Politics as usual

 

I don’t know about you and your political affiliation, but I suspect what I’m experiencing is true of you too. I guess it’s because I support liberal candidates financially, either when I’m feeling a bit flush or in some moment of political concern like the Dobbs decision, but I am deluged these days as the midterms approach with appeals for money.

Some are desperate: “We’re packing it in, giving up.” Others are bullying, “If so-and-so doesn’t win, the [other party] will be in control.” Strange how many contests, especially for the Senate, depend on just one seat. Lots of appeals cite “one-time matches” and yet I see them more than one time.

And the inconsistency: one day they’re ready to pack it up, but the next they are triumphantly reporting that their candidate is “surging,” or “gaining two points,” or even “leading by two points.” Of course, it’s too early to put much faith in polls, so I ignore these. And then I get emails that say, “We’re crying tears of joy,” or “Trump bawled when he read this.” You just must take everything with several large grains of salt.

I am leery of PACS and seldom respond to the emails, which often have blaring, boldface warnings and dire predictions with lots of exclamation points. What bothers me is that a few of them may really be doing good work, but they hide it behind the flamboyant, demanding presentation. Those are also the ones that often make you feel guilty: “We haven’t had your response!” or “Does Judy Alter not want to support so-and-so.” Katie Porter of California is one of six legislators who does not accept PAC money, and I support her.

The mailings I most dislike: polls. They want to ask your opinion on a certain topic, and I am always glad to share that. But say it’s a question about environmental concerns, you answer, even choose the dots for one or two opinions, and then the email becomes a series of such dumb questions, the answer so obvious that no one, but no one, needs a survey. And of course, finally, you find yourself confronted with a screen demanding to know if you want to give monthly (I never do, because I’ve known the bookkeeping to screw up) or a one-time gift. If I give, it’s always a one-time gift.

For years I thought I’d just wait and donate closer to the election, when who needed the most support was obvious. But lately I’ve been impressed by ads that include a reminder that giving now does much more good than the week before the election.

So I’ve settled into my routine, which is pretty unorganized. I give sporadically to a group of candidates that I think I want to support. Lately my list includes Val Demings in Florida, John Fetterman in Pennsylvania (love that he won’t wear a suit), Raphael Warnock in Georgia (can anyone in their right mind vote for Herschel Walker who gives all the signs of brain damage from too many hits in the head), Mark Kelly in Arizona (thought his emails are for some reasons particularly annoying), Michael Franken, the U. S. Navy retired admiral running to defeat the aged and infirm Chuck Grassley.

I have to remind myself that federal elections are not all that matters and to pay attention to local races, especially in Texas. Who controls our state legislatures matters a lot in daily life, and in Texas, we sure need new blood.

I’ve read lately about the divisions in both our major parties. I could not care less if Republicans fight among themselves—oh, okay, maybe I do care because it’s a sign that some are moving away from blind loyalty to trump. But I am concerned about divisions in the Democratic party at a time when solidarity seems most important.  The big concern to me is whether Joe Biden should run again. A good friend said to me tonight that after all, he is 84 and would be close to 90 at the close of his second term. I think that’s a common misconception—he is 79. No spring chicken to be sure, but he has accomplished so much for this country, that I am leery of abandoning him unless he himself decides to step down, which he had said he would do when he ran.

I think Biden has a magnificent vision for this country, one that would restore us in the way that FDR’s New Deal did in the thirties, restores the middle class, give every American a chance, not just the one percent. But he’s been stymied by a Republican congress and one recalcitrant Democrat—Joe Manchin. Biden has faced a looming economic recession, a pandemic, our destroyed international reputation, the Russian invasion of Ukraine, a near crisis in the environment, domestic terrorism, a rogue Supreme Court and the destructive Dobbs decision, and he’s dealt effectively with each of them. His rising employment numbers have kept us out of recession, his diplomacy has managed to restore out international reputation left in shatters by the former guy, and to contain the Russian invasion by assembling European nations as allies.

I also think that Biden’s own low-key personality betrays him. He hasn’t been as forceful in the public eye as even Obama. He makes me think of a guy who goes quietly and efficiently about his work, ignoring criticisms. But he ought to get before the public more, and I think he’s beginning to do that.

Before we succumb to the stereotype of ageism, let us look long and hard at the individual and his accomplishments, not his age, and make a rational decision.

And my question: who would the nominee be if not Biden? It’s time for Democrats to stop bad-mouthing their leader and pull together.

Oops. I’ve preached far too long.

