A literary visit and some progress

A most enjoyable coffee visit today with poet Cindy Huyser and author/publisher/marketing guru Deborah Winegarten (Katherine Stinson, Oveta Culp Hobby, and publisher of Almost a Minyan). I’ve known Debra two years or more through a small online writers group and met her once briefly, but I’d never met Cindy. They were in town for Cindy to receive a Will Rogers Medallion Award at the annual banquet last night for Bearing the Mask (Dos Gatos Press), the book of southwestern poetry she co-edited with Scott Wiggerman. The really neat thing about this award is that the judges told her the book didn’t fit their usual category—cowboy poetry—but they felt so strongly it deserved an award that they created a special category.

Our talk ranged through books and teaching young minds and books and caring for an elderly parent and books and Jewish food and politics and books—always there was the thread of books that holds us together. So often, with the people you know well and see daily, you don’t discuss the abstract, the different. You stick to semi-gossip and daily plans and the familiar. These two were like a breath of fresh air for me, and I’m grateful to them for squeezing me into their crowded weekend.

On another note, I am quite sure in any endeavor a little success encourages us to greater achievement—I know it’s true in writing, and I’m find it’s true in physical recovery. For a while this fall, I backslid on my exercises and my walking, discouraged by a brief hospitalization and a bit of irrational fear. But when I was about to decide I might never walk independently again, there came some glimmers of hope—a couple of new exercises that made sense to me, an improvement in my walking with someone to support me, the ability, just discovered, to rise form a chair without holding on (I do it ten times a day now), and the ability to move a little way from support, always touching something but without the death grip that characterized earlier attempts. I’m truly encouraged.

No Sunday family dinner tonight. The Burtons went to a fancy wedding reception, and Jacob and I had dinner, sort of. I had a lamb pattie and steamed carrots. He had broccoli. Turned down the sloppy Joe I had for him. He usually likes it but tonight took one look and said, “I’m not eating that.” So be it. Broccoli for dinner. No dessert.

Morning in the kitchen, afternoon with Bonanza

Spent the whole morning in the kitchen today and couldn’t help reflecting on the days when I casually cooked a meal for fifteen or twenty. Today it took all morning to fix a dinner for one—and it isn’t cooked yet, just prepped. And I have to say it’s not a complicated meal—lamb burgers with tzatziki sauce and some steamed vegetables.

But I wasn’t cooking the entire time. It took me a while to deal with the exploding ice maker in my freezer door. As I fixed a glass of ice water for the bedside table last night, it jammed so I just settled for less ice and more water and went on to bed. But this morning I opened the door and ice exploded all over the kitchen. And it was frozen into a solid lump in the chute that releases it. Every time I tried to push on that lump, it activated the water spigot and water poured out everywhere. On my lovely hardwood floor. I spent a lot of time mopping, ran for a towel (as much as you can run in a Rollator), swept up ice cubes, went back to mopping. Finally unstopped the icemaker, though I’m afraid to try it again.

I’m slow in the kitchen anyway. Not to whine, but it’s a whole different perspective to cook from a Rollator. Granted sometimes I can stand to get that oomph I need—the right angle on the lemon press or can opener for instance. But I’m not yet brave enough (or balanced enough) to take those two steps from work surface to cooking area or to sink. So chopping onion and parsley for the burgers, defrosting bread (no microwave—I just wait for it to air defrost) for crumbs, etc. took me a while. But I have four great burgers, will probably freeze three. The tzatziki didn’t take as long, and it smells so good.

Last night I made a tuna spread—possible happy hour guests today, though that didn’t work out. Anyway, I’m not sure I’m happy with it. I omitted the black olives, because I don’t like them, but that can’t be the problem. I may try more lemon and a little salt, but not tonight. I’m saving my appetite for that dinner. If a recipe isn’t quite right, it goes back in the folder for more experimentation or else is discarded. I won’t put anything in my someday cookbook that hasn’t worked out for me in the kitchen.

