Random thoughts from the cottage

 

Looking at Jordan, like,
Where are you taking me?

Sophie went to the vet yesterday. Poor dear leads a sheltered life. She’s either in the cottage or in our relatively small backyard, but at least she can come and go between the two at will.
Still, she gets excited when we bring out her leash, and a car ride is a real joy. Somehow she

Looking at the world

never figures out that the vet is at the end of the ride. But she got a good bill of health yesterday, some new medicines—ear drops which she acts like are the most painful things in the world, an anti-bacteria pill for an unhealed sore. Jordan took some cut pictures of her in the car (why wasn’t my daughter’s attention on driving? Maybe these were all at stoplights.)

Resting, all is well.
We're going home.

Some odd food notes: today from my favorite grocery store I saw an ad for personal watermelons. Stopped me short—I can’t think of what they are unless they are individual-sized watermelons, and I’ve never seen such. In other food news, for the past two nights we had happy hour company and never really had a proper supper. Last night I wasn’t hungry but thought I should have something solid and substantial, so I decided on scrambled eggs—my go-to. I had watched a video of Jamie Oliver’s foolproof technique for making an omelet, so I thought I’d try it, even if I wasn’t going to put any cheese in the middle. Major fail convinced me I will order omelets out and give up trying to do one at home.

Not an omelet

Tonight I made lamb burgers and put lettuce, mayo, and feta in the buns. So good. And satisfied my longing for a substantial meal. Added a cucumber salad with a yogurt dressing that had, of all things, a bit of mustard. You couldn’t taste the mustard, and it was really good.

But speaking of food, a friend emailed today and wondered if Irene ever made clafouti, the French dessert of fruit, traditionally black cherries, covered with a flan-like batter and baked, then dusted with powdered sugar. After all, she reasoned, it’s French so Irene must have made it. The subject came up because I said pitting cherries is too much trouble, and I intend to make a blueberry dump cake. I don’t even want to imagine what Irene would say about a dump cake (fruit, cake mix, and butter) but I have promised to mention clafouti to her. (In France, it’s called calfoutis.) And by the by, don’t plan a trip to France for your clafoutis—they are having serious problems with too many tourists.

Big news at the cottage today is that we got new sod in the backyard—a variety of Bermuda called TurfTen I think. It was fun to watch the guys install it—they scraped out the old, dead, beat the new into place and affixed it with a huge roller thing, a much more complicated process than I never thought planting grass was. Grass in our back  yard is a sore subject—we have tried everything—zoysia, St. Augustine, winter rye. And I always end up having to replace it. The part of the yard that is grass is relatively small, and I’d be all for decorative grasses and ground cover, but the dogs need someplace to poop and pee. And that, of course, is what kills our grass. I don’t expect it to improve a lot now that we have only two dogs instead of three, but my lawn service friend assures me this should come back next spring (if it survives this summer).

I read today that in thirty years it will not be uncommon for the Texas temperature to hit 125^o.  I am advocating for replacing the front lawn with native plants but am stopped by cost and lack of knowledge. Christian showed me one such front yard in a nearby neighborhood that he said was the only way he would do it—plants grouped by variety and still a bit of grass. I would like a wilder look. Probably a pipe dream since I am hit with vet bills, hearing aid bills, and other big expenses. At this point in my life, the odds of making a fortune with a bestselling book are pretty slim.

Take heart, my friends. Tomorrow is supposed to be a tad better but still pretty hot. After that, though, we begin to head down into the nineties, which I find reasonable, and there’s the promise of a breeze and a hint of possible rain next week. I keep remembering a year when Colin and Lisa came for the fourth—at least twenty years ago—and it was downright cold. Guess climate change has made that unlikely to happen ever again.

Stay cool and safe.

End of a long, lazy day

My peppers bouquet, gift of a friend. Love it!

My lazy day ended with good fellowship. Friend Mary was coming for dinner--she wanted to take me out since I often cook for her, but with the TCU game it was hard to find a restaurant without an hour wait. So we ate here. Sue and Teddy came by for happy hour, stayed an hour and the four of us had a grand old time visiting, eating gravlax and cream cheese and a raspberry infused cheddar. Sat on the front porch--the deck was a tad damp--and the cool air and breeze were wonderful, especially in contrast to this morning that greeted me with heavy, muggy air.
No, I didn't watch the TCU game but I did check after half-time and found a discouraging score. Later in the afternoon, after I napped, I checked again and TCU had won by a whopping score. Go, Frogs!
Sophie and I spent most of the day being lazy and quiet--I did some computer work and some reading; she slept. She is, however, grieving for Elizabeth--she lost her house manners in the kitchen, something she hasn't done since Scooby died over a year ago, and then she went and slept on his bed--another thing she did after he died. Mary and I gave her extra love while we ate scrambled eggs with spinach--I thought the spinach overshadowed the eggs, she thought it was just right. Hey, she was the guest. What else would she say?
Now dishes are done--except the skillet--and I'm ready to be lazy again. Reading The Lost Art of Mixing, by Erica Bauermeister, which follows The School of Essential Ingredients, a foodie novel I really enjoyed and admired for the quality of its prose.
'Night all. Sweet dreams.

Hello, world! I'm back

This is my whine: I’ve had walking pneumonia for two weeks, the antibiotics were making me sick, and it hurt to walk because of the fall on my knee. The weather was gloomy, cold and rainy, which didn’t help at all. Yesterday was a low point in my existence.

This is the cheerful part: I woke about three in the morning and thought, “I feel better.” And this morning I felt almost like myself. The sick feeling is almost gone, though I was cautious about eating all day and I still took a long nap, my knee is better if not healed, and I’m not coughing much. The sun is bright and the day much warmer. By the weekend we’ll be in the 80s and we can all begin to moan and groan about summer.