Shortcut cooking

 

Last night I made a good, light summer supper—turkey tonnato (tonnato is a tuna/anchovy/caper sauce served on cold meat) and panzanella, a bread salad (no lettuce). Refreshing, different, and not a lot of work. But since I’m deep into food research into the 1950s and what they called convenience cooking, preparing that meal made me think about the difference. Everything I used last night was “from scratch”—or the meal was what some all “scratch cooking.”

By contrast, the 1950s saw the rise of convenience food, packaged food, frozen food. Everything from TV dinners to cake mixes. The goal was to have the housewife spend as little time and effort in the kitchen as possible. This was an era when women were easing into the workforce, not to replace men gone to war but on their own. Two female journalists recognized that women were stressed to cook dinner after a long day at work, and they determined to make cooking easier. You may never have heard of these two: Peg Bracken and Poppy Cannon. Each one is known today, if at all for one cookbook title, though they had varied writing careers  

You could say that Peg Bracken, a free lance journalist, lucked into a niche when she started writing about food. Her best-known book is The I Hate to Cook Book. Her recipes assume that the reader knows something about cooking and might even enjoy it. Bracken herself denied hating to cook. But she wanted to help women spend less time creating a really good meal. Taste was not inconsequential to her. One recipe I remember was Stayabed Stew—you threw stew meat, carrots, sliced potatoes, celery, onion into a crockpot. Add a can of condensed soup—tomato, cream of mushroom, cream of chicken, your choice—and dilute with two cans of water. No need to sauté the vegetables first nor brown the meat. You put it all in a Dutch oven, put it in a slow oven, and cook five hours. Probably at that time Bracken did not have access to those packages of frozen stew vegetables we see in the groceries today—remember despite the introduction of frozen food, not many homes had freezers. Bracken also apparently did not have a crockpot or slow cooker.

The fiftieth anniversary edition of The I Hate to Cook Book was published in 2010 and is still available.

Poppy Cannon wrote several cookbooks, including one for brides, but she is remembered for The Can Opener Cookbook. Whereas Bracken wrote for the housewife and really left her in the kitchen, Cannon, in person a sophisticated and well-traveled diner familiar with good food, wrote for the career woman who might be hosting a gentleman for dinner or a small cocktail party. Cannon knew that woman didn’t want to dally in the kitchen. So she invented shortcuts—a vichyssoise made with mashed potatoes and cream of chicken soup or espagnole sauce made of Franco-American canned gravy with a dash of Kitchen Bouquet and a splash of brandy. Cannon’s recipes often lacked exact measurements and gave vague directions such as “stir like crazy.” She believed that presentation was important—I can hear my mom telling me food is half eaten with the eye—and she particularly loved flaming dishes and those she could prepare at the table. Sometimes at dinner parties, she’d bring the necessary appliances—a mixer, an electric skillet, whatever—to the table so that she could cook before guests.

These cookbooks today are pretty much read for amusement rather than actual cooking directions though I maintain that some of Bracken’s recipes are pretty good. It’s like the Facebook page titled Disgusting Vintage Foods—what some find disgusting is a treat to others, salmon croquettes being a case in point. At any rate it occurs to me that the era of convenience food and shortcut cooking paved the way for the dramatic foodie revolution that followed, led by such luminary cooks as James Beard and Julia Child. Perhaps another blog about them another time.

Meantime, happy cooking!

A rough day

 

Jordan welcoming Jacob home from camp.
Yesterday, but I didn't get the picture in time for last night's blog.
Love it, love the smile on his face.

This, I decided, would be a lazy Sunday. No work. I would read the book that will be discussed in a group tomorrow and I should have read much earlier—getting something accomplished but not really working, not pushing myself. These hot days are hard on all of us. Even my cottage gets hot, and that almost never happens.

So the day went as planned until about one-thirty, when two things happened simultaneously: Jordan came out, obviously upset, because a strange man rang the doorbell and stayed on the front porch a long time. She and Christian were home but didn’t dare move about the house because the front door has glass panes and no covering. Christian was trapped in the room off the living room, and she in the bedroom. Jacob had just driven home, saw the man, called, and she told him not to come in because she didn’t want the man to follow or attack him. So Jacob drove “surveillance.” I dutifully called the police and then put it on the neighborhood listserv. The man went up and down the street, apparently stealing a bike and a package, stood in the middle of the street waving at our house, walked up the driveway we share with out neighbor. Clearly he needed help. He was here about an hour, and we never saw the police. Jacob thought he was probably on drugs.

Meantime, Jordan had been out to the cottage earlier and done something at the kitchen sink. I saw water on the floor, figured she’d splashed a bit, and put a paper towel over it. When I looked again the paper towel was soggy. I’ve had trouble, too much trouble with that faucet, and the last couple of days I noticed I had to push hard on the handle to keep it from dripping. So I intended to call the plumber in the morning. Now I called in the house, and Jordan sent Christian out—who found that everything under the sink was wet. He cleaned it up and turned off the water.

