My Thoughts on the War Against Women

            The internet chronicles so much anger and indignation over what’s going on in legislatures in Georgia and Ohio, Mississippi and Alabama—and throw in Texas where one faction wants to rescind the rape exemption for abortion. It seems redundant of me to want to chime in, but I am so outraged that I cannot keep quiet.

I come at this topic from the perspective of an infertile woman who thinks the ability to bear a child is one of the greatest gifts God can give anyone. My feelings about that are only overcome by my unshakeable belief that every woman should have control over her own body, and what another woman decides is none of my damn business. I am grateful that none of the four girls in my family ever put that attitude to a test.

If you study this issue online—and I would urge you to—you know the arguments behind women’s outrage. Man are acting as gynecologists and assuming an expertise they don’t have; they’re obsessed with punishing women for tempting them (a bit puritanical and certainly misogynistic—though they never admit it); they accuse woman of heinous acts without knowing the emotional trauma that accompanies a miscarriage, a late-pregnancy fetal death, a stillbirth; and there’s the classic argument that once the baby is born the state abandons both it and the mother. Look for instance at the statistics about children in Georgia. Finally, there are so many contradictions and such illogic about the presence of a heartbeat, the way men would have us treat a fetus with a heartbeat as opposed to laws governing the treatment of a brain-dead individual with a heartbeat.

Sunday, for Mother’s Day, our senior minister preached on the strong women of the Bible and the value of women. I applauded his message, but it made me sad when so much is being done in our nation to undermine women’s roles. When I said the war on woman contradicts the love that Christ preached, someone said to me, “I don’t know. Abortion is not a loving act.” That in-the-box, traditional, conservative thinking drives me wild.

Very few if any women use abortion as a form of birth control. Nor do they wake up one day in their fifth month and decide willy-nilly they don’t want to be pregnant after all. Abortion is not a whim like going to get your hair cut. When I was a teenager, abortion was too often illegal, dangerous, and fatal to the mother—and it was done for reasons of “saving face.” Today that reason no longer exists—having a child out of wedlock is not a scandal to most people. Today, abortion is often an act of desperation—to save a mother’s life, to terminate a nonviable pregnancy, to spare a badly damaged fetus a life of pain and suffering. I don’t know statistics, but I am convinced that for most women miscarriage or abortion are emotional traumas that they carry with them for life. You never completely recover. And instead of showing Christian love and compassion, men want to punish.

For what? For being human? For being a woman? That they dare to couple their draconian measures with Christianity is, for me, the ultimate outrage.

I don’t personally believe in hell, but I do believe in karma. My concern is for the women who will suffer today and tomorrow while we wait for what goes ‘round to come ‘round. I think the least any of us can do is vote to retire old white men who have been in power too long and elect men and women of compassion and common sense.

Mother’s Day is a wrap

And a lovely Mother’s Day it was. On this day each year, I think of many women—my own mother of course who raised me with love and laughter and taught me to love cooking. She’s been gone thirty years, and I still think of her every day, hear her laughter at some of life’s absurdities, miss the constant presence she was in my life. For years after I lost her I talked to her, and I still wish she was on the other end of the phone so I could say, “How do you cook this?” or “Who is that person in this picture?” or “Remember when….”

I think of course of my daughters and daughters-in-law, mothers of seven children between them, each with her own style but each doing a terrific job raising my grandchildren. I am grateful for them, grateful for their love and the open way they admit me into their families.

And I think of the biological mothers of my four children, women who were brave enough to carry their pregnancies to term and loving enough to give their children to others who would, they hoped, be able to raise them better. I hope I have fulfilled their wishes. I worry about them—do they think about their babies on Mother’s Day? Christmas? Birthdays? I know just a smidgen about each, but a part of me wishes I could reach out and reassure them. Another part of me though is fierce about the fact that the children are mine!

Then there’s Bobbie, who came into my life late for both of us. Thirteen years older than I, she was half soulmate, half mother. We “got” each other like not many do, a wonderful relationship. Hard to believe but Bobbie has been gone probably eighteen years.

It was a lovely day—I talked to each of my three distant children, went to church with Jordan and family, and had an enjoyable supper with Christian’s parents and his sister and family. Bummers were a flat tire on Jordan’s SUV this morning and leaving my leftovers in the restaurant—I had looked forward to meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans tomorrow, but alas, no!

