My thoughts on humanity vs. politics

 

Tonight I am truly weary of hearing about Hunter Biden and his laptop. I doubt we’ll ever know the truth of whether it has/had incriminating evidence, whether it is/was Russian disinformation, just what it was. But I know that Gym Jordan and James Comer on whatever committee it is—oversight?—don’t really give a fig about Hunter or his laptop. They’re using him as a way to attack Biden. And they’re happily willing to ruin whatever the younger Biden can salvage of his life.

Hunter Biden is probably not my ideal of the perfect man—or anywhere close. He is a seriously flawed human being, but he is living proof that money and privilege don’t cushion all of us against life’s hardships. And he has had life thrown at him—the accident which killed his mother and sister when he was very young, what must have been a difficult recovery, the death of his older brother a few years ago. Even without all that trauma, being the child of a politician and now president is not an easy row to hoe.

And he has not handled it well. He’s admitted to drug addiction, he apparently has a fairly sordid personal life, but he seems to be on the mend. I question some things he has done, like recently denying a daughter the use of his surname—but who am I to judge? I don’t know the whole story. What this man has going in his favor is a loving family. I saw a picture of President Biden with Hunter that struck me in the heart—the love, the caring was so obvious. It’s easy for some cynics to counter with, “Well, he hasn’t repaid that love well,” or “He had every advantage—money, education, etc. There’s no excuse for him turning out the way he did.”

Oh, I think there’s lots of reasons if not excuses. Not all of us have the strength to deal with it when life throws big ones at it. And to play on his weakness for political purposes is despicable. Do you really think he involved his dad so that our president is beholden to China? Current affairs sure would contraindicate that. Did young Biden participate in something illegal with Burisma? Not as far as anyone has proven, and it was his dad who cleaned up the scandal in Ukraine. Was Biden a pawn in preparing Ukraine to submit to Russia (which it didn’t do)? We can’t be sure. We may never know. On the other hand, I may end up looking foolishly gullible.

But I am less concerned with the politics than the humanity in this case. I cannot believe that whatever Hunter Biden did, he is more than a minor pawn in a much larger political scene. And looking at Joe Biden’s long record of playing it straight, mostly, in American politics, I can’t believe he let himself be compromised. Many will disagree with me, but I am quite confident our president has an inner core of integrity.

What I do believe is that the House committee—and James Comer—believe in hitting a man when he’s down. I saw a headline somewhere that Hunter Biden’s marriage maybe in trouble. For his sake, I hope not. But the larger questions is, “What does that have to do with American politics and international security? Current politics is far from the collegiality of Tip O’Neil’s day. It’s vicious, cruel, cutthroat—and does nothing to advance the good of the American people

But let’s turn the tables. We’ve known all along that Jared Kushner accepted (borrowed, whatever?) $2 million from the Saudis to start a new venture. Lately information has come out that makes that look like a slimy deal, maybe illegal, unethical for sure. Has there been any hue and cry about that? Why aren’t Comer and Jordan investigating their fellow Republicans? We all know why: they are desperate to depose Biden and re-install trump in the presidency.

Do they care about American democracy? The well being of the American people? Are they sincerely devoted to their country? Not one bit. They want to tear down democracy and install a demagogue. And to do that they pick on a weak link.

Is this what we want for America? I hope not

Monday fun—sort of

 

         

What I loved about this Monday—a cozy nap in my bed, with warm flannel pants. But wait! Life is about more than napping. I also had a good laugh about the rumors that the flying objects being shot down right and left are extraterrestrial in origin. One poster online said he was going to be so tickled if that proved true, and even my Jordan said, “I’ve aways wanted to see an alien,” though I don’t think we can yet expect them to come tumbling out of spaceships. The general in charge of the security for US and Canadian air space has officially said the reason we’re hearing about so many more is that the Chinese balloon sparked changes in the way our country monitors air space. So probably these smaller objects have been there for a long while, and we’re only now spotting them. Apparently, military pilots have reported sightings for some time, but no one paid attention. I am waiting, however, for this to become a big political issue. Good ole Mitch McConnell has already started it by accusing President Biden of not being transparent about the matter. Republicans are so eager for an issue to jump on.