So now I have no water in the kitchen. You don’t realize how many times you start to wash your hands or rinse something. Tomorrow night I have company coming for a light supper—and a discussion of the Supreme Court—and I planned to cook in the morning. Plumber gets the first call. And we’re going to talk about a totally new fixture instead of repair. This is not the first flood I’ve had.

So dinner in the house tonight—steak and baked potatoes. I tried the British method of baking potatoes, as I mentioned last night—cut a cross in the top instead of poking holes all over, bake two hours at 400, take out of oven and deepen the cross, and bake ten more minutes. They were fluffy and good—and I do love a good baked potato. Steak as flavorful and cooked just right—Christian is so good at grilling. They announced that this summer Jacob should learn to grill—Jacob look uncertain about that, but I think it’s probably a great idea.

So tonight I’m going to finish off what should have been a lazy day by reading that book! Stay safe, everyone.

Some plans go awry

 

This started out to be a great cooking weekend, but somehow it went amuck. Okay, not somehow—I know what happened.

Last night Jordan and I welcomed Renee, a minister at our church and a good friend. We planned a girls’ evening, and I came up with an experimental light supper—I had the idea, and Jordan carried it out beautifully. She mixed flaked tuna with tabouleh, topped it with lemon, avocado, and good Greek yogurt. Then she put a dab of hummus on the side of each bowl. Delicious, looked gorgeous in the bowl, and so filling! Anyway it was the cooking success I hoped for. Tonight not so much.

Jacob came home from two weeks at Sky Ranch camp tonight. That is, Jordan and Christian drove to Van in East Texas to pick him up. He had been on a bus from Colorado all night. The plan was to have a welcome-home celebratory dinner, and Jordan chose carnitas for the entrée, because that’s something he likes. First mistake.

I make carnitas the way a man who once worked in my office taught me—simmer cubes of pork butt until the liquid disappears and the meat gets crusty. That makes a simple boiled pork dinner, but if you season the water, you get carnitas. I add onion, garlic, orange peel, bay leaves oregano, cloves, a cinnamon stick—I guess that’s all. I’ve made it a lot before, and usually it turns out great, but tonight the liquid would not cook down no matter what we did. I figure I made two mistakes: too much liquid and not long enough cooking. Easy enough to correct next time, and there will be a next time because I ordered 2.5 lbs. of beef in cubes and got 4.35 lbs. So I have leftovers in the freezer. And to add to my discontent, the one-inch cubes I requested were big hunks of meat, so I spent a lot of time cutting them into one-inch cubes. Next time I will be firm in my request. Another lesson learned: my knives need sharpening, even my big, good chef’s knife.

And then Christian suddenly had to go to Plano for a memorial service for a high school friend. So that dinner for four planned for seven o’clock? Three of us sat down at almost eight-thirty, and I have to say our tempers were a bit testy from hunger. We do have good leftovers for lunch tomorrow.

Jacob responded easily to questions about his camp experience—he loved it. No swimming, which astounded me. Why go to camp if you don’t swim? They did play soccer, football, baseball, etc. They also had Bible study—Ephesians, but he was a little shaky on the content when asked. That’s okay because I’m a bit shaky too. We both know that Ephesians is letters Paul wrote while in prison.

But for me the big disappointment came when he talked about group singing, which he apparently enjoyed. I asked if they sang “Kumbala,” or “Michael Rowed the Boat Ashore,” and he looked at me blankly and said, “I don’t know what those are.” They sang country songs, like “Country Roads” and others I’d never heard of. So I guess we’re even. But it makes me sad to think that those songs, which I always thought generations sang, are fading from memory. Jordan challenged me to sing “Michael Rowed the Boat Ashore,” but I may just have to find a rendition online for her. And I bet Jacob has no idea who Joan Baez is. Travesty.

So tomorrow night, one more experiment: I read about baking potatoes the British way. Two hours in a 400^o degree oven. Instead of poking them all over with a fork, you cut a deep cross in the top. The long cooking time makes the skins really crisp. Then you take them out, cut the cross deeper, and return to the oven for ten minutes. This is supposed to make the potato meat fluffy. We’re having steak tomorrow night, so I’ll report on how the potatoes do.