When you’re miserably sick, you can’t imagine ever feeling better. When it’s gloomy and rainy, you can’t imagine it being bright and sunny. And when things do change, it’s sort of like seeing the world with brand new eyes. It makes you appreciative and grateful.

I’m tired of being home, cancelling lunches and dinners with friends. I want to get out in the world and pick up the normal threads of my life. Starting with the grocery store tomorrow.

I have been reading a novel just for the heck of it—something I don’t often find time to do—and I’ve come to a conclusion: I do NOT like rhetorical questions in a cozy mystery. One is too many; lots are lots too many. Shhh—I’ll never tell what I’m reading.

A bit of Cowtown Marathon nostalgia

One Sunday, runners in the full marathon will go right past my house, and I'll sit on the front porch much of the morning and cheer them on. My daughter says she'll put signs in my yard.
I've heard various stories in recent years about who started the marathon. I was always told the idea was hatched in my living room. A group from the Institute for Human Fitness--all men, no women--met every Sunday to discuss the programs of the institute, a project of TCOM (now UNTHSC) devoted to helping people achieve wellness through physical fitness--an appropriate osteopathic concept. While they discussed fitness, a friend and I were in the kitchen fixing the richest, most sinful desserts we could imagine--I particularly remember Italian Cream Cake. And those fitness gurus ate every bite. But I was told the marathon idea sprang out of those meetings and my then-husband, Joel Alter, was one of the founders, along with Charles Ogilvie. Joel claimed the once-classic symbol of the race, Cowtown Charlie, was him, and it could have been with the big moustache. But I always thought it was Charlie Ogilvie.
The night before the first marathon we sat in the house and heard sleet. "@#$%! I didn't want sleet" was Joel's response. He left in the wee hours in the morning, and still early, I bundled up four children (one of them probably three at most) and drove over ice and snow to Fort Worth's Historic National Stockyards Discrict. In those days I worked in the Communications Office of TCOM and was doing publicity for the marathon. When we got there, I turned the children loose and spent the day doing whatever pr people do, including popping in occasionally to the RV that a local radio station had brought to the site and giving live on-air reports.
Now, I am horrified that I turned my very young children loose on the North Side, but they have assured me they were always with a huge bunch of kids. And they all survived, so I guess I should banish it from my long list of motherly guilts. They looked forward to race day every year, and, frankly, so did I. After Joel and I split, I did publicity one more year--I think to prove to him and to myself that I coiuld do it. And then I bowed out.
Charlie continued to run well into his eighties and always took first in his age group--no surprise there. Sometimes he'd take me to the carb-loading pasta dinner the night before, and I loved seeing old friends. I made a couple of really good friends through the marathon.
Today, of course, the race is a far different thing, a mega race with a full-time, year-round paid staff, probably ten times the number of runners we ever dreamed of, so many side events it makes my head spin, and this year, so I read, an exposition for runners, complete with demonstrataions of osteopathic soft-tissue maniuplation. The Institute for Human Fitness, a great concept, is long gone.
Tomorrow when those runners go by, a host of memories will flood me. Those were good days, another lifetime ago.

 

Walking on eggshells

This morning I would no more have wanted to walk Jacob across the street to school than I would have wanted to fly. We had thunder snow during the night--a bolt of lightning woke me just as my furnace kicked on, and in my daze I thought, "The furnace has exploded." But the flash of light was soon followed by thunder. When I got up and looked out, the ground was white, though the streets and sidealks were merely wet. Still it looked like there were patches of ice here and there. Because I'm a worrier and because I'm terrified of falling, I began to worry about getting Jacob at three. Of course, by then, the streets were dry and it was fine--though darned cold.
It was a perfect day to be a recluse, and I stayed in all day. Did my yoga and got a lot down on the manuscript I'm editing. Had a pimiento cheese sandwich for lunch--yum!--and a good nap, and then it was time to get Jacob. We did all his homework--math exercise, reading, essay in response to the book, a pre-test for spelling, and alphabetized his spelling words. Bless him, he'd look at me occasionally and say, "Are we having a good day so far?" I assured him we were. (We didn't have a good day yesterday because he wouldn't focus, and I grew impatient--we both vowed today to change our ways!)
Tonight it was tempting to stay inside with the fire in the fireplace, but I also liked the idea of company, so I went to meet neighbors at the Grill and have my meatloaf fix. Cold coming home, and I dreaded the walk down the dark driveway--motion sensitive lights but there's a gap and a time limit. And I did what I know better than to do--I faltered, and once my confident stride was broken, I was a mess. I ended up taking the funniest route to the house you can imagine--holding on to the fence, then hobbling across the drive to a tree and then the side of the house until the lights kicked in.
I know that about walking and anxiety. If I lose my confidence, if I break my stride, anxiety kicks in, and I feel that I cannot take another step. But if I keep walking confidently, I'm fine. I'm glad no one saw me scramble tonight, and yet I've learned to tell myself that I did okay. I made it into the house. Elizabeth did not find me lying in the driveway when she came home.
Almost everyone feels anxiety, but for some of us it can have disabling effects. Mine takes the form of this fear of walking and falling. Those who don't know say "It's all in your head." Yes, it is, but it's very real, and the numbers of people in this country who suffer from anxiety to a disabling degree would astonish many.
Most days I do just fine. I've learned to deal with it. But it does come creeping up to bite me, and tonight was one of those times. I'll just have to keep walking down that dark driveway, with confidence--and a walking stick. If that's the worst of my burdens, I am blessed indeed.