Got hooked on one of those links from Facebook about Bonanza. It purported to tell all the secrets Dan Blocker kept from the public. Of course, it didn’t, but it was an endless if interesting series of facts about the main actors and the show. I was hooked because a good family friend, now long gone but once my oldest son’s godmother, was Dan Blocker’s theater coach in college in Alpine, Texas. She was devastated when he died, and my then-husband drove her to East Texas for the funeral. If I recall, it was private and neither of them were admitted.

Another link to the show. At a Western Writers convention in Carson City, NV we met David Dortort, producer. He and my Jewish husband (that was their link) struck up a friendship. One evening, David called from his room—a glass had broken in his mouth (never did figure that one out), and his tongue was bleeding. Joel went to the room while my brother, sister-in-law and I waited to hear what he’d do. When he returned, he said, “I put toilet paper on it,” and my brother commented, “So glad we sent him to medical school.” Dortort, who is probably gone now, sent me a script to use as a model, and I submitted a script for Little House on the Prairie. His rejection was kind and helpful—it dealt with extraneous characters and not the focus family. Good learning experience.

Anyway, all that probably explains why I spent a nostalgic chunk of the afternoon with Hoss and Lorne Greene and Michael Landon and, yes, even renegade Pernell Roberts, whom my kids once accused me of having a crush on—when he was in M*A*S*H or a related show.

A nice if uneventful day

Fridays are the days Jordan and I go to the grocery and do other errands. For several reasons, today was more fun than usual though it started out with a frustrating errand. We had a bunch of prescription drugs, left mostly from my surgery, and some of them controlled substances. Jordan packaged them all up, took them to a fire station and was told they didn’t take them. So she went to a local police station—they didn’t take them but gave her the central police address on Belknap.

And that’s where we went this morning. Found a great parking space, but I was a little taken aback when she got out of the car and announced, too loudly, that she had to go around the car to get the drugs. I had a vision of her being mugged before she got inside. Turns out they don’t take them either and gave her an address on the North Side. Fortunately, there is a drug turn-in at several locations tomorrow, and so she’ll do that. Frustrating though when you try to be a good citizen and it’s so difficult. Wish the powers-that-be would just get their act together and settle on one place to turn in such things.

Then we went to the relatively new Tom Thumb near downtown. I really like this one—aisles are wide enough that I drive the motorized cart without fear of crashing into dumps, vegetables and meat are fresh, aisles are clearly labelled. I didn’t seem to have as much to get as usual, so we sort of whizzed through there.

And went to Eatzi’s. If you’re not from Texas, you may not know about these stores. The one in Fort Worth is new, but I had been years ago to the one in Dallas, which I found overwhelming. A friend said tonight the one in Houston is even bigger. But our local one is a good size—I felt like I could easily get around, even on my walker, and see everything. It’s all prepared, take-out food—great for happy hour entertaining or a last-minute supper, much of it upscale gourmet stuff. We ended up with green chile pimiento cheese (superb), Thai beef salad, and, for me, a salmon croquette. I suggested some night when there was no dinner plan, we should go get the twice-baked potatoes—huge and yummy looking!

Tonight, a group of moms of eleven-year-olds turned up in the cottage, wine glasses in hand, and we had a great visit—one of them was a girl Jordan went to grade school with that I don’t see often. And a couple of dads joined us briefly. After they left, I sautéed some Dover sole—love the delicate taste of that fish, but I’ll be darned if I can get it out of the pan without sticking. Result was that my dinner was delicious (added fresh green beans) but the meat looked like fish hash. Win some, lose some.

A good day.

Why do I write mysteries?

I’ve always said I write mysteries because I love to read them. But I am also the child of parents with a strong Protestant work ethic that they passed on to me. I have this conviction that I must be doing something to contribute to the greater good of the world. Writing light fiction just didn’t seem to do it. Occasionally I was filled with guilt—I should be writing inspirational pieces or doing groundbreaking literary research. When I wrote children’s books, I could comfort myself that I was helping educate young minds. That didn’t work with mysteries.