And the Super Bowl aftertaste lingers, which Rhianna not getting a lot of approval, beyond Henry Winkler and a few others. Most seem to think the show was dismal, the padded white suits—whatever they were supposed to be—ungainly. I did hear one person praise the choreography. And several praised Rhianna for her control of the situation—and her bump reveal. Although one woman said she was surprised the entertainer would risk the life of her unborn child on the unstable platform. Can’t please all the people all the time. But I wonder—did anyone watch the game or was it all about the halftime show? Maybe next year we could just cancel the game and have the show? And boo to Lauren Boebbert and MTG for dumping on the “alternate anthem” and the “wokeness” of the show.

I am really worn out with all the fuss about wokeness which people can’t define anymore than they can that big bugaboo word, socialism. Wokeness, FYI, comes from an African American term and means generally aware of the social world around us, with its distinctions and prejudices and lack of equality. You think that will hurt tender little children? IF so, you need to get a life. Our children will be just fine if you stop hovering over them—and that includes banning books that introduce them to the wider world of reality.

Oops. I got on my soapbox and got carried away from my topic which is/was Monday. I started the day in the dermatologist’s office with a full body check for suspicious moles and the like. I am one of those people—blond, blue-eyed, and fair—who grow senile keratoses at a rapid rate. They’re ugly but harmless. The doctor said people like me should warn their children, and then looked at Jordan and said, “This is your daughter?” Jordan was quick with, “Yes, but I’m adopted.” Nonetheless, she has now scheduled herself a full body check, and I think it’s something everyone should do. I will do it annually because I have had three skin cancers.

The nice part of the day came with happy hour. My guest was James Lehr, marketing manager of TCU Press. We chatted about the press, books, and a whole lot of unrelated things, with a lot of focus on food and restaurants. A most pleasant way to spend a couple of hours. James brought the makings of margueritas, and I felt a bit guilty to tell him I don’t drink anything but chardonnay. I did fix a basket of mini spanakopita—we ate several, but when James was leaving and I saw him to the door, Sophie got the basket and ate all the rest. I know better than to turn my back on food on the coffee table—it doesn’t take her a minute. She seems to have no ill effects.

The family had leftover ragu for supper. One of those recipes that keeps growing—there’s still enough for two servings in the fridge. Tomorrow will be a cooking day, as we are slated to take dinner to Subie and Phil. She had knee surgery a week ago, and her sister/caretakers have both left now.

See anything about writing the great American novel here? No, I don’t either. Not even anything about promoting the one that is about to be published. I need to update my web page and write a newsletter—in between cooking and entertaining. Maybe my priorities are off?

Ho, hum. Another Super Bowl.

 

Pasta with anchovies, garlic, panko and pecorinoi

What do you do when it’s Super Bowl Sunday night and you’re home alone? Why you fix yourself anchovy/garlic pasta with a Caesar salad. At least that’s what I did. I’ve been curious about what I call offbeat pasta sauces—with sardines or anchovies as the focal flavor. This was good—a bit of parsley, plenty of olive oil, a bit of garlic, grated Pecorino cheese all softened the anchovy taste so that it was what it can be at its best—earthy and flavorful but not so salty or fishy that you wonder why you’re eating it. The best thing about the dish, though was the panko that I sauteed in a bit of olive oil—stirred in, it added a wonderful crunch to each bite of pasta. So glad I tried this. The recipe was for six, which meant I had to pare it down for one, so I obviously may have made a wrong quantity judgment somewhere along the way. I paired my pasta with a butter lettuce salad (no, I didn’t deliberately splurge—it was all Central Market had when I ordered) dressed with Paul Newman’s Caesar which I have recently decided is as good as the classic oil and vinegar. And I put lots of pecorino on the salad too.

Christian came in a few minutes ago to give Sophie her shot, and when I commented that Facebook posts generally indicate that the halftime show was awful, he said that people say that every year. But then he allowed he didn’t much like this one, which was mild compared to some online comments. I turned it on briefly, just in time for halftime, but what I saw was a bunch of men (I guess there could have been women) dressed in what looked like hazmat suits parading around the field in a gait that looked like imitation Neanderthal. I quickly turned it off.

I did another good thing tonight: I made from scratch chocolate chip cookie dough. Haven’t baked cookies, but when we (note the collective pronoun) do bake them we will sprinkle sea salt on the top. I have recently discovered the wonder of sea salt on sweets. That’s because when Megan was here, she bought salted caramels from Central Market—so good. They have become my new obsession. I figure we should have the cookies as an alternative to my expensive salted caramels. Jordan went to Albertson’s for groceries today, and I am still in shock over the tab.