Creative Writing on a cold day

Bone-chilling is the only way to describe today's cold in Fort Worth. Now at eight in the evening, I'm wearing  a T-shirt and sweater and am still wrapped in a warm shawl, wishing I had another shawl for my knees. The fire in the fireplace just doesn't seem to reach into my office. Supposed to be this way most of the week. Sophie has decided her mission in life is to jump and finally hurl herself at me in an attempt to get my attention. Her vocal range is absurd, barks, growls, yelps, yowls; my vocal range is pretty limited to one harsh word, "No!"
Today I spoke to the Creative Writing club at the Woman's Club. I was told to expect twelve women, but I think there were at least sixteen, and we sat around a long table which made for a nice, informal gathering. I decided to encourage them to write a mystery--choose their heroine, setting, etc. Didn't work. One or two were obviously experienced writers--one knew so much about publishing on Amazon that I should have let her lead the session. But most just looked at me when I prodded them to think of heroines and the like, but they took copious notes so they must have felt they were learning something. I'll try that format again when I speak at a retirement community later this month. I sold two books and when I got home couldn't remember what I'd done with the money and check--but I found them.
Betty went with me to the program--because I don't like the Woman's Club parking lot--and we had lunch beforehand at Z's Cafe--meatballs (more like meat cakes) with mushroom gravy, potatoes au gratin and steamed vegetables. We split an order, and it was plenty. So good. As owner Janet Capua said, "It's comfort food, ladies." She topped it with a tiny serving of snickerdoodle ice cream--yum!
All in all a good day, but I can't wait to crawl into my warm bed.

My theory about getting going

Cold, rainy day, a head cold, and muddy dogs--not a pretty picture. But I proved one of my own theories--when you get up and get going,  you feel better. People used to tease me that I made my children go to school with a 105 temperature--not quite true, but they really had to prove they were sick. Jamie was given to dizzy spells (undiagnosed to this day but almost gone), and I clearly remember one day when he was about seven. He told me he couldn't go to school--he was too dizzy. I said, "Nonsense. Of course you can go to school," and stood him up in front of me. When I let go, he collapsed like a puddle at my feet. Poor baby--I'd say I feel guilty in retrospect but he'd capitalize on that.
I didn't feel up to par Tuesday but felt fine yesterday--because I had to be up and going. An early dental appointment (that had to be rescheduled when I got there), a luncheon where three of us spoke on Grace & Gumption: The Cookbook, and dinner out with Betty at Pappadeaux, long a favorite. But today I didn't have anything on my calendar until time to pick up Jacob--and I began a real downhill slide. Jeannie called to see if I wanted to go to lunch, and I offered a pitiful, "No, thanks. I want a long nap before school gets out." Got the nap, thought I felt better, but sank again as the afternoon wore on. Supper at the Grill with Linda--meatloaf, my favorite--and I barely ate half of it and brought the rest home for tomorrow..
But then my class arrived. I got engaged in their papers and conversation and forgot to feel sorry for myself. Still, I"m going to bed early tonight.
Part of my disaster today: I went out to check the apartment, since the Hudgeonses will be here a week from tomorrow and my good friend Barbara the weekend after that. Found one set of clean sheets, tried to put them on the main bed and realized I was trying to put standard sheets on a queen bed. So then I put them on the bottom bunk--if I ever buy double bed bunk beds again, just shoot me. Took me a good 20 minutes to make that bed. Then I noticed that though the kids had dutifully left the refrigerator door open, they hadn't uplugged it--huge iceball on the freezer compartment. I've been defrosting it and running out to check all day. Think the wood floors will escape undamaged. I had a pristine, unused cat box that just fit into that apartment-size fridge. And in sorting bed clothes, I discovered I'm missing one of the matching comforters I bought for the bunk beds--how does one lose a comforter?
In spite of all I wrote 1500 words today--maybe not golden, but 1500 words. They say persistence is the most important attribute for a writer. My goal is 1500 words a day--but I really missed some with the Austin trip. Going to get after is this weekend--and one day this week I think I did 2500.

This 'n that

Half the population of North Texas is on Facebook commenting on how wonderful the weather is today, and I'm among them. When I took the puppy out at seven this morning, I was almost a bit chilly--and it was great. A breeze, good temperatures, a great day. I've opened the vents over my greenhouse windows in the kitchen--always a sign of good weather to me. And this pleasant temperature will stay for at least a week. But many parts of Texas are in real trouble. Until about five years ago, I thought southern California had an exclusive on wildfires. It never dawned on me that they'd make their way to Texas. In recent  years, fires have popped up all over the state. Possum Kingdom has suffered twice this year, and there's that terrible fire in East Texas that killed a woman and her baby. But now, the worst of all is the fire in Central Texas, so bad that our governor even came back to the state and said,sagely, "These things pop up with no warning." No kidding? (I liked the Facebook message that said, "Welcome back, Governor. We hardly missed you.") But it's a terrible fire, too close to Austin. Over 400 homes destroyed and it's not, last I heard, at all contained. There's a big push to rescue horses and cattle, and a lot of people from all over the state are working night and day to fight this monster. Pray for them.
You know those young girls who take razor blades to their arms and mutilate themselves? Well, no one will ever mistake me for a young girl, but they might think I've been busy with the razor blade. Puppy teeth are sharp and make deep if small cuts that bleed freely and heal slowly. Somehow when bitten I manage to wipe my arm on whatever T-shirt I'm wearing--last night there were blood speckles and one big smear on my MacBain Clan T-shirt. Can't have that. I've developed a foolproof (I think) removal method, combining hints from my ex-husband and my mom. Soak the garment in cold water; let it hang dry and treat the stain with hydrogen peroxide and then spray it with Spray 'n Wash or some similar product. I've had really good  luck.
At lunch today a friend told me that mysterious charges, not hers, had appeared on both her debit and credit cards. The banks took care of them efficiently, but since she still had the cards in her possession it was puzzling. I'd been about ready to put a big charge on my credit card, so I came home and checked my account--there were all kinds of charges on my account, most of them little, to places I never go: Target, Macy's, Tom Thumb, five small ones to the grocery where I shop but I go once a week and run up a whopping bill. I called, gave the Citicard folks the account number on my card (mind you, it's a new card since I lost my wallet a couple of weeks ago and I haven't comitted the new number to memory), and my zip code. They were puzzled: the computer brought up a totally different account. They asked the cardholder's name and I was about to give my name when I looked: Betty Boles. My friend Betty and I had dinner last Wed. and apparently switched cards. I was still waiting for my new debit card, so that's why I used the credit card--usually I never do. She on the other hand uses hers all the time. I asked her to look, and she said, "Sure enough. Judy Alter." I could have waited till we had dinner Wed. but she flew over to the house to trade cards. In the meantime I printed out the charges, added them up, and figured she'd charged $351.11 to my card! I'm glad I looked before I charged $670 to her account.

