Boys and sports

Watch out, Texas Rangers. In a few  years, here comes Jacob Burton! I went to his baseball game today. Peewee Baseball is for a long time an exercise in watching strike-outs, but when Jacob came to bat, the bases were loaded. I was afraid he's strike out and blow the chance, but he nailed it and made it all the way to second--tagged out on his way to third and so disappointed. He wanted to score. We couldn't convince him that his hit enabled his team to score the two points that gave them a winning game (2-0). I kept asking how many innings they played and was told, "They play an hour." Apparently, the cut off the game after an hour, though they play out that inning. Today it was five innings.

Kegan, the youngest of all my grandchildren and a Houston resident, plays a mean baseball game--look at that stance above. He's a bit small for his age but makes up for it in fierce determination. He plays soccer too, and I have a wonderful picture of him. This is Kegan on the soccer field. I love the sort of scowl on his face--this sweet boy turns into a tiger for sports. Normally his fine, blonde hair lies flat to his head but for soccer  his parents oil and spray it into a Mohawk.

Jacob appeared one day with the messiest mop of curls I'd ever seen. Wondering why his mom had let him out the door that way, I tried to smooth the mess. "Juju! That's my Mohawk." He'd just been with Kegan.
Sawyer and Ford, my Austin boys, both play soccer and swim like fishes, but I have no pictures and Megan couldn't supply them today. I wonder if they're all going to take after my grown boys, both of whom are now dedicated to triathlons. Even Lisa has the bug, and today her ex-sister-in-law ran a marathon in Atlanta. The exercise bug is catching. I'll stick with  yoga, thank you.
I admit I'm an unabashed sentimentalist--and also hooked on the Food Channel's Restaurant Impossible, where Robert Irvine has two days and $10,000 to turn a failing restaurant into a success. Tonight when I watched a couple open their eyes and see their redecorated restaurant for the first time, I teared up. A part of me always wishes I'd gone the chef/restauarant route when I was younger, much as I like being a writer.
Tonight the air is still. The leaves of my elm tree barely move, and the bugs were after me. I didn't spend long on the porch. But it's still a lovely night.

The kind of day that makes me grateful

A boy and his dog after school--wait! I thought she was my dog! Guess not.

Tonight Jacob and I went to meet Aunt Betty at The Tavern. He was delighted when I told him Aunt Betty and said, "At the Star?" The Star is the restaurant that Betty and Don own, but I said no, we were going to another restaurant. He gave me a thumbs down. But it was a beautiful evening, and we put the top down and loved the drive through a tree-filled neighborhood. Jacob decided he wanted mac and cheese and mashed potatoes for his dinner (glad his mother is out of town and so unable to say, "he needs a green vegetable" which has often been my mantra). I tried to talk him into choosing one or the other, but he was adamant (I think, as a grandmother, I should have been more firm but I get so tired of telling him no all the time). He barely touched either--they had "grass" (parsley or chives) on them. When his father joined us, he ate a good portion of both, and I ate a bit of the potatoes--so buttery and good.
As Christian and I talked, after Betty had to leave, I said one thing I'd learned from daily baby-sitting or day-care or whatever  you want to call it is that "famliarity breeds contempt." Jacob is a lot more likely to balk, ignore, etc., because he's here every day. I do get very tired of being the disciplinarian and yet if I don't, I"m letting him get away with bad habits and, worse, I'm letting him "be the boss" of me." (He's big on who is the boss and insists his mommy is but I explain, over and over, that when he's at my house, I am the boss.)"
In spite of all that, it was a lovely dinner. Christian and I had the kind of good visit we don't get very often. I loved the deviled eggs appetizer and seared scallop and salad entree that Betty and I split--our usual fare at The Tavern. And I drove home with the top down, reveling in the cool and fresh air and thinking how good my life is.
This was a kind of rush/rush day although it shouldn't have been. My compulsive nature kicks in when it shouldn't, but I wanted to get a TCU reimbursement form filled out and comp copies of my novel mailed to the three authors who had so kindly blurbed it. I went to the office, thinking I had to use one of their computers to fill out the form--absolutely boggled my mind and Melinda's too. She really tried to help me. Finally I made a series of "help" phone calls that landed me with a tech person in financial services. His best advice? Go home and do it on my pc. I did, and it took me less than five minutes. I had wasted over an hour at the office, trying to make the darn thing work. The Mac/pc war raged fast and furious in the office when I was there--I've never used anything but a pc but both my employees were die-hard Mac users. We had arguments about it, but I finally just left well enough alone. Turned out today it was a Mac problem. In the end I got my books packaged, ran to the post office, got a copy of my work-in-progress to take to my mentor, Fred, at lunch, and essentially got eveything done that I meant to. But I sure felt harried all the time. This is NOT the way retirement should feel.
Home from lunch, I had an extra hour because Jacob was taking Spanish and I didn't have to get him until four. Did I nap as I planned? No, I had all these nit-picky things to do, although I finally did get in an hour nap. And then I felt rushed again--getting Jacob to do his homework, feeding the dogs and getting them ready to be left, fixing my face, checking email.
My final verdict on the day? Where and what would I be if I didn't have all these things to do, all these demands on my time? I am so grateful to be so involved in life and so blessed with granchildren, friends and family, and animals, and work I really want to get to. No wonder I don't have blocks of time for great writing, but still: I am one lucky woman.