My work-related accomplishment for the day is that I reviewed my web page and realized it hasn’t been updated since June—way too long. So I made notes for my web guru on updating and that’s my next email for the evening. But then I’ll settle down with a new book: probably Deborah Crombie’s new Scotland Yard mystery, A Killing of Innocents. It’s a busy week ahead. Hope for each of you, the week holds good promise.

Odd notes on a Saturday

 

lamb ragu

Sometimes on a Saturday night you can find yourself doing the oddest things. I just finally stopped myself from scrolling through a site that listed 50 dressing styles and trends women should avoid if they don’t want to look old. Do you realize how endless 50 pages can be? And yet it was one of those situations—you tell yourself, “Just one more. I just want to see the next one.”

Some of these were no-brainers: don’t wear our mother’s pearls, avoid too much blush or eavy black eye-liner, old lady handbags (calls Queen Elizabeth II to mind, much as I admired her). Knee socks with sneakers (really? Who would?). But the fashionistas, whoever they are, can just keep their hands off my stretch jeans now that I’ve finally found a pair that fit. And don’t tell me I can’t have short hair—except in rare instances, I think long hair on a woman over, oh let’s be generous and say sixty, looks dated and out of place.

I am angry at myself every time I get caught up in one of those sites with the endless “Next” button. Often they tell some heartbreaking story, and you’re caught up in it before you know. Because such are a vehicle for ads, writers draw the story out too many pages, repeating details, coming at them from another direction, delving too far into the back story. Still I get caught, even while I’m thinking what a mindless way for a writer to earn a living.

It's not been that kind of Saturday at all, so I’m a bit surprised at myself. I spent the morning keying in corrections to Irene that my mentor found—and occasionally feeling triumphant because I was right. It is Spaghetti-Os, not Spaghetti O’s. and a Frenchman would call a police station a commissary because the French term is commissariat de police.  I had great three-o’clock-in-the-morning thoughts about the next Irene adventure—can you believe this? The fourth is not anywhere near a publication yet—at least another two months —and I’m planning the fifth. But I had a great opening scene in mind and hastened to write it down. I have nary a clue what happens after that.

We are at sixes and sevens as Christian’s mother is hospitalized, and he is spending a lot of time with her in first a Grapevine hospital and now a Bedford nursing center. So we never know who will be where when. Which means I don’t know what to do about dinner. Jean was coming tonight, and I couldn’t wrap my mind around what to do—should we go out? No, I didn’t want to gear up and dress up enough to go even to the Old Neighborhood Grill. Should I ask Jean to bring something, though I couldn’t think of any convenient, reasonable take-out between her apartment at Trinity Terrace and my cottage. No surprise that the easiest option was to cook. Christian brought my curbside order from Central Market, the order that I flubbed yesterday and finally placed for today. There was a pound of ground lamb in it, and I decided to make a lamb ragu. Served with butter lettuce salad with Newman’s Own Caesar salad dressing and lots of grated pecorino. A good dinner, if I do say so. I’ve decided I’m going to keep a pound of ground lamb on hand—it’s so good for burgers, makes a terrific shepherd’s pie, and was great tonight in ragu. Not sure I’d know what to do with a leg of lamb anymore, because it’s gotten so expensive. But ground is a good way to get the flavor.

So that’s my Saturday. Here I sit, dishes all done, cottage as neat as it’s going to get, candles flicking odd shapes and lights on the ceiling, Sophie asleep in her crate. I’m going to read a bit and then slink off to bed.

Taking time off

 

Haven't read the Irene books yet?
Here's the first in the series.

My great good news is that my longtime mentor wrote me today that the forthcoming Irene in Chicago Culinary Adventure is, in his opinion, the best of the Irene series. I laughed a bit—he seemed to think my writing is maturing. If so, it’s about time. But I am pleased, so watch for Irene Deep in Texas Trouble this spring. Take a diva faux French chef and set her down in the midst of Cowtown—what could possibly go wrong? A wedding supper interrupted by murder, kidnapping, a runaway couple—and Irene is in the middle of all of it, the prime suspect in the murder. Once again, Henny and Patrick must save Irene.