A blog vacation

Forgive my silence. I've been taking sort of a mini-vacation from blogging, partly because I didn't have that much to say--we live in tumultous times, and major news event has piled on major event: a tsunami in Japan with the resultant nuclear crisis, tornadoes in the American South with apalling loss of life and property damage, the joy of the royal wedding, and the bitter triumph of Osama bin Laden's death. It makes my head spin, but all the news is capably--and sometimes not so capably--commented on by others.
I meantime have been in my own little world, revising a novel, which will be my project for at least the next two weeks. So you'll hear from me sporadically. I seem to go in novel-writing spurts (not the sign of a professional, I fear) but right now I'm delighted to be back in the familiar world of what I hope will become my second mystery, No Neighborhood for Old Women. If I hadn't said so before, yes, it's a deliberate play on Cormac McCarthy's No Country for Old Men. The story behind it has to do with Literary El Paso, compiled by my good friend Marcia Daudistel, to which Mr. McCarthy declined to contribute. It's okay--Marcia's book is doing great without it. If you have ever lived in or visited El Paso or have an interest in bicultural writing, you should read this beautiful book.
But back to my mystery--I'm pondering why this character did that, was this event mentioned with a lead-up or did it just spring into being, are my characters being true to themselves? Too introspective? Too much description (I get carried away about Craftsman houses and old neighorhoods)? Too little description to set the mood? Rewriting is thorny business, sometimes much harder than that initial "just get it down on paper" phase, and I'm deep in it. Some of the problems come because I'm a pantser--I write by the seat of my pants instead of from an outline.
I'm also taking time to enjoy North Texas in the spring--to my mind its best season. This morning, with the top down on the car, I went to the nursery and Barnes and Noble, both trips I enjoy. I have my porch pretty well planted now--got fountain grass this morning, but it's too much for me to plant. Greg will do it next week. My sweet potato plants--those hardy, wonderful, oh-so-green things--have developed some kind of wilt. Greg suggested by phone this morning that I'm over-watering, and I admit I'm prone to doing that. So just now I only watered the marjoram, which was wilting, the basil, which like lots of water, and the parsley I just planted. Beautiful day to putter on the porch.
Alas and alack--isn't that a wonderful phrase?--some of my front yard flowerbeds are alredy past their prime. The spirea is fading, and the ox-eye daises are gone as are the iris, but the coreopsis is blooming, and the miniaure crape myrtle should bloom any time. And then there's that profuse plant on one side of the garden that blooms and blooms--but I can't remember the name. Anyway, it's still to come--like my crape myrtles, those are late bloomers.
The rest of the day is free--to work, to make macaroni salad for Mother's Day supper at Jordan's, to cook that piece of salmon in the fridge and eat some of that asparagus--maybe dining al fresco on the porch. A good day, and life is sweet.
If I'm absent from the blog, please bear with me for a while. I promise to be back in full swing by June 1.

The mystery of mysteries

Once you immerse yourself in the world of mysteries and such lists as Sisters in Crime and Murder Must Advertise, you begin to learn about the various subgenres. It' not easy--there are thrillers and crime fiction and P.I. novels and cozy mysteries, historicals and contemporaries and espionage novels. I am fuzzy on what separates some, but reading Pretend You Don't See Her by Mary Higgins Clark has made one distinction crystal clear to me. Like all of Clark's novels, which I hate to read when I'm home alone at night, this is a thriller. The reader knows from the get-go who the bad guy is and he's never just sort of bad--he's usually sociopathically evil. In this novel, a young woman witnesses a murder and is the only person who can identify the killer, a notorious hired assassin who takes pleasure in killing. She is forced into the Witness Protection Program because the government desperately wants her alive to identify him if and when they catch up with him. I've always vaguely thought the Witness Protection Program would be awful--you have to leave your whole life, including family, behind and go somewhere completely strange--which is what Lacey Farrell does, assuming a totally new identiity. No spoiler here: word gets out where she is, but you knew that or there wouldn't be enough story for the novel. And somewhere in the back of your subconscious you know Lacey is going to return to her old life and her family and maybe take the new man she's met with her. But meantime, the tension from the writing is so palpable and graphic that I frequently have to set the novel down. Take a breather as it were.
I just finished reading Randy Rawls' Death by Diamonds, a P.I. novel in which the P.I. is a woman, thankfully more rounded than Stephanie Plum of Janet Evanovich's books. But still, there are some pretty brutal and violent scenes and deaths in this novel. It's a good read and I liked Beth Bowman and rooted for her, but I could never write some of the scenes in that book. Once again, in this book you know who the bad guy is early on, but how is Bowman going to defeat him.
Which brings us around to cozies, what I'm trying to write: murder and violence happen off-stage, the central figure is usually a female amateur sleuth, and there may be a few hold-your-breath moments, but really the books are just what the word says--cozy. And the reader doesn't know who the villain is and must figure it out along with the central figure--if it's really well done, you don't figure it out ahead and are surprised. But then in some, you can guess. My kind of reading. Now if I can just write a good one. I'm going back to work on Skeleton in a Dead Space after I finish this post.
Warm and sunny here today. I shudder as I read and hear on TV about the awful weather in California and the northern and eastern states. We are having a dry winter, but so far mild. I expect winter to hit like a blast any day now. Meantime this is lovely weather, makes it hard to stay inside and work--and read scary thrillers.