Restaurant Impossible

I'm hooked on the Food Network, though I usualy watch and listen with one eye and one ear while doing something else. Last night I put aside everything for another episode of Restaurant Impossible, Robert Irvine's show in which he takes a failing restaurant and turns it around in 48 hours with $10,000. Irvine goes in and assesses food, ambiance, and service. At last night's restaurant, the cook ("I'm not a chef but I'm a good cook") used canned green beans, instant grits and frozen shelfish among other "garbage," as Irvine called it. He tossed it all out, gave cooking lessons, and a cooking test that resulted in a switch where a younger man became head cook and the original one, a line cook. He also demonstrated that where they were spending $10 on a large can of gravy, he could make it from scratch for $1 and it tasted much better.With the help of a design crew, he tore out an old red bar-top and replaced it with a wooden bar, painted over a huge mural, brought in new chairs and chair covers for existing chairs. Then he created a new menu and sent the wait staff home to study it. Next day they were tested on it; if they passed, they got a T-shirt and worked that night; one girl failed and was sent home to study. Questions such as "Describe the fried green tomatoes" needed a fuller answer than "They're fried green tomatoes." They were served with feta on a bed of--I forget what (guess I too need more study). As his last act, Irvine carefully targets a community segment--college students last night--and passes out samples. By the time the restaurant opens--and those last minutes are hectic--there is a long line waiting outside.
At the end of the show, there's an update on how the restaurant is doing: of the few I've watched, at least one closed in six months, but most were doing alright. Last night's restaurant, owned by two young novices, three months later, was on the right track but not doing gangbusters. This must be a humiliating experience for the owner and exsting staff, but it surely works miracles.
I've always had a bit of a restaurant itch, I suppose because I like to feed people. I could see myself serving the tea-room or deli food that I love--chicken and tuna salads, Cobb salad, maybe some things with smoked salmon and anchovies. But I well know the failure rate of restaurants, and I know I have no experience, so I scratched my itch for several years by working at The Star, a cafe on the North Side owned by my good friends Betty and Don Boles. They specialize in steak, chicken-fried steak, and burgers. Best chicken-fried steak I've ever eaten--burgers and steaks are good too. I really did love talking to the customers, but I tired of rolling silverware and eventually decided that restaurant work, like anything else, had its ups and downs. So I'm back to cooking at home.
Right now I'm baking chicken that I found on one of my favorite blogs--Mystery Lovers Kitchen. I seasoned two chicken thighs with cumin, salt, rosemary, and oregano. My house smells divine. After they're cooked I'll roll them in Parmesan, olive oil, salt and garlic salt and pop them back into the oven for a minute. I promise--I'll only eat one and save the other for tomorrow night. I love cold chicken!