Having sent that manuscript off, I’m taking a break and have been social—until today when I reverted to recluse status. Wednesday, in all that rain and fog we had in North Texas, friend Carol and I drove to Dallas for lunch with Fran Vick, our longtime good pal on the Texas publishing scene. It was a great reunion—Fran was one of the world’s good people, and I am happy now to be able to envision her in her new setting, a retirement community in Dallas. We had lunch, met one of her friends, and gabbed about good times and old days. Fran can always make me laugh, and she is as full of good spirits as ever, in spite of hard times. I will admit being on the freeway in the rain made me a bit nervous, but Carol is a cautious and careful driver who goes to Dallas at least once a week and knows the city. Where I would have been hopelessly lost, she delivered us on time to the front door of Fran’s building. Fran was waiting with a transport chair for me—only trouble was it had no footrest, so while Carol pushed, I had to hold my legs straight out in front of me. Fran said she hoped my legs were a lot stronger than hers. But it really worked out okay.

Lesson learned: I have truly become addicted to my routine. The trip to Dallas didn’t disturb it all that much—I did a little work before we left, got my nap when we came home, but the truth is I did not do much else the entire day, unless fixing dinner for the family counts.

Thursday I broke my routine again but for another delightful social hour: my friend Subie had knee surgery, and her sister Diana came to help for a few days. Thursday morning Diana walked over to my house for tea, and we talked and laughed and had a good time. Subie and I have been close friends for years (like forty?) but I never knew Diana well. Just before our awful ice storm—was it ’20 or ’21? —Diana was here for a visit, and she and Subie took me to Arlington where I gave a talk to a women’s group. That somehow sparked a friendship, so now when she visits, I find we have lots in common. She and her husband live in a cottage (converted garage) on the property of one of their children, just as I do. So we have on-site grandparenting and tiny houses and all kinds of things to talk about. Such fun. Again, my routine went out the window, but both days it was well worth it. I probably should do that more often.

Today I was back in my routine but taking it slow and easy, with no deadline pressure. I lingered over the online news of the day, cobbled together lunch and dinner from whatever was on hand. We are overdue on groceries—I thought I placed a Central Market order yesterday, but when Jacob went to pick it up, they didn’t have it. It was still sitting in my computer. I have an explanation, but I’m sure my children will whisper about the onset of senility. Tonight, I pretty much confronted an empty refrigerator, but scrambled eggs are always good. Somehow, with the current panic about eggs, I have two dozen in my fridge. Egg salad, anyone? Tonight, I will read a bit.  

How will you spend Super Bowl Sunday? I plan to look for the Puppy Bowl in the early afternoon and in the evening, I’ll channel surf looking for a Souper Bowl. Was it PBS that used to have those programs opposite the football thing? I read tonight that Chef Gordon Ramsey will have a new competition show with amateur chefs immediately following the game, but I’m thinking that may be a little late to watch a cooking show. At any rate, I am not one to watch the whole game, which interests me not at all, just to see the commercials, though I always love the Clydesdales. I remember some fairly raucous Super Bowl parties way back when and look back in wonder—was I really part of that? These days I’m so glad to be home with my books and maybe my TV.

A food day—and the State of the Union

 

My leftovers lunch

As a mystery reader and author, I loved July Hyzy’s White House Chef Mysteries One title in the series is particularly appropriate tonight: The State of the Onion. The title mixes food and politics, and that’s exactly how my day went.

The food part began at noon. Last night I served friend Kathie a dish of roasted sweet potato and spinach, seasoned with a bit of jalapeño juice and garnished with sliced scallions, crumbled feta, and more jalapenos if you wanted (I didn’t). But for lunch today, I had a bit of leftover herb-y chicken and potatoes from a sheet pan dinner, so I made a cup of bouillon, added the leftovers, and then added a good serving of the sweet potato and spinach dish. Best lunch I’ve had in forever. And I was proud of my use of leftovers.

Somewhere in the morning, I found out Christian had spent the night at his mom’s hospital beside in Grapevine, sitting—and trying to sleep—in a chair. And he’d spent half the night before in the same place. So I ask for prayers, please, for him, his mom, and his family. She is not critical but has several aging problems. He came home, showered, and went to work—no rest for the wicked.