Sometimes I think I am an accidental parent. Oh, of course I played with dolls as a child, but I never really thought about having children, even when I first married. I thought God took care of those things, and if babies came along, fine; if not, that was okay too. But I had the great good fortune to marry a man who desperately wanted children, and babies did not come. Long story short, we adopted the four, and they have been the center and focus of my life for fifty years now. I have always known that writing and publishing came in a distant second to motherhood. One thing I won’t say, though, is that my children are my whole life. I hear other women say that, and I think it places a horrible burden on the children.

I get a fair amount of praise on the job I did of raising four mostly as a single parent. They turned out to be wonderful people—fun, kind, caring, good citizens, great parents (oh, okay none perfect but nothing worth talking about). But I turn the praise aside with the comment that it was the luck of the draw—or sheer dumb good luck. I really don’t think I can take credit for them, but I can and do bask in their love. And as I age, I am so grateful for their care and concern. In some ways our roles have reversed, and I rely on them for advice and guidance. Lord knows, Jordan does much more—all the little pieces of living that I can’t master from a walker.

I am one damn lucky woman.

Who touched the thermostat?

Last night Christian stood in my living room in his overcoat and complained, “These are my winter clothes.” Then he added, “But I haven’t turned on the heat.”

Texans will brag about a lot of things, but one is heat and air conditioning. It seems to be a point of pride to hold out as long as possible before turning on the a/c on in the spring or the heat in the fall. And turn the heat on in May when it should be warm? Perish the thought. It would show weakness.

I had, as I mentioned, turned the heat on in my cottage the night before. The low that night was fifty, and I saw no sense in being miserably cold. When I asked Christian why he hadn’t turned it on in the house, he grinned as though it suddenly dawned on him and said, “I don’t know.”

Tonight my ceiling-mounted units—I forget what they’re called? Ductless?—are still set on heat. Jordan came in, threw open the door, grabbed the remote, and said, “We need a little air stirring.” I told her, quite calmly, that the heat was on and if she’d just turn the unit off all would be well. When she disappears I’ll turn it back on. It’s a constant battle between us—I swear she has Mediterranean blood and is always too warm; my thin Scottish blood make me sensitive to cold.

But when I went into the house for supper, the a/c was on full blast. “It was stuffy,” Christian explained. Maybe so, but it was also chillingly cold. He turned it off for supper.

I suppose that holding off on regulating our temperatures is environmentally sound because it uses less resources. But I don’t think that’s why most people do it.

Apparently, the same logic—or lack thereof—doesn’t apply to cars. It has been chilly again today, and Christian reported that he and Jacob were running errands and it was cold enough he turned on the heater in the car. Then the sun came out and things heated up, and he switched to a/c. Then black clouds rolled in, and he went back to heat. How spoiled are we?

I’ve been doing some research on life in North Texas at the turn of the 19^th century—their method of air conditioning was to put lots of windows in a house and try to capture a cross breeze. Heat was from fireplaces, although many burned coal—think how dirty that was—rather than wood and were later converted to gas.

The a/c makes me think of my mom. We had a window unit in an upstairs bedroom in our house in Chicago where summers could be stifling. Mom would open the house to the early breezes in the morning. Then at the first hint of heat, she’d pull all the blinds until the house was dark. That one lone unit went on, with the theory that cold air falls and it would send air shooting down the staircase to the first floor where we had our living and dining rooms and kitchen. The other bedrooms upstairs—my parents’ and mine—got no benefit. But come dusk, Mom opened up the house again.

Tonight my friend Subie was coming for dinner, and Jordan and I combined to create a great meal. Subie called at the last minute to say she had been struck by a sudden stomach malady, so we dined on plentiful portions of hamburger Stroganoff (my morning occupation) with noodles, green salad, broccoli for Jacob who adores it. Jordan really wanted cheesecake. Her argument was that she doesn’t often, if ever, eat dessert, but for Mother’s Day she wanted cheesecake. Last I heard they were going to Braum’s to fulfill her wish. I retreated to the cottage.

Happy Mother’s Day to all. It doesn’t take giving birth to be a mother. I am an adoptive mother but no less fierce about my children than biological mothers, and I know countless childless women who have done more mothering of nieces, nephews, and strays than those of us who raised children. Love is what makes a mother. May all such women be recognized with love tomorrow.