Writing memoir, the Chilean rescue, and changing weather

My evening memoir writing class met tonight. There are a couple of basic differences between it and the daytime class on campus: in the evening, we're in the casual setting of a home, and we have snacks and wine (the latter making the real difference). The lunchtime group brownbags it but I notice not many eat--I always have a tuna sandwich.
Tonight was a great time of sharing--two people presented stories from their childhood, both with perception and honesty and, afterward, open, honest responses to questions. Some brought laughter, some brought moments of silence. Mostly though we're a laughing, happy group. I shared my story of adoption, and once you get me started on that, I'm hard to shut up, but they were most responsive. My friend Linda is now among the group, and of course she was around when my babies were children, so she knows these stories. "I loved hearing them again, in your voice," she said. Linda came for supper, and I fixed a one-dish meal of chicken, pasta, two cheeses (cheddar and cream) and green peas. It was supposed to have broccoli, but I forgot to go back by the frozen section when I went to the store this morning. Darn! I substituted a small can of green peas.
I am still watching whatever's on TV about the Chilean miners. I hear two books have been proposed in New York, one of them already under contract in the UK.  NYpublishers are hesitant because they fear the heartwarming story has gotten so much instant coverage no one will want a book about it. I think, as a publisher, I'd jump at such a book, but then I was never a big-time publisher dealing with thousand-copy print runs. Jean Walbridge said today that it just shows what people can do when a country pulls together and determines to accomplish something. The Chilean president (who has been a strong and admirable figure throughout this ordeal) said they just decided everything else went on the back burner--they were going to get these miners out. And they did, with help, both technical and emotional support and I suppose financial, from all over the world. A book about that cooperative effort would be excellent, if only to make it required reading for all members of our Federal congress.Apparently a few miners suffer health problems--from pneumonia to skin and dental problems--but most are hale and hearty. It will be interesting to see how they handle the future, though they've been quoted as saying they don't want fame and fortune--they want to go back to their lives. I wonder how many will want to go underground again. A trivial thought that came to me today: they had to fit themselves into a cylinder that was 23 inches--how did they do it? That's a lot less than my waist. I have a vision of people poking and pushing to get my stomach into that tiny cylinder. But, hey, these were mostly pretty big guys.
Chilly morning today--first turtleneck day of the fall season. And gosh it gets dark early. I think my sweet potato plants have had it for the year, and I must soon harvest my basil if I don't want to lose it. I foresee a lot of pesto in the future. Next year I'm going to be more judicious about planting herbs--no dill, because the caterpillars eat it, no summer savory because I didn't use it once and Greg says it's just a tasteless version of oregano. No tansy because it crowds everything else out. Don't have to think about that right now.

An almost perfect fall day

Fall is coming to Texas. The temperature is finally below the low 90s. Today it was humid, really so in the morning, but stiill a perfect morning to drive around with the top down. I had a haircut, and my hair really looked cute when I left the salon--but then I finished my errands top down, and there went that. Still it was worth every minute of driving with the air blowing around me.
Tonight I took a book and an extra glass of wine to the front porch and sat and enjoyed the breeze and the view. My neighbors across the street have the most amazing tall cedars--they lost one in a storm this year, but the others have fiilled in. My crape myrtle, usually slow to bloom and then never blooming profusely, is bursting with flowers, as those trees are all over town. Greg, my botanist friend, tells me it's because of the cool spell we had last week. They're beautiful but messy! I have a  wonderful big but very old elm in front of my house. It used to lose branches from time to time, but it seems stable now. Every time I called the city to take away a  fallen branch, I quaked in fear they'd take the tree down but they said it's still healthy. I hope it lasts as long as I last in this house. To the west of my front yard, I have a lovely lush maple that was small when I moved here eighteen years ago. I must talk to Greg about raising the canopy, but for now it looks really wonderful. The whole street is tree-lined, and I sort of feel I'm in a forest when I look around. My porch plants have come back amazingly after the horrible heat--my fern hanging basket is particularly wonderful. And the hanging sweet potato plant has sent a shoot up the chain the holds it. My only regret is that it gets dark so much earlier these days.
Porch party Sunday night for sixteen. I worried that it would be too hot. Now I'm worried that it may be too cool. High predicted for Sunday is 78, with a low that night in the 50s. Yep, fall is on the way. Meantime, I did some savvy shopping at Central Market and got a whole brisket for $6-something instead of the trimmed ones for $15+ a lb. My gosh!
Looking forward to the weekend. I'll have Jacob from noon Sat. until supper Sunday--hmmmm. How to keep him amused? His other grandparents take him to movies, the state fair, things I'm just not up to alone. Yet he seems to love to come here, so we'll see.

