There's a fisherman in the family--again!

This is an addendum to my post earlier tonight, because I just got pictures of Jacob's fish, and I have to brag on my grandson. It's a big moment in any fisherman's life when he catches the big one, and for an eleven-year-old to reel in a 30 lb. carp is a moment of triumph. He and his grandfather were fishing at a small lake in Coppell. They fished all week and Jacob caught some respectable-size fish, from bass to catfish. But the carp, at 30 lbs., was a triumph. It caused so much excitement that other fisherman put aside their poles and came to help him, since his line wasn't strong enough. That was one proud boy, and I'm proud to add that he and his grandfather are catch-and-release fishermen. I hope his uncles, who had their own fishing phases, see this.

Rain, rain, go away

Remember that childhood verse, “Rain, rain, go away/ Come again another day”? Nobody in Texas ever sang that. We are always grateful for rain, even in July. But I’m getting a little weary of this nightly occurrence. My patio floods, my dog is terrified, and I’m terrified she’ll get muddy when she goes out after it stops. Some patio plants are wilting from too much water. The wonderful fresh air is a real treat though.

Such a richness of rain always makes me think of the late Elmer Kelton’s classic Texas novel, The Time It Never Rained. One critic called it one of a dozen or so outstanding novels written in the 20^th century. Elmer grew up in West Texas ranching country, and he understood drought. But he also knew there came years when too much rain that meant weeds grew unbounded, sheep got burrs in their coats, livestock got diseases. He once wrote an article, “The Time It Always Rained,” about one of those wet years. But the novel about the drought of the ‘50s is his premiere work, winner of many awards. If you haven’t read it, do so—you'll be the richer for having read it.

A pleasant lazy Sunday. Jacob was an acolyte at the 11:00 o’clock service. In the car on the way home, he was bemoaning that he was told to do his reading and math after lunch, because he hadn’t kept up with his homework while at his grandparents. “No kid wants to read on a Sunday afternoon,” he said. I was sitting there thinking to myself, “Oh good, I get to go home and read all afternoon.”

I did read much of the afternoon but also cooked a Boston butt pork roast for supper. I’d had the butcher cube it (the butcher’s idea of cubes and mine don’t mesh, and I always have to cut the cubes into smaller pieces but at least it’s a start.). You boil the meat in salted water for an hour and a half or more until the liquid cooks away. The meat will be pale, and you keep it on the heat so the pieces brown. Serve with garlic/lime juice. I also made a radish salsa that turned out to be too heavy (literally) for chips. Christian grilled corn, and Jordan made a salad. Lovely supper.

Storm over and the lights go out. Now? Really? Everyone bustled around, made sure I had candles and flashlights, and then the lights came on. Ah, Texas!

A truism about ambition—or the lack of it

Rumbling thunder again, and Jordan and Christian have gone to Denton for the evening, although I expect them home shortly. I told them, via text, I was going to forbid them to leave town because it seems to trigger these storms. At one point it was raining—only slightly, big separate drops—at the cottage but not the house, only yards away. The heavy rain came soon enough blanketing everything. Patio and back yard under water again. Sophie was intimidated enough by the thunder that I was confident she’d stay inside, so I left the door open to get that good cool air and clean rain smell. And I didn’t pay attention when it stopped—something caught her attention, and she bolted out of the door. I cheated—enticed her back with a treat and then closed the door. Now the sky has that strange pinkish-yellow glow of sunset. No rain. But that's twice within a week. Does the Lord not know that it is July in Texas and it never rains?

You know that feeling that you have all day to get things done, so you fiddle and waste time and get nothing done. That was me today, a wonderfully lazy day. I did a bit of editing and then devoted my attention to a Sara Paretsky V. I. Warshawski novel and spent way too much time. Late this afternoon, after a nap, I got busy—sent the final manuscript of my next novel to the publicist (watch for a big announcement soon) and a sample chapter to the webmaster to post, so you can read in advance of the September publication. Reposted The Color of Fear so that the digital version now includes the first chapter of the next one.

Fixed myself a great dinner, after purging refrigerator and freezer of things that were there too long and/or I wouldn’t do anything with—half a salmon pattie and a frozen vegetable lasagna went into the trash, along with remnants of the squash casserole I’d made and learned a cooking lesson on. So did a small bit of fettucine Alfredo, a takeout that had given me two or three meals—so rich I could only eat a small bit.

Tonight’s dinner? Two beef sliders, sliced yellow squash sautéed in plenty of butter (actually Smart Balance, much as I hate margarine—I do that in deference to my lactose problems), and cantaloupe. May just allow myself a bit of a Hello, Dolly bar for dessert!

