of course). For any who've read the Diane Mott Davidson catering mysteries, I've decided Davidson had Garten in mind when she created Goldie the caterer. In my mind's eye, Goldie is Ina. Then there's Guy Fieri with the spiky hair and all those weird concoctions he eats at Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dumps. It makes the mind boggle that any one man could eat so many high fat, high calories, high everything concoctions, but I've heard that he says the bite you see him take on TV is the only bite he takes. Still, the old-time, down-home, far-out cooking he discovers is mouth watering.
Lately I've been fascinated by two Robert Irvine programs: one is America's Worst Cooks, in which people who claim they can't cook apply for the class. Irvine and his fellow chef, a woman whose name escapes me, are merciless on these people, but those who aren't dropped out of the program end up  pretty good cooks. I think I'm a good cook--and most people who eat at my table agree--but I don't think I could live up to that program. Irvine also does a program where he has 48 hours to rescue a failing restaurant. He redecorates, re-invents the menu, trains the staff, and generally turns a failing restaurant into a new one. Last night, he demoted the head chef, derided the prepared foods they were using (the canned corn beef hash tasted like dog food [I love it with ketchup] and another prepared item was costing them ten times what it would if made from scratch in the kitchen). And, of course Bobby Flay is everyone's hero these days. I wish the recipes they cook were more accessible. I'm often too pressed for time to check them on the  web.
And who can talk about Food Network without mentioning Paula Deen --I have never seen one woman, even with that outrageous southern drawl, use so much butter, sour cream, heavy cream, you name it and it's fattening. I would never dare cook--er, okay, eat--half the things she cooks, but they do look delicious.
I admit a few cooks irritate me, like the lady who prides herself on the inexpensive menus she cooks--too cute. But then Giada and her Italian food--yum!
While I'm on the subject of food, Betty and I wanted comfort food tonight, so we went to the Star, the restaurant she and her husband own and where I used to work once a week for several years. We both had our mouths set for a bacon cheeseburger, which we split, and a salad. Wonderful! Bino cooked it just right, so it was pink in the middle and juicy. I have sent an email to Guy Fieri saying he needs to check out this restaurant--I may send another describing the Star Burger, which tops a burger with cheese, chili, onion,  pickles, jalopeno, and bacon. Now who could eat that?
I read today about a longtime boookseller who invented the rule of 50. Read 50 pages of a book, and if you decide it's not for you, you can set it aside without guilt. But as the woman aged, she realized her time to read was limited and there were still so many books, so she changed the rules. After you reach 51, subtract your age from 100 and that's the number of pages to read before you decide a book is not for you. I so rarely abandon a book--it has to be really bad--but I have been known to do it.

Remembering Elmer Kelton--once again

I didn't post a blog last night because I was consumed with reading a pdf proof of Elmer Kelton: Essays and Memories. It's not a festschrift in the proper sense of that term, because it includes several personal memories, but it is a book in tribute to the late, beloved author. I read it once in Austin, surrounded by all the hubbub of family. When I came home and read in peace and quiet I was amazed at how much more I caught--little things like misplaced commas and quotes mostly, but a few misused words. And, horrors, a dangling modifier--a grammatical error that can send me screaming into the night.
The book is due from TCU Press in the spring. Jim Lee and I co-edited--we've teamed up on some good projects. The essays and memories in this one are by people who knew Elmer well--all friends because everyone he met became his friend, but some of these folks have taught his work in the classroom. And probably my favorite essay is the one by his son, Steve, who succeeded his dad as editor of Livestock Weekly. Steve subtly blends in a son's memories with a more business-like assessment of way Elmer's work as an agricultural journalist contributed to the realism of his fiction. A truly great essay from a guy whose arm I had to twist to get him to write it.
Now I've sent the corrections off and am feeling--well, lazy, idle, whatever. Yesterday I bustled around and got lots done, like pulling up dead plants from the porch and a wash, but today I've been sort of lackadaisical and had such a sound nap that I woke up totally disoriented. Ate too big a dinner of leftover potato salad and egg salad and feel full and sleepy. But my Thanksgiving accomplishment is that with all that rich food, I lost a pound. Feeling super about that. Anyway, I guess I'll stumble my way through the rest of the evening, maybe reading a book. Tomorrow I must start reading the version of Mattie I plan to put on Kindle. And then I have to review and do a bit of rewriting on Skeleton in a Dead Space to put it on KIndle.
Meantime I'm reading Double Shot, a foodie cozy mystery by Diane Mott Davidson who is the star of that genre, in spite of all the other contestants. If anybody has read any of her novels about Goldy, the Colorado caterer, and also watched the Barefoot Contessa on TV, tell me if you don't think they're a perfect match! Ina Garten should play Goldy in a movie. Oh, bother, the fact that Garten is a chef and not an actress is a trivial thing!
Enough. I may eat chocolate.

Hot in Texas!

I'm afraid after last year's cool summer, we are in for a summer of heat. We've had days and days of 100 degrees and today is to be 104, then back to plain old 100 for the foreseeable future. Jordan, Jacob and I are leaving around 4 (the hottest part of the day) for Austin where the whole family, except Christian, will gather for Sawyer's 5th birthday. Christian will stay here and work Saturday and Sunday, and we'll come home mid-day Sunday. I had thought I could feed Scooby at 4 and he'd be all right, but it will be so hot. He's lying at my feet now, getting a break from the heat, but I'll have to put him out, with fresh water, at 4 and Moksha will come feed him later and play with him (inside!). I'm excited about two family get-togethers in a row, but a part of me hates leaving home. Got to get over that if I'm to enjoy retirement. I've got sandwiches made for the trip, water bottles chilling, suitcase packed. Went to the grocery about 7;30 this morning and put refrigerator items in the fridge at work; came home about 10:30 because my desk is really pretty clean and I have more TCU work--editing the cookbook recipes--to do at home than at the office. But in anticipation of a trip, I can't put my mind to it and will read.


I'm reading the first Diane Mott Davidson mystery, Catering to Nobody, in which her newly written preface gives a brief history of the growth of cuisine mysteries, a topic in which I'm much interested. Some authors sort of seem to stick the cooking element on top, like icing on a cake, but with Davidson's mysteries food is an integral part of the story, almost a character in the events--and the recipes are good. My friend Fred says he and his wife have tried some and liked them. In my suitcase is a novel by Virginia Rich, who apparently started the cozy cuisine trend in the 1980s--preceded of course by that gourmand, Nero Wolfe, but he can't be classed with cozies. The whole reason of why we like combining food with mysteries intrigues me--is it because mysteries are scary (a word Jacob uses often) and food is comfort? Maybe because interesting people cook? (I love a line I read recently and may have already repeated, "Only people with no imagination are bored.") I sometimes wonder that when I created a cozy heroine, she's a lousy cook but struggling to improve. Maybe I'll have to work on a second series.

Three more days to work. I pointed out to Susan this morning how empty and clean my desk is, and she asked, "How does that make you feel?" I said "Okay," but I pointed out I'll be wasting a whole lot of business cards that say director. I've even denuded the walls of the paintings that were personal property--Susan really hated to see an original woodcut by Barbara Whitehead go. Yesterday someone from Technology Resources helped me consolidate and save all my document files--apparently they wipe out your page the day you leave. But because I will be doing contract work, I will be able to access our press common page and the outlook email instead of the fairly awkward web email I use now. I'm sure the transition doesn't end when I walk out the door, but I think eventually it will be all fine. Melinda asked when I wanted them all to celebrate my retirement/birthday, so I suggested my last day of work. Somehow I don't want to just go home quietly.

Scooby and I have to get a nap in before four o'clock!