Winter in May

Not really, but it sure felt like it all day. Last night was one of those nights I tossed and turned and couldn’t go to sleep—unusual for me. Finally dawned on me that I was cold, so I turned on the heat. A blessing about the cottage—all I have to do is reach to the bedside table for the remote control, turn on enough light to put it on sunshine instead of snowflake—that is so not intuitive—and turn it on. Slept wonderfully the rest of the night. This morning I turned it off thinking the day would surely heat up soon. Wrong. I was pretty quick to turn the bedroom unit back on and then the living room—a double whammy I don’t even use much in the darkest days of winter. Still I have felt cold all day.

Weather was crazy all over. My oldest granddaughter is at Colorado University in Boulder, and her mom posted on Facebook that graduates there did not throw their hats in the air—instead, they threw snowballs and ended up with a rip-roaring snowball fight. My daughter-in-law in Tomball, near Houston, reported that schools were closed because of high water on the roads. She’s a teacher, and today is her birthday, so a day off was like a gift to her but for all the wrong reasons. Their little lake had crept up over the lowest level of patio but receded by this morning. I can’t even imagine the road to their house—it’s rutted and difficult on the best of days.

After my iffy night, I was up before seven to wash my hair and get my day going before leaving at 8:40 with Jordan to take Jacob to school. He was bummed to hear that his Tomball cousin didn’t have school today, but he was still the most cheerful of the three of us in the car. Jordan and I did a quick grocery shopping—so quick that I have a list already of the things I didn’t get.

Lunch with my writing pal Carol—we share a love of local history, although she is much more knowledgeable than I, and we always have lots to talk about. I am now researching what I hope will be a new book someday, and I am realizing with regret that in downsizing I gave away a lot of books I need. Carol has become my lending library. When I asked for one book, she said yes, she had the copy I got rid of. I now have it on extended loan. But there are others. When I find them cheap on Amazon, I’m buying books I once owned, but I balk at paying $15+ for a slim paperback that I wrote and now can’t find. It’s probably in the storage locker, but that’s so much trouble it’s easier to buy it.

We went to Swiss Pastry Shop, renowned for its Black Forest Cake, though neither of us had that—we had bratwurst and potato salad. So good—but we were seated at the far end of the restaurant and someone in the adjacent store was remodeling, with great loud and constant buzzing noise. Distracting to say the least.

I didn’t get that much done all day between grocery and lunch and nap—just worked in fits and bits. But late this afternoon I got more done than I had all day—mostly taking notes from a book Carol had brought me.

Tomorrow more rain. I swear we are all going to wash away. Hard core climate change deniers are probably rejoicing at the cold weather and rain, claiming is disproves climate change, but of course it does just the opposite.

Stay dry and warm, folks.

A dark day

‘Twas a dark and stormy night—truly it was. The gods were holding a bowling tournament in the heavens—that was my mother’s explanation for thunder when I was a child. Maybe because of her approach, she raised two children who like nothing better than a good storm. I love to cuddle down in the covers at night and listen to the thunder rumble.

Sophie, no so much. In the wee hours this morning, she jumped up on the bed and made herself a nest, forcing my legs to curl around her. And she has looked pretty miserable all day today. Just now, with the thunder long gone and the rain stopped hours ago, she declined my offer to go aside. Her look said, “Really? You’d make me go out there?” I’m going out to dinner in a few minutes, and I’m afraid she’ll have to go before I get back. I just bribed her with the promise of a treat, and she went outside.

No doubt it was a fearsome storm. This morning when I sat down at my desk, I saw that Christian’s prize bougainvillea, always perched in a big, heavy pot on the corner of the deck railing, had blown down. He came out shortly and put it back in place, but when the skies grew night-dark again, he came out and put it down on the deck. It was so dark and raining so hard about nine this morning that it was truly spooky. Rain continued most of the morning but was gone by tonight.

As we went to dinner tonight, we could see that traffic was really backed up on University Drive, so we went the back way. Jean said a major sewer line had popped its top and was gushing water onto University. Apparently, a problem common through the area, where runoff in several locations created major problems.

We have had a problem with dirt from the front yard washing onto the sidewalk in storms. There’s a slight slope, and the lantana I planted in one spot is not flourishing enough to hold the dirt. So yesterday the yard guys put mulch on it and edging around it—you guessed it? There’s slippery mud on the sidewalk again. Jordan took pictures and sent them to the owner of the yard company, who responded with “Yikes!” Not sure where we go from here on that one.