Back to the novel!

An adventure—and a lesson learned

Jordan and I go grocery shopping on Fridays. She brings the transport chair that I almost never use and plops a basket in my lap, where it gets heavier and heavier. And we often run out of room. So today we turned it into an adventure—my first time to use one of those motorized grocery carts. I’ve been afraid to try, afraid I’d go careening through the store knocking down displays right and left. Well, first of all, it doesn’t go fast enough ever to careen. And second, I only nudged one display and dislodged one Bundt cake from a shelf—no damage done, though the store employee who came to right things was not cheerful about it.

I’m not quite ready to solo yet, but Jordan’s judgment was I did great for the first time. My goal is to be able to shop independently. Next lesson: get better at steering, so I can reach most things from the shelf. Seriously considering taking my grabber for things on high shelves. Lots of fun.

I know better, I really do—but I ordered clothes online from an iffy company that I thought I’d read warnings about before. New Chic offered really cute clothes at a terrific price, so I ordered through PayPal figuring I’d dispute the charge if I ran into trouble. It’s not quite that easy. The clothes take forever to arrive—probably because they are only made when you order, in China, and shipped, apparently by slow boat. Three items, each arrived separately. Two were way too small in the shoulders—I have had tops made in India with the same problem, so I sometimes think we American women are extraordinarily broad-shouldered—or at least I am from years of picking up babies.

The third item is an overall style outfit, knee-length, wide legs. Looks pretty good with a T-shirt, and I’ll keep it. But I’ll sure be careful about washing it!

I finally got a sales person who, thank goodness, spoke English. Turned out not to be a blessing. She was indifferent and inflexible about my options which were to keep the clothes and give them to someone smaller or return them to the plant in mainland China. My pleas that they’d sent the wrong size were denied. She insisted I ordered size 6. Believe me, I’m more realistic about my size than that. Again, I wonder if Chinese sizes don’t translate into English, or the other way around.

So today I had them all packaged up, address to tape on the box and tape to affix it, ready to return. Branch post office doesn’t carry forms to mail to China, and I fear it would be prohibitively expensive. I’ll bite the bullet, gives the clothes away, and pay for them. Costly lessons.

I guess life is still full of learning experiences, some good, some not so much so.

A flood and some trivia

Remind me to be a little cautious next time I exult about how much I love a good storm. Last night, rain which had been all around us final came—first big drops and then a really heavy rain and dark skies too early in the evening. The thunder continued, but we had no wind, no lightning. My kind of storm, and I was a happy camper. Sophie not so much. She was by my side, even if I went from desk to kitchen, a distance of maybe fifteen feet.

But then I happened to glance out the French doors—the patio and the back portion of the yard were under about three inches of water. I wasn’t afraid it would rise and come into the cottage—it still had about five or six inches to go before that. But the portion of the yard that was flooded became a sea of mud—it’s under trees, shady so no grass will grow, and we just hadn’t decided what to do with it. I was afraid Sophie would be desperate to go out, and I didn’t want her in the mud. My fear was reinforced by Jordan who texted from Dallas, “Don’t let Sophie out.” Long story short, Jordan came home, let her out, and watched to be sure she only went on the grass. This morning I called a landscaper for mondo grass.

We have two sinkholes in the yard where Atmos dug great, deep holes and then filled them in. With the rain, they’ve sunk several inches below the sidewalk. Of course, they aren’t yet covered with grass. Atmos will come back and do that. So far, the dogs have not gone near them.

Do you know about the Manitou Incline? Only a mile long, the arduous trail gains 200 feet from beginning to summit, a 68% grade. It was built years ago as a track for a cable car to carry pipeline supplies. No longer needed for that purpose, it has become a tourist attraction. My daughter and her family climbed it a couple of days ago. There are some things I’m grateful my lack of mobility won’t allow me to do. This is one of them, though I’ll probably never be faced with the opportunity gracefully decline.

Festive and fun supper tonight with Betty and Christian at a new wine bistro. We ordered scallops—they were out; we ordered ceviche—the chef didn’t like the look of the ingredients. We ate a charcuterie board and deviled eggs. Delightful!

Why did all this work pile up on my desk, while I was at dinner? And is that really thunder I heard in the distance?

A killer lunch and other food matters

In mystery writing, we talk about blatant self-promotion. The phrase tonight for me is blatant bragging—I cooked a simple lunch today for a friend (former student—love bridging the generation gap) who is a chef but now cooks on the line at Fort Worth’s Modern Museum of Art, which has an upscale dining room with a trendy menu. My menu today—fruit medley and open-faced sandwiches with blue cheese and a celery/scallion salad. Super easy—start with a piece of buttered toast.