Today, unbeknownst to her, my online writing pal, Texas author and marketing whirlwind Devorah Winegarten, gave me a great gift. Writing to another member of our small writing group who is enduring several serious illnesses in her family, Debra wrote:

When I was going through a completely horrible period of four years, grieving my mother, watching my older sister slowly die of chronic kidney failure, my therapist encouraged me to find a genre to read that cheered me up and allowed me to escape the day-to-day waking nightmares I was living. Maybe there's something wrong with me, but believe it or not, I chose murder mysteries, and those tomes often saved what little sanity I still had. 

So to those of you who write murder mysteries and think it can't possibly change the world or contribute anything positive, I'm here to tell you that there were days that the only thing that kept me on this side of heaven was curling up with a nice murder mystery where I could go into someone else's world for a little while and get a break from my own.

Debra nailed it with the line about going into someone else’s world. That’s what I love about fiction, particularly mysteries. If I can give readers that alternate world into which they can retreat, I’ve done some good. Lord knows, I’ve retreated into those mysterious worlds often enough myself.

Between projects—or being lazy

Writing this as Jacob practices his clarinet not ten feet from me, so please pardon any mistakes. Sometimes it’s mellow, but then there comes that sudden loud, high blast. He gets sent to the cottage because one of the house dogs doesn’t like the music (I use the term loosely). Neither does Sophie—she barks at him.

You know how unemployed people tell you they’re “between positions”? A nice euphemism. Well, I’m between projects. Revised a manuscript, got it to the point it’s ready for my beta reader, and sent it off on Monday. Not quite ready to jump into another manuscript, though I have a vague idea of where I’m going. So I’m being lazy—more time fiddling on Facebook, lots of reading, lots of odds and ends—like how many subscriptions to Kid Sports Illustrated were automatically renewed? Three grandsons read and enjoy it, but I only got one gift card from them. And do I still have vision insurance? Ah, the details of life. Maybe next week I’ll start on a rough outline of the next novel—it will be a Kelly O’Connell Mystery.

Meantime I’m also social. Lunch out Monday and Tuesday. Today, lunch with two friends I haven’t seen in forever. We ate at Bravo! And I ordered a light lunch—cream of mushroom soup and salad, expecting a cup of soup and a small side salad. I was served a soup plate full of rich and delicious soup—so good, but just more than I expected. But we three did some good catching up—they both were with the Fort Worth Star-Telegram for years, so we talked journalism and writing and people in that field. Good and gossipy.

Tonight it was dinner at Fixture, where I have enjoyed many a lunch. I love some things on their menu, others not so much—too much kale. But I got a bit weary of it because they never changed the menu. I’ve decided that changing the menu from time to time is a plus for restaurants. When I checked online this morning, I discovered Fixture has a whole new dinner menu, with such lovelies as chicken and waffles, short ribs, shrimp and grits, and their classic spaetzle. So off Betty and I went. She can never resist shrimp, so she had that, while I settled for bruschetta with tenderloin, tomatoes, and greens. We had a really good chardonnay with it. Lovely meal. And lots of laughter.

Tomorrow I’ve got more odds and ends—my vote-by-mail ballot to fill out, two cooking magazines to browse, insurance to check on. I’m rather enjoying this vacation time.

Sugar, not vinegar

My mother was fond of aphorisms, and one of her favorites was, “You catch more flies with a teaspoon of sugar than you do with a cup of vinegar.” I’ve tried to live my life with that in mind, though I admit sometimes I’ve failed abysmally. Still, I think it’s a terrific guiding principle, and I am pleased my children seem to have gotten that message.

One of the things I’ve tried to teach my grandchildren—all seven of them, I’m proud to say—is to eliminate the word “hate” from their vocabularies. It’s a pretty strong, vulgar word, and I don’t see any need for them to say it ever. One smart sophist amongst them asked me if it wasn’t all right to say, “I hate it when my collar is too tight.” He knew full well and good I wanted him to eliminate the word in reference to people—and probably all living beings, even creepy crawlers.

I am disturbed at the level of hate in this country. Perhaps the white supremacists are the most outstanding public example, but I am particularly disturbed by the vitriol on Facebook about the Clintons and the Obamas. There’s also a swelling chorus aimed at 45, though it hasn’t reached choir proportions yet.