My day was work—I wrote 800 words, which is really good for a nonfiction project—and I napped and made carnitas. And that sums up the day. I did finish a new mystery which I thoroughly enjoyed: Murder in G Major by Alexia Gordon. An African-American classical musician is stranded in a small Irish village and challenged with transforming the rowdy musicians of the local boys’ school into an award-winning orchestra. But along the way she shares a cottage with an absolutely charming ghost and uncovers a lot of old murders—and some new ones. Will hers be next? Good story. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

One never knows what tomorrow will bring. Sweet dreams, everyone.

The patriotism dilemma

 

Yesterday, President Biden presented the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the highest civilian honor our country bestows, to seventeen people, people he said “demonstrate the power of possibilities and embody the soul of the nation—hard work, perseverance, and faith. They have overcome significant obstacles to achieve impressive accomplishments in the arts and sciences, dedicated their lives to advocating for the most vulnerable among us, and acted with bravery to drive change in their communities—and across the world—while blazing trails for generations to come.”

There were names I did not recognize but many I did—Gabby Giffords, the representative from Arizona who, a gun violence survivor, crusades for gun control; gymnast Simone Biles; creative genius Steve Jobs (posthumous); Khizr Khan, the Gold Star father who advocates for religious freedom; gymnast Megan Rapinoe, an advocate of equal pay, racial justice, and LBGTQ rights; the late Senator John McCain; actor Denzel Washington. You may recognize more than I did, but my first thought on reading the list was how proud it makes me to be an American, to be represented by these people who have accomplished so much not just for themselves but for our country and out people. It made me feel patriotic.

But there’s the rub. I don’t feel patriotic much these days, and the uncertainty is a feeling I remember from the days of George W. Bush’s presidency. I am not always proud of my country. Don’t get me wrong: I love the United States. Despite my jokes about Canada and Scotland, there’s no place else I’d rather live. Shoot! I don’t even want to move from Texas, and it takes a mighty effort to be a proud Texan these days with our out-of-control extremist governor and high-ranking officials. But I am not at all of the “America, love it or leave it” mentality. I think that’s a cop-out.

In an online group I belong to a few days ago, I saw a blog about the dilemma of patriotism (I can’t quite remember the exact title). At first, I thought, “Aha! Someone shares my dilemma, and I read it eagerly. The writer is a psychologist and tackled the subject by addressing groups and their importance. Being patriotic, she wrote, gives us a sense of belonging to a group. It makes us feel safe and valued. But the trouble with groups is their tendency to ostracize those who are “different” in some ways. And there, she came close to the reason I cannot feel a hundred percent patriotic.

I cannot be proud of a country that openly and covertly practices racism, isolates LGBTQ citizens, discriminates against women, devalues the elderly, and has the highest rate of deaths by gunfire of any civilized nation, topped only by Brazil. I cannot be proud of a country where an extreme religion is gaining more and more control over our lives. I cannot be proud of a country where much of the population remains blind to the threats of climate change and the desperate need to save our environment for the sake of the entire world. I cannot be proud of a country where recently at least a third of the population swore fealty to a con man, a demagogue known to be a liar, cheat, sexual predator, politically ignorant, blustery—you come up with the rest of the adjectives.

What am I proud of? A country with a history, sometimes glorious, sometimes despicable but a country that until recent times tried to be honest about its past, tried to learn and grow. A country that values the individual, values truth, does not hide from its glaring mistakes but tackles them, a country of kindness and caring people. I want the day back where teachers could teach what they as educated experts deemed important and not what bullying parents want; I want the day back when women’s medical care was a private thing between her and her doctor; I want the day back when librarians, using their education, could shelves books they thought important without government interference; I want the day back of social networks and government services that provided for the least among us.

Right now I’m doing some research into the 1950s, mostly culinary. It was the decade that saw the introduction of preserved and convenience foods, of weird foods such as all those gelatin salads, a time when women may have worked outside the home, but they were primarily housewives. That decade in many ways teaches us to be grateful for all the progress we enjoy today. But in 1950 we had just won a huge war, the men were home (most of them), our international reputation was high, our economy booming (where do you think the term Boomers came from?), and our country optimistic. Nobody quibbled, as they did this year, over whether or not to fly a flag on the Fourth of July. We were all Americans, and we were all patriotic. (No I’m not blind to the Korean War, McCarthyism, the nuclear threat which was then new—but I’m talking in generalities).

Someone posted the other day that in these trouble times we must all love each other, to which I retorted that was great but would do little to tame a rogue Supreme Court which is rapidly destroying democracy. But maybe I was hasty—maybe that’s where change begins. But time’s a-wasting, and we better hurry. The future looms, and I’m not always sure I can be optimistic—or patriotic.