A blah day rescued by cooking

Woke up with the blahs this morning and a slight headache, both of which I attribute to the extreme humidity--it wasn't hot today but everytime you went out it felt like a sauna. To add insult to injury, I tried to open a new bottle of aspirin and could not for the life of me get the child-proof cap off. So when I went to the grocery I bought aspirin that said "Easy Open." Even lunch with Betty at the Black-Eyed Pea didn't get me totally out of the blahs, though it helped--we had the vegetable plate, which is some of the best comfort food I can think of. But a bit of work in the early afternoon and then a nap made me feel better. When I woke up it was raining and actually felt better outside. Rode my bike and had a dinner of leftover tuna/potato salad from last night.
And then I began cooking for my Sat. night Bill White kickoff party. Made bourbon hot dogs,which are always a hit--so easy. Just mix 2/3 c. bourbon, 2 c. ketchup, and 1/2 c. brown sugar; heat to melt the sugar. Meanwhle cut two or three packages of hot dogs into cubes about 1 inch apiece--I used three packages of bun size dogs and this is one t ime I don't insist on Hebrew National. Last time I made this, I set it to simmer and walked away--when I came back it was scorched. Had to throw away about half the hot dog bites and it took forever to clean the pan. So tonight I did it in the double boiler and stayed right there, making Megan's recipe for Texas caviar. Of course I discovered several essential things I didn't get at the store today, so I have to go back to two grocery stores tomorrow morning! And tomorrow night I plan to do more cooking, but I will have Jacob--we'll see how that works out:-)
I'm reading Avery Ames first mystery, The Long Quiche Goodbye, and liking it a lot. I've followed her excitement about publication on the blog, Mystery Lovers Kitchen, and on posts on the lists for Sisters in Crime and Agent Quest, so I was looking forward to it almost as much as she was. It's a good mystery, solidly in the cozy tradition--my cup of tea or, more appropriately in this case--my glass of wine. I am mightily impressed, as I have been on the blog, with her knowledge of cheeses and wines and pairing them. So guess what I'm going to do the rest of  the evening? You're right.
You'll notice, I hope, that I'm adding symbols to my blog--first the Story Circle Network Star Blogger symbol, which is bigger than I expected, and then a Sisters in Crime logo I got today, which is smaller than  wished. Oh well, variety is good.

Cliche characters and situations

Today on a blog I read an interview with a seasoned mystery writer--been at it 30 years--who said she created her new series featurig a tough woman with a salvage business (read junk yard) because she thought she'd scream if she read one more mystery about a sweet woman sleuth with a cat and a cop for a boyfriend and a meddling mother. Ooops! She just described Skeleton in a Dead Space, which my agent is trying right now to market. Well, Kelly Jones isn't sweet--she's pretty savvy, and she's a harried real estate agent trying to raise two little girls (I think they're the best characters in the story). No cat, but she does acquire a cop as a boyfriend during the course of the novel--and a dog. The blog is making me think outside the box and go back to that series I started on the Blue Plate Cafe.
I was particularly interested to read Martin's comments because I'd just discovered her Blackbird Sisters series, read two (just finished Dead Girls Don't Wear Diamonds tonight), and found them delightfully different, funny, and suspenseful. The Blackbird sisters are about the wackiest trio I've found in fiction recently.
I've been thinking for some time how frustrating I find mysteries in which the protagonist deliberately, for less than believable reasons, cuts herself off from the man in her life--she distrusts him, or she thinks she can't share her secret knowlege about the mystery with him, or she just erects some barrier between them. You just want to shake the woman or scream at her to be sensible. It's a great device for drawing out the plot, but it's a trap I hope I avoided, at least to some extent. Talk about cliches!
Thunderstorms in North Texas tonight. I just got Scooby in before they started--he is terrified by them, and I didn't want to have to try to dry him off--he won't stand still for having his feet toweled, so I have him dance around on some old rugs I put by the back door. But now we're both snug in the study and listening to the rain. Good for all those plants that Greg put in yesterday.

Changing Faces

The picture is small but maybe you noticed that I changed my profile picture on the blog. The one I've used is a favorite of my kids, with me in a western-style dress left from my active days in Western Writers of America. But it's old--15 years at least, probably more like 20, and I have to admit to having aged a bit in that time. The new picture shows me in my favorite role--as Juju, the grandmother. It was taken in May 2008 when all the kids came home (maybe Mother's Day?). They had come home to have all the grandbabies dedicated at my church (the Christian Church/Disciples of Christ does not baptize infants but dedicates them to Christ, which eally amounts to asking parents to pledge to raise them in a Christian home; then when a child is about 12, he or she can attend Pastor's Class in preparation for baptism, which is a full dunk; Megan once at an older age wanted to join the church but didn't want to be dunked--a old friend of mine said, "Just lie, honey. God won't care!"). Since only one of my children is a member of the church, we couldn't have the dedication in the sanctuary during a service, but two of the ministers kindly arranged a private ceremony in the chapel. Lots of my friends came and, of course, afterward I hosted a luncheon (never miss a chance for a party is my motto). After the guests left, the kids were packing up cars. I can't remember why, but it was a long, involved process, so my job was to sit on the porch and hold three-week-old Kegan, Colin and Lisa's son and the youngest of my grandchildren. (Kegan will be three in early April--times does fly as they say). I was most content and so, obviously, was Kegan. I liked the picture, and I also liked the picture of my brother and me taken at the same time, so I'm posting it here. I think it's good to change your image once in a while.
Cold, nasty, rainy day here today. I worked all morning, went to lunch at the Black-Eyed Pea for a veggie plate--pure down-home comfort--and spent much of the afternoon at the office. The end result was that I didn't get my nap until 5:30 because I was trying to tie up odds and ends on my desk. Jordan called a bit after five and I told her I hadn't had my nap yet. She asked if it wasn't a little late for a nap and I said no, by gosh, I'm going to get my nap. I slept until 6:45, had a late cold supper, and now must get to work.