Interesting sidelight: The recipe called for Pullman bread. I looked it up and on the old Pullman dining cars, they made bread with economy of space in mind—so the loaves were square in shape rather than the irregular shapes we give bread today. They were kept in metal containers, for freshness I presume, and containers could be stacked in the galley of the dining car. Not sure if Pullman bread is available today or not, but it sounded suspiciously like what I call cotton-candy white bread. I chose sourdough, which proves difficult to cut when toasted. We made it finger food, but my salad pieces kept falling in my lap. Need to work on that.

Take that buttered bread and cover it with slices of a creamy blue cheese—I used a Danish blue. Top with the salad: for two, mix 1 cup celery, thinly sliced on the bias; 2 chopped scallions, thinly sliced; olive oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper. Here’s the tricky part: microplane one garlic clove over the salad—we had a large clove and only used about half. At that the garlic taste was strong—we wouldn’t have wanted more. Stir to mix thoroughly.

My fruit medley was cantaloupe, blueberries, and nectarine. For a dessert, I defrosted a thick piece of chocolate Bundt cake—that standard recipe that uses cake and pudding mixes, eggs, sour cream, oil. Heather tasted it and announced that she detected another flavor besides chocolate—it was cinnamon. You grease the pan, then dust with a mix of sugar and cinnamon. After you get the thick batter in the pan, level off the top and sprinkle it with that mix. A family favorite around here.

A nice light ladies lunch, and I had so much fun with it I got out a couple of my recipe files and began sorting recipes. When I downsized my house to move to the cottage I even downsized my appalling recipe collection, but now I’ve got a good start on a new collection. Today though I went through the older recipes I’d saved and was amazed at how many of them no longer interest me. My cooking conditions and my tastes have changed. I’m not sure how to describe the change, but it’s definite. I don’t necessarily go for easier—maybe more unusual, less traditional; lighter, not heavy. After all, I’m pretty sure my days of cooking for huge crowds are over. Makes me only a bit nostalgic. And I know cooking without a stove or oven dictates what I fix.

It’s a sign not only of my recovery but the adjustment Jordan, Christian, and I have made to our new way of life that we are talking about entertaining again, and they’ve given their first big party in my house.

The only other note of the day: I was interviewed by phone for five minutes on KJON Radio in St. Cloud, Minnesota, where I know absolutely no one. Wouldn’t it be nice if I picked up a reader or two? The host was good about making my website URL quite clear.

Now it’s thundering, and Sophie won’t leave my side. Rain all around us but none here yet. One brief power failure sent me into a panic because I don’t know that I have any candles—besides my reading material is all on my computer. Here’s a thought I hate; what if I had to read traditional print? Me, who espouses the importance of doing books in print. Shame on me.

The Fourth, with all its glory

My Fourth of July feast for one—homemade potato salad, a hot dog with kraut (the way I like it), and corn on the cob. My family is off to watch the fireworks at the country club, a huge display, beautiful but noisy right on top of you. And crowded. At lunch today Jordan asked earnestly if I was all right staying home alone. If not, she said, she’d make it happen for me to go with them. Sweet of her, but the last thing I want is to sit on the ground (probably not physically capable, certainly not of getting up) in the midst of a huge crowd and have fireworks thunder in my ear. And stay out too late. No, I’m happy at home, with the TV showing Macy’s fireworks show but the volume muted—I can look but not listen.

I have friends who are staying home because, as they said, “We have dogs.” So many dogs are terrified, and the number of frightened animals who end up in shelters is appalling. Sophie bless her sleeps through the nightly display that ends each Concert in the Garden, not far from us.

Maybe being alone on a holiday makes you nostalgic, but I’ve been thinking about past Fourth celebrations. When I was a teenager, I went with the older kids to Soldier Field in Chicago where there were stock car races—amazed now that I found that entertaining. Also a bit amazed that my parents allowed those outings. But what was then a marvelous fireworks show followed—I suppose it would pale in light of advanced pyrotechnics these days.

When the kids were little I remember going to the 8^th floor of the medical school where their dad worked and watching the city display. Later, single, I took them to various places all over town with a good view—the parking lot of the same medical building, a bridge over the Trinity River (their uncle and I both suddenly became uncomfortable on that high bridge, and the kids had to lead us off). Traffic coming home was always a tangle, and it was a late night. One year I went with friends to a historic cemetery on the river—we had a good view. And for a few years I went to the country club with Jordan. But I really don’t like to have fireworks explode in my face as it were—makes me think my heart is going to stop with the next loud boom. I am content at home with my dog. I may watch on TV, but only with one eye—I’m deep into a good mystery, What You See, by Hank Phillippi Ryan. She’s a master at capturing tension—or maybe what I mean is angst.