 

 

 

Summertime books and the larger world picture

 

No blog last night partly because it was one of those “I have nothing to say” days, but also because I started a new and charming cozy mystery and let it hold my attention. Murder in G Major, by Alexia Gordon, is first in a series of four Gethsemane Brown Mysteries. Gethsemane is an African-American classical musician stranded in Ireland by lost luggage and a lost job opportunity. To earn enough to get back home, she accept the challenge of shepherding a rowdy boys school orchestra to a championship. A cliffside cottage is offered, and she moves in, unaware that it is inhabited by the ghost of a composer she has always much admired. He wants her to clear his name of the murder of his wife and his own suicide. The Irish setting is fun, Gethsemane is a compelling character, and the ghost is a pure delight. The covers to all four books are gorgeous.

But that’s a digression because my real announcement today is that Finding Florence is now available from Amazon Books in trade paper or as an ebook. Finding Florence: An Irene in Chicago Culinary Mystery - Kindle edition by Alter, Judy. Mystery, Thriller & Suspense Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com. This is Irene’s third adventure, and Henny definitely has mixed emotions about having her back in town. Irene’s friend, Florence, has died, but when Irene asks about a service, etc., it turns out that Florence’s body is missing. Irene is obsessed, and Henny’s life is a mess, torn between helping Florence and struggling to keep her job as a TV chef. The character that surprised me in this novel is Irene’s lover, the mysterious billionaire Chance Charpentier, also the father of Irene’s twenty-year old daughter, but that’s another story from a previous book. Chance turns out to be a perfectly charming, take-charge kind of a guy. Who knew? I’m so excited about this that I’m already planning Irene’s next adventure in my head—she’ll visit Texas, though she despises Texas food. Which reminds me, the new book has both recipes from Irene, French of course, and Texas recipes from Henny’s mother’s kitchen.

This morning I woke up thinking there is not a thing in the world I have to worry about today. I’ve planned an easy chicken salad for supper, I have leftover meatloaf for lunch, Sophie is well and happy (no chicken bone problems), I know what I have to do with the project on my desk. Of course, I forgot about the heat—but since I’m not out running around it doesn’t bother me.

But what I forgot about big time was America as it is today, with a rogue court handing out disastrous decisions and a Republican Party determined to cling to authority at the cost of democracy. All that hit me as soon as I booted up my computer and checked the news. Do you read, “Wake Up to Politics”? It’s an online column by Gabe Fleisher, a college sophomore in D.C., Georgetown U. He’s been writing this bipartisan column since 2011 (which makes him pretty young when he started it). Today he ran down a list of potential 2024 challengers to both President Biden and trump, and I have to say everyone on the Republican list, from Ron DeSantis to Ted Cruz, scared the heck out of me. Check it out if you’re so minded.

Jordan comes home this evening after a few days in Key Largo, with several girlfriends at the family home of one of the girls. (That's Jordan in front with green glasses, and no, those aren't MAGA hats!) Good get-away for her and some needed relaxation. And Jacob is still at camp, but Christian and I seem to have survived nicely. I’ve cooked quite a bit, got lots of work done, had plenty of visitors. My world does look good—now if we could just do something about the bigger picture.

It’s a dog’s life

 

On this uncertain Fourth, Sophie is much on my mind. I have always known that if you love a dog, your life is theirs, adjusted to their needs and schedules. Tonight, I have turned down an invitation to watch fireworks from Jean’s seventeenth-floor apartment with a grand view because I don’t want to leave Sophie home alone. I read that one in five dogs disappear on July Fourth, frightened by the fireworks. Sophie, who is afraid of thunder, shows no such fear. The door to the patio is open, and distant fireworks sound all the time, perhaps from the country club. Sophie however is lying by my bed—perhaps the only difference is that she is in the back of the cottage rather than up here where her usual sleeping spot is.

She did the unthinkable tonight—ate a chicken bone, the thing we are always cautioned against. So far she seems fine, though I may be in for a rough night, just because I will worry. Instinct tells me she will be fine—street dogs eat chicken bones a lot and survive, and Sophie has in the past proven she has a cast-iron stomach. She once eight an entire large log of goat cheese. I feared a terrible night, but she showed no symptoms. Not too long ago she ate a basket of baguette slices—not just one slice, but the whole blasted basket.

Just to be sure tonight I called the emergency vet clinic and asked if I should feed her bread. They said yes, but they said most dogs can digest a chicken bone. So I’m watchful but we’re both okay. She is not in any apparent distress right now. And she wolfed down the bread. She is one of those dogs who is always hungry.