Out of the Mouth's of Babes

Jacob is here again tonight, but I'm still chuckling (well, half of me is) over his comments two nights ago. For the first time, he slept in the trundle in the family room--we had taken the mattress off and put it on the floor in the guest room next to my room, but he insisted he wanted to sleep in the family room (I think he thought he'd have access to the TV all night). At eleven I found him still awake, so then ensued bed-hopping. He wanted to sleep in my bed, a prospect I really didn't welcome but gave in to. So he gathered all his toys--many Spiderman figures, etc.--and got in my bed. That didn't last long--he wasn't happy. So we gathered all his toys and went back to his bed. I tucked him in, kissed him, and started away when he looked at me and said, "Last chance?" "Yeah," I said, "last chance." As I left he called out "Sweet dreams." It was after 11:30 beffore I got to bed, and then I kept rolling over on a small race car left behind--most uncomfortable. Jacob was up before seven the next morning. All I could think about for the first couple of hours of the morning was how badly I wanted to go back to bed.
 Now it's only ten, and he's down, but I'm not sure of the outlook. He had a million reasons he wasn't ready to go to bed, but I finally kissed him and left, with "Sweet dreams!" following me. He likes to play in his bed with his toys for a while, which is fine, but I'll go back in a bit and see if he's asleep.
Fixed a great dinner tonight--sauteed mushrooms, asparagus, cherry tomatoes and bay scallops. Jacob had chicken nuggets, potato with butter, and cherry tomatoes that he likes--he turned down the blueberries that he usually eats, but I enjoyed them. I've decided I've been obsessing about Weight Watchers and am going to ignore it, yet weigh weekly, eat sensibly and see what happens. With that rationalization, I had two bites of a really rich carrot cake with sinful cream cheese icing that my neighbor, Jay, made and brought over when he helped me collect paint samples to send to Megan who is remodeling and likes the color of my walls.  It's kind of taupe,and I like it a lot too.
Serious work went out the window today. I kept getting caught up in office details and emails, and I made some phone calls for the church. Finally decided working on my editing project was out for the day and finished the mystery I'm reading, started a new one. So many books, so little time.
The sun was shining all day today, and it was a welcome relief, even though it was a bit cold. No rain tomorrow but cold, and I will have to gear myself up to do the things I didn't do today--clean the dog yard, water the porch plants, etc. Then we're in this week for more cold, wet weather, and some night-time temperatures in the 20s. Punxsutawney Phil really did see his shadow this year! I am tired of being cold.

A cooking experiment

I spent most of the morning in a staff meeting and a good share of the afternoon working on TCU Press business. In between, Jeannie and I went to Gloria's for lunch--delicious chicken vegetable soup--and DSW where we didn't find shoes to suit either of us. We had planned to go to Half Price Books in Burleson, a suburb, and eat at Babe's, where I've wanted to eat forever, but it was rainy, cold, dismal, dull--neither of us fancied the idea.
Tonight I have Jacob, though he arrived late and it was almost 7:30 before I fed us dinner. I decided on cheese toast for him, with some of those sweet cherub tomatoes he likes, plus green beans and carrots I'd cooked fresh. For myself, I experimented--I'd seen several recipes for using parchment, and since the girls had convinced me I should bring parchment to Breckenridge and then didn't use it, I have a plentiful supply. So I decided to make a recipe that called, I thought, for asparagus and mushrooms with an egg--well it turned out it was spinach and mushrooms, which would have worked better because my asparagus, not being small and tender, was almost too crisp, if that can be. But timing such a dish in a 400 degree oven can be tricky. I put it in, set Jacob's toast to broil, and then he announced he had to go potty. Only two minutes left on my egg--I like my eggs runny but cooked, and I was afraid of overcooking. So I turned the oven off and cracked it, tended to Jacob, who then said he wanted his pajamas. I got them, but he began unloading his backpack. And when I'd say, "Jacob, come put your pajamas on," he'd reply, "Be patient, Juju, be patient." LIttle does he realize that's not one of his grandmother's best traits. Finally I left him, got the dinners, and he ate in his underwear. My egg was sort of like a fried egg with bits of runny white (not appealing) on the plate. I think it became fried  rather than poached becuase of my ineptness at the parchment technique, but it's a recipe I'll try again.
Jacob is sleeping in the family room for the first time tonight. He's been sleeping in the guest room (next to my room) on a mattress on the floor, but we promised him, after much begging, that we would put the mattress back on the trundle bed where it belongs (improves my decorating no end). Of course, there's that usual adjustment--"I'm scared," "I want the light on," etc. So right now I'm holding my breath. The light is very bright, and I'm afraid he won't go to sleep, but the monitor is quiet so far. I have to have him up, fed and dressed by 8:30 tomorrow--a rush for both of us.
It's been over two weeks since he spent the night, and I was as delighted to have him as he was to be here. We had a good happy evening, though when he wanted to be left alone he'd say, "Go read your book." That child is getting to sophisticated--and insighful--a vocabulary.