Looks like we have a bit of sunshine and then more rain. Always grateful.

Nice dinner tonight with Betty and Jean. Perfectly cooked scallops with Caesar salad at Pacific Table. I had read an article about drying scallops before cooking—probably what made me want them—but there were great. More salt and pepper than I would have used, but it made them just right.

End of a long day. Sophie is glad to see it gone, and so am I.

Domesticity

Quite a bit of domestic doings today at the Alter/Burton compound. Jordan was at work, so I presided over it all.

Sophie had a spa day, which means she begins barking and dancing the minute the Whisker Washers trailer pulls into the driveway. Then she has to wait patiently while Bobo hooks the trailer to the water and gets it ready for her. She’s been scratching badly lately—especially in the early evening, she gets under the coffee table, which is just right for her to rub her back. I give her Benedryl, and it stops it within a few minutes. So I asked Bobo to check for hot spots, and he found one full-blown, two developing. Says the shorter hair and getting more air to the area should clear it up. I hope. Sophie is now zonked out, exhausted from her grooming.

The yard crew appeared. I thought they were supposed to put deconstructed gravel in the driveway groove and along the new fence, plus dig out one more corner for gravel and decorative grass—our solution to those corners where grass just won’t grow. Instead it looked to me like they were shoveling brown old plain dirt on top of the lovely sand-colored gravel. I called the owner, and he said that was gravel—they just had to wash it. Then the foreman knocked and said it was wet gravel and would lighten as it dried. Who to believe? It is turning light now but will likely get deluged tonight. Far as I can tell, the “worker mans” (a granddaughter’s term when she was very young) didn’t do any of the new stuff. They did fix the spots in front where the dirt washes onto the sidewalk and creates a slippery, dangerous condition. We worry about children walking to school.

Every other Tuesday a wonderful woman named Zenaida cleans my cottage—makes the bed, does the laundry, all the things I can’t do. We always look forward to her visit, and today I was especially anxious for her to vacuum because the pecan tree over my patio is shedding those little green worms. They stick in Sophie’s coat, and she brings them in the house. I cannot begin to tell you how many I have laboriously picked up with my grabber, and Jordan has vacuumed. Still they come. Jordan blows them off the patio, and by the time she gets the blower put away, the patio is covered again.

So this morning, when I got word Zenaida would not be here, I had to make my own bed (perish the thought) and wash last night’s supper dishes which I had lazily left in the sink. Maybe she’ll come tomorrow.

I’m enjoying food threads on Facebook immensely, especially the NYTimes Cooking Community. But recently someone asked what to do with pork stew meat, and it seemed like a thousand people responded, most with the same suggestions: posole, carnitas, green chili stew. I wanted to shout at them to read the comments before adding one and avoid duplication. Only one person suggested kraut and potatoes, which seemed like a no-brainer to me.

Now on a page called All Our Scottish Memories, there’s a thread about whelks, which people either relish or despise. Somehow you eat them with a pin—haven’t figured that out. Naively I asked if they were the same as escargot, and someone replied no, they were whelks. So I looked up whelks—it’s a generic name for edible snails, so I’m sure it could cover escargot but not whatever people were pulling from the Scottish seas. They didn’t look too appealing to me, and I am rethinking any fondness I ever had for escargot.

I sense an uneasy air of expectation tonight. All is still, but storms are predicted for early morning. We’ve had this prediction often lately, only to come to nothing. I figure it will catch up with us one day soon.

For sure a stay-at-home day

Did something I never do today—cancelled a lunch date I was really looking forward to. I anticipated good conversation with an old friend and good food, even had two places to suggest, both of which made my mouth water. One was fried chicken, the other chicken salad on a croissant. But my stomach hurt, which of course made me jump to the worst conclusion—some terrible G.I. problem. I was somewhat comforted when Jordan came out to the cottage and said her stomach was sore too. Tonight she tells me it’s just coincidence, but she doesn’t think I poisoned us with last night’s meatloaf with Stroganoff sauce. So guess what I’m having for supper. Yeah, leftovers.