On other fronts, we’re not okay. Our internal clocks are not synchronized. I seem to have moved the whole day forward an hour our two—I sleep later in the morning and go to bed later at night. Soph, on the other hand, has moved her day backward—she who used to sleep until eight wakes me like clockwork at 5:45. And at 4:30 in the afternoon, precisely, she wants her dinner. Now, at ten o’clock, she’s apparently down for the night. This night she is not in her usual safe spot between the coffee table and the couch but is by my bed.

Maybe focusing on Sophie keeps my thoughts off Independence Day. In a small online writers group I treasure, several women said they could not celebrate when women have lost their independence and others are in danger of losing all freedom as the rogue Supreme Court chips away at life as we have known it in a functioning democracy. As I’ve said before, I’m not ready to give up, but I am appalled by the ignorance of comments I see on Facebook. One to the effect that we should all be nice to each other and everything will be fine—such a platitude, when we are faced with proof that a segment of our elected officials, including the highest in the land, tried to overthrow a legitimate election. Being nice is not going to cut it with people who do that. Another person suggested that we don’t need trump or Biden as president and how about Nikki Haley, Mario Rubio or Mike Pence. Political partisanship aside, far as I can tell, none of them are anywhere near qualified. Rubio is struggling in his re-election battle in Florida. Pence has become almost an invisible man, still reluctant to turn on the man who would have let a mob hang him. And Nikki Haley is surely not the caliber we need for our first female president.

What I’m trying to say is I wish Americans would open their minds, explore the issues, learn about the candidates, make informed decisions. I know I have strong opinions, so strong that some people are offended, and I know not everyone will agree with my judgements. But I don’t want to hear platitudes. Read Heather Cox Richardson and “Wake UP to Politics.” Listen to almost anything but Fox News. In this age of information, there is so much out there out there for us to learn. And it’s so important to be alert to lies and distortions—I suspect there are once again Russian bots trying to influence our upcoming elections, and I know not all politicians are honest. Too many simply try to stir up trouble and accuse the other party, without offering a solution of their own.  It’s important, perhaps more so now than ever, for each of us to be an informed voter.

Lecture over. Texas is so dry that the Fort Worth city fireworks started a grass fire, even though crews have been watering the area for days. So the show was cancelled. I sure hope it’s not an omen.

A fantasy dinner

We must celebrate the Fourth, our Independence Day,
so that our children and grands may grow up free in a democracy
in control of their bodies, their votes, their natural resources.
God love them all.

For some time now I’ve moved this recipe to the front of my “try this week” selections—and then moved it back again. It just didn’t see like the right time, or it sounded like too many strong flavors for my mood, or maybe I was just lazy. But tonight good friends came for happy hour. The original plan was that I would go to supper with them, but I wasn’t sure how reliable my stomach was, and I forgot to ask Christian to clear the driveway, so there were two cars, impassable on my walker, between me and an outing. It was all for the best, and I was okay with it. But I had no dinner plans.

I saw them all off to a restaurant that makes extraordinary fried chicken and asked that they bring me back two pieces, which they did—they will be tomorrow night’s dinner, with potato salad, for Jean and me. But what to eat tonight? I had a sudden idea—that sardine recipe I’d been moving about. Of course, when I wanted it, I couldn’t find it and had to print another copy out.

It may have sounded good to me because my long-ago husband used to make a sardine spread I really liked. He claimed it was an old Jewish recipe, and maybe it was—or not. I’ll never know. But he mashed sardines with lemon, onion, salt and pepper and spread the mix on rye toast. It was really good.

But the recipe I found tonight was for toasts—you toast artisan bread (I used five baguette slices) and the minute it’s hot from the oven, spread the bread with a cut garlic clove and then a thin layer of butter. Follow that with thinly sliced tomato, lightly salted, and then sardines (mine came out of the can in bits and pieces but that was because I had trouble opening the can—I cannot do those ring lids! Not enough strength in my hands). Then thin slices of onion—I used the sweet onions I’m so enamored of this season. Salt and pepper it all again, sprinkle with lemon juice and drizzle with olive oil. Who needs basil on top of all those strong flavors—I ignored that part?

First of all, it was hard to eat—drippy. Second, that garlic was really really strong. Omigoodness, I’m still reeling. And when Carol came to bring me the chicken, I warned her to keep her distance. In this day when we’re all so fearful of Covid, she stepped instinctively back, as though she thought in the hour and a half since I’d last seen her, I’d developed Covid. I said instead that I’d eaten a lot of garlic, and she said “Yes, I smell it.”

I’m not sure it’s a dinner I’d repeat often, but it was really good. Another time I’d go lighter on the garlic. And the sardines in the fridge? Maybe I’ll make Joel’s spread out of them and raise a toast to his memory.