One friend posed the question of why, whenever something negative is posted about 45, someone chimes in with an accusation about Hillary or Obama. Why indeed? That has nothing to do with the subject at hand. If you are talking about 45’s behavior or decisions or tweets, accusing Obama of something is totally irrelevant. But such is the level of blind, unthinking hatred.

I shared a classy picture of Michelle Obama with a line that reminded that she is the most educated First Lady ever, with two degrees from Harvard and Princeton. Immediately someone responded, “Why is she so stupid?” Requests from me and several others to explain why the sender though Michelle was stupid went unanswered, leading us to believe the person didn’t really exist or was a troll or a bot (whatever the heck that is). But it all indicates a level of hate that I can’t imagine.

The people who hate—those who claim that Hillary is a criminal and should be locked up, that Obama was the worst president ever and ruined the country, the man who sees 45 as the Lord’s warrior (really?)—have no substance to back up their arguments. They just throw these statements into the mix and then accuse me of being a blind liberal. I have learned the hard way that it is senseless to argue with them, because facts mean nothing in their world. But it worries me that there are many in this country who harbor, even nurture, such emotions.

As for the level of hate on our streets, that too scares me. I remember the fear I knew as a child on the South Side of Chicago, and today I keep thinking how I’d feel if I were a black woman, watching my son, eighteen or twenty-eight, go out the front door at night and wondering if he’d come home alive. Will he be shot by an over-zealous law enforcement officer? Will he be the target of racial violence? As a female and a mother, I can understand fear a lot more than I can hate.

I don’t want to live in a country, a world where hate has such a strong presence, but I have no idea how to combat it. Hate is blind, unreasoning, the last weapon of the underdog. I pray for our country.

No more shaggy

You know how good you feel when you get a fresh haircut? It makes you suddenly realize how shaggy you looked before. That’s what happened at the Alter/Burton compound today. We got the trees trimmed—and there are a lot of trees on the property, including some magnificent oaks, one that I’ve watched grow into maturity since I moved here. We also have a black walnut (that’s what I was told), a hackberry that probably isn’t long for this world, a big old elm out front that anchors the house and I worry and pray about a lot, and lots of trees that started life as bushes and, before my day, grew into trees.

After the trimming, light filtered down onto the driveway through the open trees. Jacob said it looked “weird,” but I thought it looked wonderful. Our neighbors, Jim and Katey Carmical, will be glad that now their crape myrtles will get enough sun that they might bloom next spring. Our neighbor on the other side had a specific limb he wanted trimmed off a tree that obviously started life as a volunteer—it’s in a strange place for a tree—and that’s done. The tree men even rescued the football that’s been on the roof, in the gutter, for two or three years.

The crew was polite, careful, and meticulous about cleaning up. A good experience all around. Maybe tomorrow in the daylight I’ll get some pictures.

Today I also finished the major revision of my new mystery, tentatively titled “Murder at the Bus Depot.” I really like “Dealing with Delia”—fits the story but not the pattern of titles for my Blue Plate Café mysteries. I’ll send it to my beta reader in a day or two and see how he votes on the titles. After his suggestions—he always has wonderful ones—I’ll go back and do another revision read-through. Amazing the typos you find each time. The book will be out sometime in the spring.

You may think if I just finished it, it should be out sooner, but there’s so much to be done between “The End” and publication—beta readers, editor, formatting, advance copies, guest blog posts, etc. If I were smart, I’d plan an entire marketing campaign, but I don’t seem to be good at that. I went all out with Pigface and the Perfect Dog—publicist, guest blogs and radio spots, advance copies, big signing party, etc., and it’s disappointed me. Only one review on Amazon, slow sales, though those who’ve read it assure me they liked it a lot. If you’ve read it, I’d be grateful for an Amazon review—two sentences is plenty (I think Amazon wants twenty words). Okay, enough whining.

Nice lunch today with my beta reader (and friend and advisor of over forty years plus—he shepherded me through graduate school), his wife, and a friend we only recently found we shared. Lunch at our favorite deli, good conversation a little about writing and a lot about travel. I am not an easy nor avid traveler, but I do have a bucket list. More about that another time.