More rain and cold

Weather reports this morning were confusing, but there was no doubt it was raining and very cold. Some reports said freezing by late morning; others said late afternoon; still others said freezing by noon and a warm air mass moving in. None of them were actually right--surprise. But I rushed to the grocery store to get home in case all that wet mess decided to freeze. Then I tentatively cancelled dinner plans to meet good friends, and I'd been so looking forward to the visit, but I wasn't venturing out on ice. Then suggested they drive the VW instead of the Smart Car and pick me up. Then realized, late afternoon, that the streets were perfectly dry so it didn't matter. I'm sure they got tired of my vascillating emails! 37 when I left home (for a restaurant just down the street from me) and 33 when I got home. Supposed to get very cold tonight but no more wetness.
Had a great dinner with Elizabeth and Weldon. She was a student worker in my office, probably 15 years ago--makes us both feel old to talk about it--but she has worked almost ever since graduation for a company that produces manuals for accountants. Plus she re-made herself with Weight Watchers, became an activist for young girls and took Leadership Fort Worth, and became a yoga instructor. I am so proud of her! Weldon is in sales, though like too many these days, he's now looking for a job--there's so much he would be good at. His interests are in classic comic books, Star Trek kind of stuff--all that puzzles me, but I am very fond of him. We had a good dinner at Chadra, the Italian/Lebanese place near me--they shared chicken schwarma and I had kafta--lamb and sirloin in grilled meat sticks--well, they're not hamburgers, not meatballs--shaped like long fat sausages. Very good, brought half of it home.
I am really proud that I am 5700 words into my new mystery. Writing, I've decided, is like unraveling a tangle of string--this thing leads to that, and new ideas pop into your head so that before you know it, you're creating complications, adding characters, fleshing out the bare-bones idea in all kinds of ways. Very satisfying. I'll work more on it tonight.
Right  now, though, I'm glad to be warm and cozy in my robe in my house, my dog and cat with me. Tomorrow is to be cold but dry, and all I have on my agenda is a trip to Central Market. Life is good.

Tweeting on Twitter

I signed up for Twitter months ago, but it has baffled me. I only posted five tweets in that whole time--not good use of a social networking tool. So I signed up for an extended education course at TCU--Jamie told me it was eassy to master, and I was wasting my money, but I really think in two hours I learned a whole lot. But I learned about tiny urls among other things, how to RT, what a hash sign is, and so on. Figure that out by myself? Probably never.Almost like an overload of information, that I'll have to process over time and experiment with. On the TIP sheet that my agent sent though, there's a space to indicate if you have a Twitter account--it, like Facebook and this blog, are ways to keep your name before the public and, someday I hope, sell books. But it's also like all the rest of social networking--it takes time. Still I'm going to try to be an active participant.
Of course I'm still puzzled that my children seem to feel obligated to tell the world where they're eating, etc., so you get a minute picture of the day. Oh well, I used to complain I didn't hear from them enough. Now I keep up withthem all the time. Nice to know they're alive and well and happy.
Found lunch money in the laundry today--when I took wet clothes out of the dryer. Fifteen soggy dollars--a ten and five ones--that I laid out on the kitchen counter to dry. And some change--I think I still hear change floating around in the dryer.
Most discouraged when I stepped on the scale this morning. Must have been that chocolate mousse. I'm back to Weight Watchers with a vegeance. I do use my new scale, and today I got out a measuring cup.I'm really going to keep track and be honest, about everything from tuna salad to wine! Salad for lunch--with blue cheese dressing, but it wasn't too bad in points. They served fried pita on the side, which I determined not to eat--but tasted a small piece and ended up eating four small pieces. So good, but not for diets, as Vance, the owner of the restaurant, smilingly agreed.
Warm spell in North Texas, but the stock show has two or three more weeks to go--who knows what can happen?

Green noodles--no, not a Dr. Seuss invention

For years, I've been making my family green noodles. It started out as a dish my ex-sister-in-law served my brother one night when she had nothing in her cabinet--she melted butter, added lemon juice, and tossed in pasta. Over the years I've fiddled and added--I use spinach fettucini, add scallions, sliced mushrooms (they really soak up the lemon), artichoke hearts, and good parmesan. Recently I started adding a cube of pesto from my freezer. But tonight I varied the formula, because Megan had given me some truffle oil for Christmas, and I wanted to use it. So I sauteed a chopped leek (I had an extra one because I need two for tomorrow night), some cut up asparagus I had in the fridge, mushrooms, and used mostly olive oil instead of butter. When that was all sauteed I put in the cooked noodles, tossed it, and drizzle it with truffle oil. So good! Though I think I had been so warned about truffle oil that I was a little tentative--next time I'll use more. Oh, I also used the good Italian olive oil Megan brought me, instead of my grocery-store variety, and I omitted the Parmesan. I'll have to figure Weight Watchers points, but it was awfully good.
A contrast to the meal Jacob and I had last night. I announced a picnic, complete with finger food and disposable plates. I rolled deli turkey slices around low-fat cream cheese and cut them into small pieces (he liked his with ketchup), those sweet little cherub tomatoes, which he loves, and blueberries. He looked at his pickle (I had hearts of palm) and said "I don't like that." And then he asked, "Why are we eating with our fingers?" So much for adding a sense of adventure to supper. But he ate enough to earn two dark chocolate chip/almond/Sandie cookies for dessert--and darn, I ate two also. This morning, barely out of bed, he wanted his "waffle waffle." I started joking about an "awful waffle" but he didn't get it and still calls them "waffle waffles." He ate one at eight and requested two more at ten--and ate every bite!
Tonight I went to see my friend Charles, who is now in hospice care at a local retirement center. I have not gone alone to see him, because he's in the same place where my mom was and where she died. So I dragged friends along for support. But when he told me about hospice on the phone and then said, "Come see me," I knew I had to do it. We had a good visit, and I know people go in and out of hospice, sometimes for a long time, but it's hard for me to think of the world without Charles.
I was a regular churchgoer for years, never missed a Sunday. Then a combination of things made me start staying home, and once you miss a Sunday, it's easy to miss them all. So yesterday I started my move back to church by volunterring to call first-time visitors and offer any information I can about the church. Then Jeannie called--she has been asked to take over the small bookstore and wants companions. I know it's a terrible burden, having watched my mom run a hospital gift shop, but I think I'll probably do it. My way of getting back into the church.
It's been damp and almost but not quite rainy in North Texas--the kind of weather that makes you feel cold, even when you're not. So I'm glad to be home and settled for the night with a book.