Meantime, tonight, fireworks are bursting all around us. I think it’s too early to be those from the concerts in the garden, so I gather individuals are gaily breaking the law. Sophie is not at all bothered—though thunder bothers her a great deal. Interesting to me that she can distinguish between the two. I don’t remember her ever being nervous on the Fourth but there’s been so much publicity about taking care of our animals, I thought I should watch carefully.

Over my long life I have been to more different fireworks celebrations than I can even remember beginning with my teen years when church friends and I went to Soldiers’ Field in Chicago for stock car races and the fireworks. Can you believe me folks let me do that? These days I never again want to go, never want to hear them bursting right over me—it makes me feel like my heart is stopping. But for some odd reason I find a certain satisfaction in sitting in my cottage and hearing them—even though I know many are illegal. Hope not many people lose eyes, fingers, noses, etc. tonight.

It's a funny year to celebrate Independence Day. There’s a wide belief abroad that we have no independence—mostly due to recent decisions from the rogue Supreme Court—and that we have nothing to celebrate. I believe we have to celebrate the country we were meant to be, that country idealized in our constitution, the land where each voice matters. Granted today, that seems a futile dream, but I am optimistic. We can’t turn tail and run. We have to stay here, celebrate democracy and fight for it. Okay, I’ll get political: Vote Blue! It’s the way to defeat those we would tear down our democracy.

Time Out

 

Sophie was mad at both Christian and me over
the small matter of flea medication. So she
was very glad to see her best friend, Jean.

Do you ever just take a day off? No, I don’t mean a day off from your job. I mean a day off from your life. Yesterday morning, I decided to cancel the world for the day. I didn’t feel sick, but I felt awful—exhausted, no ambition, not hungry, didn’t’ know what I wanted, but sleep sounded good. So about eleven-thirty I crawled back in bed and slept for an hour and a half. When I woke, I ate a piece of toast, cancelled the German potato salad dinner I had promised to cook for Christian and the friend who was coming for happy hour. I went back to bed and slept the afternoon away. Dinner was two scrambled eggs—and even that sat uneasily on my stomach—and I went to sleep early for me, about ten. Slept ten hours, if you don’t count getting up twice with Sophie and a couple of times for the bathroom. This morning, I had my groove back—hungry, ready to work, looking forward to cooking dinner tonight.

What happened to me? I think that old word, stress, covers it. I had about decided that the book I’m working on, which is projected to come in at 75,000 words would probably be 20,000 at best and that’s a stretch. The back of my legs hurt because I’d leather-burned them and taken a top layer of skin off during the extreme heat—so much for shorts when you have a leather seat on your walker and your desk chair. And, most of all, the world around me made me tired.

Do you read Heather Cox Richardson’s almost-daily column, “Letter from an American?” If you don’t read it, I highly recommend it. When I looked at last night’s column this morning, her words jumped at me: she wrote that it’s been a difficult week and called it “freaking exhausting.” And then she signed off. That was it for me. “Freaking exhausting.” Yesterday, was the first I read about the probable decision of the rogue SCOTUS in the fall which will hand control of elections to the states. I read a complicated article that projected that such a decision effectively threw out the popular vote, handed the choice of electors over to state legislatures, and rigged the election for the Republicans. Today I read a fantastical projection on that scenario that forecast riots in the street with rogue militia groups shooting protesting citizens, thousands of our citizens dead, and the president (projected to be DeSantis if the law goes into effect) declaring an emergency and ending all elections. Fantasy? Hopefully so but remember (most of you are probably not old enough) how fantastical George Orwell’s 1984 seemed when it was published in 1949. And much of it has now come true.

I am truly scared beyond belief. Someone has to do something about this out-of-control court which breaks precedence with every decision. Their decisions go against popular opinion, but I don’t know that it’s written anywhere that they must listen to the people. But it is established that precedent dictates the law of our land. And they are flouting it.

Beyond that, if I can get beyond it, today was a good day. I worked on the book but without the sense of urgency I’d felt all week. I’ll take it bit by bit—and some days those bits come hard—and see what happens. Only when I’ve exhausted all the notes I have and the new research I can do, will I begin to worry about the length. Maybe I can add a whole lot of pictures.

Tonight Jean came for supper, and Christian joined us for happy hour. Wide-ranging conversation about many topics including Christian’s experiences as a child model and TV actor, politics, and I don’t know what all. He elected to go to the movies with a friend and so didn’t stay for supper. If he had, I’d have fixed the potato salad I didn’t fix last night, but Jean and I had green shakshuka—poached eggs on a base of spinach flavored with onions and garlic and topped with queso fresco, avocado, and cilantro. Served with squeezable limes. So good, even if we did get the eggs a little harder than either of us wanted. Traditional shakshuka poaches eggs on a seasoned tomato base, but the green is a lovely alternative. Jean chided me when she looked at the recipe because I left out the jalapeno. I always do.