Time for chili

There’s a definite fall tinge in the air, a touch of cool in the early morning and even by early evening. I’ve taken to shutting my patio door except in the middle of the day, and I’ve finally mastered turning on the heat so I can take the morning chill off. In the wee hours this morning, we had a storm with good rain and truly impressive thunder. It was okay, because I was protected by one small, black dog who first barked at the thunder to scare it away and then slept right by me to keep me safe.

As we say in Texas, it’s chili weather. Fitting that Christian fixed chili tonight—a recipe he cobbled together from this one and that. I gave him one from the New York Times that is really complicated. Billed as a combination of chili and gumbo—the combination made me curious. Christian said he didn’t have time to do it tonight, and he couldn’t find the one from my book he wanted to do. It’s Dan Hogan’s chili, and I swear it has everything in it but the proverbial kitchen sink. What Christian made, his cobbled together version, was good and hearty with just enough spice. He complained he couldn’t find his red pepper flakes; I told him I was just as glad.

In case you all didn’t know, I did a book on chili a few years back. Texas is Chili Country is a history of the dish—no, it’s not from Mexico, an attribution Mexicans consider an insult. It began in the cow camps of West Texas. And no, it doesn’t have beans (Christian’s had beans tonight, and truthfully, I like them).  A lengthy chapter discusses the two chili cookoffs, which are about to take place next weekend in Terlingua, along with the reason that remote spot was chosen. This year is the fiftieth anniversary of the original chili cookoff, started as a publicity stunt by the legendary Frank Tolbert and his sidekick, Wick Fowler. It was more hijinks than serious, but these days chili is serious business—at least in the original cookoff. Not so much at the CASI cookoff. Chili cookoffs are not for amateurs—you have to win local contests to qualify. Anyway, you can read all about it.

And then you can prowl through pages and pages of chili recipes—seems everyone on the planet has their own recipe. These days you can cook fat free chili, vegetarian chili, chili with turkey and other meats alternate to the beef that started the whole thing. Fascinating what peple come up with. Shhh. Don’t say I said it, but chili is one of those dishes you can cook blindfolded without a recipe.

Pardon the sales pitch, but you can find the book on Amazon or from Texas Tech Press

Aside from the hearty chili and an interesting dinnertime discussion of childbirth with Jacob, it was a long Sunday. I so often have a much better social life during the week than on weekends, and sometimes long Sundays lull me into speaking out on Facebook among other things. I did today and found myself embroiled in several discussions. To my delight, my Megan chimed in a couple of times but once it was to second someone’s suggestion that I clear myself of haters. I think it’s a Facebook thing—people I know are not on my “Friends” list respond. Someone suggested they are bots—something else for me to learn about. At any rate, I continue to speak out because I think it’s important. Misused as the term is these days, I think speaking out about our government is patriotic (45 wouldn’t agree).

Some experiments just don’t work out

Sporting Baylor's green and gold. Real school spirit

Quiet Saturday night. The Burtons are in Waco for the Baylor homecoming game, though they plan to make it home before the storms hit later tonight. Right now, it’s a lovely night. Patio doors open, and in the distance, I can hear faint music and cheering from the TCU homecoming. Of course, in my mind, Jordan, Jacob, and Christian have gone to the wrong game, but Christian is a dedicated Baylor fan and my efforts to convert Jacob to TCU have been fruitless. His cousin, Ford, however, is a dedicated TCU fan.

Perfect night for an experimental dinner. I’d found a recipe for eggs poached in red wine. Since I love poached eggs, it seemed to have my name on it. I added some sautéed mushrooms, and it was okay but not the score of ten I’d hoped for.  Best thing about it was the baguette slices browned in garlicky olive oil.

Eggs in the pan

The eggs looked beautiful in the pan, not so much so when I dished them up. It tasted okay but just not the outstanding and unusual dish I’d hoped for. I may work on it another time.