Jordan, Christian and I went to lunch today at a relatively new place, HG Supply. I’d not yet been there. Split a club sandwich with Jordan—one of the best and most flavorful of those concoctions I’ve had. French fries were unusually good, and the lemon aioli/ranch dressing out of this world. Christian had Frito pie which was huge but looked delicious—I may try it another time if I can get someone to split it with me.

You have to park a ways from the restaurant, so I got some good walking in, albeit with the walker. We passed an attractively landscaped area that sent my antenna up immediately. “That’s not grass!” It was fake. Christian said he loved it. “You don’t have to mow or water.” Still protesting that it was fake, I said, “It’s not contributing oxygen to our environment,” and he replied, “That’s why they put in these other plants” which is clearly not true. They put in some succulents for appearance. Jordan, ever our arbitrator, commanded us both to stop, and Christian said, “Your mom always starts it.” It’s a good thing it’s all light-hearted. But, damn, that was ugly fake grass, a color green God never created. Makes me so angry!

Happy Fourth everyone. Go plant God’s green grass, water it, and mow it.

Computer blues…and cooking adventures

A shout out to Colin and Lisa Alter who were married 17 years ago today on the beach at Grand Cayman Island. Wish I had a digital copy of the wonderful picture of the entire wedding party, guests and all, standing barefoot in the water on the beach. Lisa always said she wanted to be married barefoot on the beach, and she was. In deference to her, we all shed our shoes. Colin looked adorable (oh, how he’ll hate that word) in a tux and bare feet!

My day was marked by computer frustration—formatting problems. As they always say, you have to turn the computer off and let it collect itself. I did that several times, and each time I turned it on either another problem had solved itself or I was able to solve it. Finally got that manuscript back to the editor for a second go-round.

The rest of the day was spent cooking. I’ve been cooking now for between forty and fifty years, yet every day I learn something new. Much of it has to do with adjusting to my current kitchen with a hot plate, a small toaster oven, and a small microwave. No stove. Tonight, I made a squash casserole. My kids always say I get into trouble when I don’t follow the recipe, and that was true today. I’ve made squash casseroles off the top of my head for years, but tonight I printed off a recipe and followed it—sort of. It called for Ritz crackers in the topping, and I didn’t have them. I used panko crumbs out of the freezer. First of all, not monitoring the toaster oven closely enough I burned the topping. Second, the combination of grated cheese and panko crumbs, when cooked, turned into something resembling concrete. The squash got swallowed up in it. Lesson learned. One squash actually made two casseroles, so I will take the topping off the remaining one and simply use grated cheese.

I also sort of followed a recipe for my loin lamb chop—I adore lamb, and those thick chops are a real treat. I could never afford to feed them to a whole family, but for just me they are a splurge. I sautéed it in olive oil and got it a tad more cooked than I like—I like it very pink in the middle. But it had a good brown crust. Took it out of the skillet, and added a scallion to the skillet. The recipe called for ramps—a pungent wild onion found in the East that tastes like a combination of onion and garlic. If I’d had a leek or a shallot, I’d have used that but I didn’t. Then I squeezed in a good-sized dollop of anchovy paste. I couldn’t tell a lot of difference in the lamb, but the scallion soaked up the anchovy and was delicious.

Bored on a long weekend? I recommend cooking. Now I’m off to read a mystery.

A disreputable relative…and a cooking adventure

If you know much about me at all, you know I’m inordinately proud of my Scottish heritage. I’m a registered member of the MacBean Clan—my maiden name was MacBain. You also know that I’m a staunch progressive liberal, lifelong Democrat, and appalled by our current administration and Congress. Today, on Facebook, I read that Donald Trump is descended from the MacBains—you can imagine my horror. Someone poohpoohed that, saying everyone knows the Trumps are from Germany. Not so. His father’s people may be German, but I just read an article that claims his mother came from Scotland as a young woman—not, as he claimed, on a vacation but as a young, poverty-stricken woman seeking work. She apparently found it, and a rich husband. God bless her for that. Sorry about her son. But do  you suppose his notorious greed and acquisitiveness is simply a manifestation of good old Scottish penuriness? Nah, I don't think so.