And here’s my nostalgic look back at Jacob’s young years. I am quite sure he was heartily singing, “Who Let the Dogs Out?” because we sang that over and over until I thought I would scream. The rest of the family thought it was hysterical, but I was weary. Today it’s a memory I treasure.

Bookish stuff

 

It’s good when big publishers stand up for bookstores. Simon & Schuster has launched a campaign to help independent bookstores fight back in this time of banned books. Participating indies will receive “Read banned books” merchandising kits, with material to be used in stores and online. There will be special discounts for banned S&S titles, such as Maia Kobabe's Gender Queer. The publisher reports that in recent months the number of its titles banned and/or challenged has increased by 46%. The list includes such classic titles as Joseph Heller's Catch-22, Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451, and Ernest Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises, along with a wide range of children’s and young adult titles, including are Judy Blume's Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret, Jason Reynolds and Brendan Kiely's All American Boys, Stephen Chbosky's The Perks of Being a Wallflower, and many more.

The campaign will be a summer one in advance of Banned Book Week which is September 18-24.

Banning books is a funny thing—well, no not funny, because it limits minds, especially children’s. The first banned book I remember is Lady Chatterley’s Lover, which no doubt seems tame today. Published in Europe in the late 1920s and not in England until 1960, it was the last book written by D. H. Lawrence (think Sons and Lovers). When an unexpurgated version was offered in 1960 in Britain by Penguin, the publisher was tried under the Obscenities Publication Act. That law stated that if a publisher could prove literary merit, the suit would be dropped. Famous authors testified, Penguin was exonerated and sold three million copies. I remember reading it in college, but I didn’t find it particularly titillating. At the time of his death, Lawrence’s reputation was that of a pornographer who wasted his considerable talents. A sad end.

But you don’t have to be famous like Lawrence to feel the bite of censorship. When my first young-adult novel, After Pa Was Shot, appeared, an East Texas friend told me if her superintendent knew it was on the school library shelf, he’d yank it off. The offense? Use of the word “kike.” An offensive term, yes, but appropriate to time and place.

A review of a book titled Koshersoul: The Faith and Food of an African American Jew, by Michael W. Twitty caught my eye this week. Twitty examines the crossroads of two of the world’s most distinctive diaspora cultures: African Atlantic cooking and worldwide Jewish cooking. Twitty claims the two cultures come together to create a rich food heritage and provides recipes to prove it. He explores how food has shaped the passages of numerous cooks, including his own journey to Judaism. Black Jews, he tells us, are not outliers. I was really curious to see a list of recipes, but none was available, and the book doesn’t come out until August.

And this week, I received a royalty payment from Amazon for A Ballad for Sallie, a book written so long ago that I can’t remember when I wrote it. Probably in the eighties. The report showed a whopping seventy-six cents, which probably means two books sold. Most months, the report shows thirty-seven, and I sometimes wonder if Amazon does that just to keep the book in print, but then I remind myself they are not in the business of charity. I am sad that it’s so overlooked because I like that little book.

Set in Fort Worth, in the time of Longhair Jim Courtright and Luke Short, the story is told by Lizzie Jones, a street kid in Hell’s Half Acre—and that part is true, for back then a lot of children lived on the streets. Lizzie’s fate is entangled with that of Sallie McNutt who comes to town looking for her cousin—and finds he’s been shot. Sallie takes over her cousin’s store, and Lizzie tries to educate her in the ways of the streets while Sallie tries to gentle Lizzie. Woven in are the stories of Courtright, Short, and the great shoot-out, along with the founding of Fort Worth’s first orphanage. It’s based on history, with a few liberties taken. The ballad in the title was because I was at the time enamored of the music of cowboy balladeer Don Edwards—still am. I talked to him once about doing a song for the book, but it never came about. Don was a busy man.

Lizzie spoke the patois of the streets, and I remember the New York publisher who first published it had an editor who “corrected” all her grammatical slips. I had gotten over being afraid to correct New York, and I complained long and loud. And I won. Sallie tried to improve Lizzie’s speech, but that was a different matter. And of course there's a bit of romance when Sallie meets a rancher.

The cover, show above, has absolutely nothing to do with the story. New York designers sometimes have the most stereotypical ideas about life in the Old West.

Anyway, I think it’s a fine little book, if I do say so myself, and I hope more Fort Worth people will discover it. It’s available on Amazon in paper and hardcover and free on Kindle.

Happy reading!