Funny how not feeling a hundred percent can take over your day. I didn’t do much except dog paddle to stay current all day. Did get an encouraging response from the editor to whom I submitted a proposal—she had a couple of questions; said she liked the approach and will get it to the editorial board this month. I know that’s how things are done in a properly run press, and I am grateful—and encouraged. On my to-do list this week is to continue reading on the subject of that proposal. Plus create a Pinterest board for Gourmet on a Hot Plate and review my web page.

Jacob has his first fly fishing rod, thanks to his Aunt Dylan, and he is thrilled. Now I’m treated to the sight of him casting in the backyard almost every day. Tonight he came in and appeared to be casting in my living room.

Lovely sunny day today, but we are in for storms, probably not tomorrow but for sure Wednesday. Spring in Texas.

Patio and book day

Jordan and Christian worked on the yard this afternoon. It’s that time of year when the pecan tress drops those “worms” all over. You can blow them off in the morning and by mid-afternoon, the patio is covered again. Sophie, with her woolly coat, brings dozens of them into the house—this morning I could follow a trail where she went from French doors, down the hall, and into the bedroom to get into my still-unmade bed, where she dropped more “worms.”

Jordan was so proud that she cleaned the patio while I napped, but by the time I got up, it was littered again. She spray-painted our two metal flamingoes. The paint had been the subject of great controversy. Jacob painted the small one a year or so ago, with a Pepto-Bismol spray paint that was way too pink. I insisted we go to the hardware for a better shade, but that was all they had. So our big flamingo is now an unnatural pink.

I am reminded of my friend, Carol, a purist about many things who once complained, “Why are all my friends’ gardens sprouting this tacky Mexican tin art?” Guilty!

We sat on the patio tonight for a pre-dinner glass of wine. Lovely, peaceful, and green—but those worms dropped all around us. Luckily, none landed in the wine.

Sometimes I feel Sunday is a good day to dedicate to a book, and that’s what I did today, reading most of Ruth Reichl’s Save Me the Plums, the title taken from that marvelously intimate poem by William Carlos Williams. This is Reichl’s memoir of her tenure as editor-in-chief of Gourmet magazine. I wouldn’t call it charming, but I would call it mesmerizing. She is honest and frank about her own insecurities as she ventured into the corporate world, one where she was never completely at home. She admits to anxiety attacks, feelings of inadequacy, guilt about her mothering skills—all this makes her so human.

The memoir is in a way an exposé about corporate America, the kind of revelation that makes me grateful for my small-time, no-pressure, no-big-success writing and publishing career. But it is also a book about food, and Reichl is a skilled food writer, one who can talk unselfconsciously about carousels or explosions of flavor in her mouth, bread that makes you think of a forest on a sunny day, flavors that reverberate. I think I’m a fairly adventuresome eater, but she relishes things I would never try, like squid guts and cod sperm.

A few recipes are scattered throughout the text. In spite of the exotic food she eats and her extensive knowledge, the recipes for such things as jeweled chocolate cake or spicy noodles are easily accessible for the average home cook, a thing she kept in mind during her years at Gourmet.

As in most of her books, the shadow of Reichl’s mother hangs over this one. A troubled woman who suffered from grandiose desires and frequent depression. As Reichl enters the Four Seasons restaurant, she remembers how her mother loved going there for a martini and wished they could afford to go for dinner. It made me realize I under-appreciated the one time in my life that I dined in that hallowed spot.

But there was also Reichl’s father—a quiet, gentle man, a book designer with a marvelous understanding of typography and the importance of the interior of a book (or magazine) but also a clear recognition that cover art was not his forté.

Reichl’s style is casual, chatty, friendly. Reading her memoir is like reading a novel, only you know the end—and it’s not good. I haven’t quite gotten there yet, but the handwriting is on the wall.

Me? I wish in another life, I could have a career like Reichl’s, only without the corporate pressure. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

Weekend musings

Saturday night home alone. I seem to have a vibrant evening social life during the week, but Friday and Saturday nights find me home alone. Not really a problem, but there’s something psychological that says, “No work. It’s the weekend.” Tonight I made myself a good dinner that didn’t come off quite as wonderfully as I expected—a large tossed salad, with too much dressing; I used to tease Jordan about salad soup, and tonight I’m guilty. A quick pasta dish, but I got the proportions of butter and pasta water wrong—too much butter, I fear. There I go again with that faulty logic that if a little is good, a lot is better. I used spinach fettucine because I had it—but also for taste and eye appeal. And I find I like grated pecorino better than parmesan in most pasta dishes.