But this Facebook posting (which could be a joke, but I suspect not) drew MacBains out of the woodwork. Years ago I was told by a Scotsman that we were one of the lesser clans—you’d never know it by the responses the post evoked. And they ranged all over, from “Yippee! I’m related to the president” to “Every family has its black sheep.” Enough said about my response, except that my son-in-law laughed heartily and said it was the ultimate irony.

On a happier note, I cooked a full dinner in my tiny kitchen tonight—well, I did ask Jordan to boil noodles, but I made chicken in a creamy sun-dried tomato sauce and wedge salads, mostly because I had a head of lettuce to use up. The chicken sauce was flavorful but more like a thin gravy than a creamy sauce. I think Christian had the right idea when he used cream of mushroom soup with his pot roast the other night. We may talk about avoiding processed food, and it’s one of my big themes, but those soups make wonderful sauces. I’m toying with the idea of trying it again but making a white sauce and flavoring it from there.

I sort of devised my own recipe for blue cheese dressing for wedge salad. All the recipes I saw called for buttermilk, which I love but didn’t have. One called for a quarter cup red wine vinegar and a startling teaspoon and a half of sugar. I combined equal parts mayo and sour cream, added white wine vinegar (all I had) and a generous pinch of sugar to round it off—but not anywhere as much as that recipe called for. Plus, of course, lots of blue cheese. Got raves from my two guests, Jordan and Christian, and there’s enough left over for another wedge salad for me.

My family was out of town overnight last night, so no church this morning. Home alone, I got an amazing amount of work done. A good day. The week looms empty—Jordan has lots of social obligations, since Jacob is with his other grandparents—but I know somehow it always fills up. I’m a happy camper tonight.

The long holiday weekend looms

Can you believe it’s July already? We had such good, cool rain last night that it’s even harder to believe than usual. Still, the spring has gone by in a rush, which is at best a mixed blessing.

I got to wondering today why the word “looms” always jumps into my mind when I think about a long holiday weekend, and I realized it’s because when my kids got old enough to be independent, they went off and did their own thing for the holiday. I was used to a bustling household full of activity, and suddenly I had not just a weekend but a long weekend with no action at home. I used to get lonely and bored. I finally learned to counteract that by planning a lot of activities for me—Concerts in the Garden, meals out with friends, meals in with friends.

Jordan started early last week reminding me that I should make weekend plans. And I did.  Subie took me to Central Market today, which was a real treat. I had a medium-long list. We decided to take the wheelchair, because all the aisles of Central Market would be a long walk for me. We shopped the way Jordan and I do—grocery basket in my lap. First things we bought were two large cantaloupes, and as the basket got heavier, Subie joked I’d have bruises on my legs. I told her no, creases from the ridges on the bottom of the basket.

Central Market makes me feel luxurious, or pampered. I buy things I wouldn’t buy elsewhere. I love the fresh fruit and vegetables and have more confidence in them than in most stores. I didn’t buy meat or seafood today, but I never buy it anywhere else, especially in this day when chicken goes who-knows-where to be processed. Subie bought amazingly large and beautiful shrimp. My shopping list included creamy blue cheese (I found one that should do), pickled herring, lox—things I couldn’t get elsewhere.

We went home to pick up Phil, Subie’s husband, and head to lunch. An unpleasant experience: we went to the new Bread Winners in University Village, but when the young hostesses saw Phil’s seeing-eye dog, they said the dog couldn’t come in. Subie explained he’s a service dog, but they said some gobbledygook about corporate rules and it wasn’t their fault. Subie and Phil asked to talk to a manager, and one of the girls came back to report they had been wrong and the dog was welcome. We left anyway, probably won’t go back. Good lunch at Pacific Table.

My long weekend was further brightened when friends Sue and Teddy came for happy hour. We’ve been talking about mushrooms on toast for a while—my mom served that, and I think it’s a British dish. I said tonight was finally time for mushrooms, so for an appetizer, I served mushrooms sautéed in butter—nothing else, no salt or pepper even—and baguette slices. Just put the skillet on the table, so we could help ourselves. Really good but quite rich.

Lively conversation, but as they were getting ready to leave I asked Teddy to walk with me. Although he doesn’t practice now, he’s a chiropractor and knowledgeable about the mechanics of the body. I thought he’d be a good judge of how I’m doing walking. Big boost to my ego—they were both surprised and impressed at how I’m doing. (I was holding Teddy’s arm the whole time.)

So now I’m back to work. Finished the book I was reading, sent off an important email, and am ready to dig into another project. The weekend somehow doesn’t seem to loom so much tonight.