Jordan and I went back and forth about what would best comfort him for supper. She wanted beef, because he’s a beef-and-potato man, but all I had on hand was ground beef (Jacob doesn’t like meatloaf or ground beef dishes and Christian is the one who does hamburgers for us, so that was out). I also had cube steaks, but they sounded like a lot of work in an uncertain evening. Jordan suggested tacos, but I nixed that, and suggested instead German potato salad with hot dogs—one of Christians’ favorite meals. So I rushed to make that, and of course, Christian was too tired to eat. I am not at all surprised that he fell asleep almost the minute he came home. Jordan, Jacob, and I had supper, and they took him a plate. I have no idea if he ate it or not, but Jordan came out about nine to say that he had to go back to the hospital because his sister couldn’t make it tonight. So my thoughts and prayers go with him.

The highlight of the day, for me, was President Biden’s State of the Union speech. I have not yet listened to any commentators about it, so this is just my opinion: I found it incredibly strong, energic, and full of optimism. That man has a vision of America moving forward. I did listen to about two minutes of Sarah Huckabee’s rebuttal before I turned it off, but the difference to me was that Biden is talking about the future while Huckabee—and others of her political ilk—are looking backward, trying to recapture an idyllic way of life that never was reality. But whites were in power, there were no gays (at least not talked about out loud), and kids were safe, happily playing in the streets. If you grew up in Chicago, as I did, you know that is the land that never was. I much prefer Biden’s realistic optimism for dealing with the problems that beset us—inflation, immigration, drugs, police brutality, and an unfortunately long list. As for those who quibble about his age, I thought he was remarkably strong and vital (he is two or three years younger than I am).

A big part of the fun of watching this annual address is seeing the individuals in the chambers when the camera pans on them. I suppose it’s de rigueur for the Republican leader to look bored and, sometimes, slightly amused. If that’s what the job requires, Kevin McCarthy did a great job. But he did more often than I expected rise to his feet. And the Republicans in the audience also rose more often than I remember from other speeches. Most Democrats of course cheered wildly at almost every sentence, but their obvious enthusiasm was happy medicine for me.

Occasional shots showed Republicans like Ted Cruz shaking their heads in pretend-obvious dismay, and a stone-faced Mitch McConnell—wish I could remember what the subject was that turned him to ice. Another time Marjorie Taylor Greene, with a remarkable display of bad taste, rose to her feet to shout at the president, contradicting the image she presented wrapped in something with a wide, white fur collar. And Lauren Boebbert, with too much makeup (okay, that’s catty of me), shook her head.

On the whole, Republicans did not come off looking well, and I sensed that Biden was carrying most of the crowd with him as he looked to the future of a stronger America. It may be that’s a standard reaction to the State of the Union, no matter who delivers it, but I don’t remember trump’s speeches that way. And of course, who can forget Nancy Pelosi’s sarcastic clap for trump and her ripping up his speech. Nothing that dramatic tonight, but, as a firm believer that for now Joe Biden is the best man for America, I was left with a strong sense of optimism.

You used to hear him called Uncle Joe, and to me that fits. He’s like a comforting uncle who tells you everything will be okay, if you just play along. I like that.

 

A reading weekend--and a puzzle

 

 

Today the snow moon peaked about midday. The February full moon was named the snow moon by Native Americans because it occurs when the heaviest snow is expected—little did they know that this year it just missed not the heaviest snow but the coldest temperatures that we hope are now in the rearview mirror. None of that was on my mind this morning at 6:30 when I opened the door to let Sophie out—but there it was: a perfectly round, glowing white orb just about to sink below the roof line of my neighbor’s house. For a moment, the sight and the beauty took my breath away. You can still catch it tonight, no longer perfectly round but so close your naked eye won’t be able to tell.

For years, with my Puritan work ethic ruling my life, I put reading fiction off  until late at night. It was an indulgence, I thought, a reward for having worked all day. But friend and fellow author Susan Wittig Albert, a better and more successful mystery writer than I ever will be, has convinced me that reading is part of my job. When I read someone else’s mysteries, I pick up on techniques, good and bad. I get ideas for what I can do in future works, and I find things that I would never have done or would differently. I know for certain that I read differently today than I did fifteen years ago. More critically, which doesn’t just mean negative criticism but implies a deeper understanding of what lies behind the words

So this weekend I spent a happy two days reading Julie Hyzy’s Artistic License, billed as her debut novel, although at least one book in her White House Chef Mysteries predates that publication. A fan of both the White House books and the Manor House Mysteries, I was delighted to jump into this book—and then a bit disappointed. It started slowly, and Hyzy dwelt in such detail on characters and scenes that I wanted to urge, “Hurry on, let’s get to the action.” In particular, her descriptions of a couple of unpleasant characters—physically unattractive due to their presentation and habits and not God-given features—was so graphic that I didn’t want to read more about them. Felt that way all through the book.