I rarely have the TV on in the evenings, and I would tell you I have no interest in watching horses run around a big oval—except that maybe I think it’s an abusive use of the horses. I went to the horse races once in Kentucky—and found that a race was over almost before it began—turn your head, and you’ve missed it. Did not interest me, and I hated the thought of losing money on a bet—first major argument of a marriage that was later to go really wrong. The derby didn’t seem quick though tonight—in fact, it seemed endless. I was holding my breath for the apparent winner and sad to hear he was disqualified. For the horse crowned winner, it seems a less than glorious way to gain that crown.

Jordan and Christian went to a derby party tonight—a cancer benefit at somebody’s mansion, and I know she wore a huge hat. But in an out-of-my-mind moment I pictured them in the rain at that terribly muddy track. I enjoy seeing everyone in their hats, think some of the picture hats are attractive; others are way overdone, and the fascinators are plain silly.

Election returns are another reason to watch TV tonight. I’m not sure if local elections are widespread or not, but we had them in Fort Worth. Jordan and I voted early this morning at the athletic building at the local high school. I usually vote by mail—didn’t register in time this year—and although I try to vote in every election, I don’t get too wrapped up in local politics. Until this year, when I decided change begins at the local level. I tried to study the candidates, asked a friend who is knowledge about local matters and also agrees with my thinking. So for once, I cast an informed ballot in a local election. Now to see what happens. Probably nothing. We didn’t get to vote on many elections in our precinct—mayor, council member (unopposed, but I like her), and the water board. I had hoped to vote for the school board and the local community college There’s a polling place in the school right across the street from us, but the precinct line goes down the middle of the street, and we have to go eight or ten blocks to vote.

Nothing else on my mind tonight. Time to read a book. Happy Saturday evening, everyone.

Stay-at-home days

These spring rainy days have been stay-at-home days for me. Saturday night, I went to bed with a dog pressed firmly against my back—it was thundering terribly. Jacob said the next morning he couldn’t sleep and was awake until three, but when I mentioned thunder, he said, “What storm?” Gotcha!

Last night wasn’t as fierce, but I was glad to stay home and have happy hour company—my friends Subie and Phil brought her sister, Diana, who I knew years ago but haven’t seen in forever. A good time—and, yes, some talk about politics, but also other rollicking good stories. Like Diana’s flight scheduled into Love Field the night that the garages there flooded. It was a hair-raising story of finally landing in Austin about one in the morning and taking what sounds like an Uber to Dallas. I thought it either brave—or foolish—of her to undertake that drive with five people she didn’t know. She arrived safely in Dallas at six a.m.

Tonight storms were again threatened, so both Betty and I opted out of dinner, which left poor Jean with no company. She wasn’t interested in coming for a glass of wine until I mentioned that I had some really good potato chips (Trader Joe’s) and dip. We had a good visit, and now after ten, the rain still hasn’t come, though Sophie is showing signs of staying close to me. I suspect a storm is not far away.

Tomorrow I have a lunch scheduled with a friend who is weather sensitive, but he says he wants to keep our date. Storms aren’t expected until late in the day. Spring in Texas is always uncertain and often unpredictably stormy. I love it.

Yesterday I sent off the proposal I’ve been working for some time, so I’m sort of between projects which always makes me edgy. Not that I don’t have things to do. I determined today I would write a newsletter and start a Pinterest board for Gourmet on a Hot Plate. I managed to keep busy without ever doing either one, so they are on my list for tomorrow…and tomorrow. The blog tour for Gourmet on a Hot Plate has turned out to be quite successful, and I’m delighted—besides having fun with it. A woman posted tonight that she had tried the recipe for carnitas and loved it. Music to my ears.

If I run out of busy chores there’s always that culinary cozy I started—I’m not sure where it’s going, and neither was the beta reader who so generously read the first 20K words. Meantime I am reading a lot and highly recommend NoBODY, a novella by Susan Wittig Albert. She focuses on Ruby Wilcox, a secondary character in the China Bayles series, and explores the idea of the paranormal. Done with great skill, it’s absorbing reading. If you’re a fan of China, as I am, you’ll be entranced with the novellas—there are at least two to follow.

I hear the first faint rumblings of thunder. Time to curl up in bed and keep Sophie safe. Be careful out there y’all.