The final dish

Basting the eggs with wine gives them a funky color

A light supper was okay, because I had a hearty lunch. This morning I was working away when Jordan came out to announce that Christian had taken Jacob to a soccer game and did I want to go to lunch. So I showered and got ready. We chose Press Café where we could eat outdoors and enjoy the lovely day—temp in the 80s, slight breeze, comforting cloud cover. I had a cheeseburger—and I can’t believe I ate the whole thing! Usually I bring half home for a future meal, but this tasted really good although it was not quite cooked according to my request.

We drove around the new shops at Clearfork, Fort Worth’s new ultra ultra (and expensive) shopping center anchored by Neiman Marcus which alone tells you something about it.. There are restaurants there, but I will avoid many of them because the price is so high. I have my eye on one though that seems to have an interesting menu and reasonable prices. I had no idea there were so many shops back in there.

Came home and napped—that glass of wine with lunch! But I got a good thing accomplished today—the November neighborhood newsletter, the Poohbah, is ready to go to the printer as soon as I get answers to some questions I unearthed in the copy and approval of some bold changes I made in the minutes. Nice to have that out of the way.

A long email from a treasured and longtime friend who lives way too far away completed my day. She nailed it, said what drives us both is a northern European Protestant work ethic. Read that as we are two compulsives. Martha and I were in graduate school together in the sixties---shh! No comments about how long ago that was, please—and we gravitated to each other immediately. We were both in the English department and had another thing in common—our fathers were both presidents of osteopathic medical colleges. Ours is a friendship that has endured over long distance, with a few wonderful visits, for over fifty years. Such is rare and to be treasured.

A really good day. I think I’ve got my oomph back.

It’s all Facebook’s fault—and a tasty dinner

I’ve been absent from Judy’s Stew for at least a couple of days. I posted a whiney blog two nights ago but I’m not sure it made it on to Facebook, and I figure that’s how most of my readers get to the Stew. For some reason, Facebook would not let me post anything with a link. I was somewhat relieved to post that fact and find out that several others had the same problem. So last night I didn’t post because I didn’t think Facebook would let me link—and I didn’t have anything remarkable to report.

Not that I do tonight. This has been a week of doctor appointments and a little work and not much else. But today I was much more energized, although still didn’t get much of my work done. Jordan and I went to the grocery—always an outing I enjoy—and to Local Foods to pick up lunch stuff for me. I did odds and ends at my desk and did take care of several details that were nagging at me.

Ever since I was in the hospital, I’ve been bothered by a loss of appetite, sometimes severe, sometimes not so much so. Gradually, though I’ve felt it returning and, with it, my interest in discovering what I can cook in the cottage and what I can’t. We’ve worked out a routine—Jordan orders Fresh Home meals for two nights, and I cook for one night. The rest of the time we either eat out or catch as catch can. I am perfectly comfortable scrambling for leftovers in my freezer. Indeed, there are things in there I really need to cook—like a lb. of ground lamb that I want to do something creative with. Tomorrow night I will eat at home alone, and I am a bit excited about the dish I’m going to try—eggs poached in red wine and served with herbed crusty bread. Plus, I think I’ll cook some mushrooms in that red wine.

But tonight, ah tonight. Red beans, sausage and rice. Christian asked me why I decided to cook that, and I told him it was because I thought he’d like it. A bit of a mix-up: I forgot to buy the beans at the store last week, so Jordan brought me canned beans. Wouldn’t do. Christian got dried last night, because you have to cook them from scratch to get that good pot likker. I followed a really easy recipe this afternoon, and we had a slightly spicy but really good dinner. Not hard to do, and a recipe that goes in my keeper file.

But it was a hectic evening. Neighbors came to sit on my patio and stayed till 7:30, at which point I was inside cooking the rice to go with the bens and sausage. Then Jordan had five little boys, including Jacob, to feed. We finally ate in shifts after 8:00. But that’s the kind of confusion I associate with happy family life, and I enjoyed it. Again, the cottage is a plus—I simply excused myself from the patio when I felt so inclined.

Jordan just brought me a chocolate chip cookie, still warm from the oven. What a nice way to end the day.