But gradually she introduced both romance and suspense. This is not a cozy in which the reader is as puzzled as the amateur sleuth—this is a thriller, in which the reader knows who the bad guys are, what they want, and what they will do to get it. It’s like watching two parallel lines of action, holding your breath for the climactic moment when they collide. And collide they did, in a suspense-filled passage that almost had me holding my breath. By then, I cared, really cared about the people involved—and that, to me, is the mark of a good writer: making the reader care about the characters. The ending was satisfactory, with the exception of one minor thread let hanging loose.

Another thing that keeps this novel out of the cozy category: there is one quite graphic sex scene. Okay mild by erotica standards, but graphic by cozy standards. In cozies, the action stops when the bedroom door closes.

Something I would not have noticed until I started indie publishing my own books. This one, from a small press, had formatting problems. There was no page break between chapters—if one ended in the middle of the page, the next one began right there. And in the text there were no space breaks to indicate a change of scene. So you were reading along in one scene and suddenly there was a line about totally different characters.

Problems aside, reading Artistic License was a win. It provided a weekend of enjoyment and some writing lessons beside. Now I’m excited that I found a White House Chef Mystery that I apparently overlooked when I read the series: An Affair of Steak. (I dislike the punny titles of so many cozies, but I’ll forgive Julie).

Here’s a puzzle: Susan Albert told me Julie Hyzy doesn’t even maintain her web page, so I went prowling. Found a web page, but also found several links that supposedly led to obituaries about her October 2020 death. But none of those links panned out: they either gave me the 404 error message or “This page could not be found.” So I’m left with a question: Did Julie Hyzy die (she would have been maybe late fifties, early sixties) or was it a pen name, a pseudonym that died—and somewhere the person who wrote as Julie Hyzy lives on? Another reason I never wanted a pen name.

 

Lazy Saturday and another cooking experiment

 

My slightly burned tuna puff

Today was just what Saturdays should be—lazy. Sophie and I slept late, had a good afternoon nap, although I dreamt so heavily that something in my dream scared me, and I woke myself up shouting, which alarmed Sophie. She barked and barked, and I had to sit on the bed petting her and telling her it was all right for a long time. Then I turned over and slept for another hour! Sophie’s night hours sometimes leave me really exhausted.

I told myself I should compile the recipe section for Irene Deep in Texas Trouble, but I didn’t do that. I read emails, read the news, and spent a long time reading the novel I’d barely started. I told myself I either had to pay attention to that novel—a romance/mystery so far—or give it up. And of course when I spent some concentrated time reading, I was hooked.

I was also hooked on news about the Chinese surveillance balloon. I had read someone’s prediction that we would be at war with China within a few years, and I fervently hope this didn’t accelerate that. But I am appalled at people like MTG who encouraged ordinary Joe to go out with his rifle and shoot it down. At eleven miles away when the farthest shot on record, by a trained distance shooter, is 4.4 miles—and that’s pretty remarkable. Besides what a lot of these gun-happy folks don’t think about as they shoot into the air, what goes up must come down. So all those bullets that couldn’t possibly hit the balloon would come back to earth and quite possibly kill someone.

MTG wasn’t the only one calling for stupid action. Trump Jr. blasted Biden for not bringing it down. Apparently he didn’t think far enough to think about three busloads of debris landing on communities in America. I truly shudder to think if these people ever again get power to dictate policy. And that goes for Kevin what’s-his-name.

But news and books aside, Saturday was as usual a day to experiment in the kitchen—only I didn’t mean to experiment. I have a recipe for tuna pasties that I’ve liked a lot. It calls for refrigerator biscuits, but sometimes the dough overwhelms the tuna, and I got the bright idea that puff pastry would be better. So I put puff pastry sheets on the grocery list—and didn’t realize until tonight that I had puff pastry shells, not sheets.

Dilemma: the shells are meant to be cooked and then filled. If I had sheets, the filling would bake (and the cheese melt) while the pastry cooked. I sort of fudged—cooked the shells part way, took them out and stuffed them, lowered the oven temperature a lot, and baked them a bit more. Actually I thought they were quite good. My oven runs hot, and even though I never heated it to the 475 recommended on the pastry package, they were a bit too brown, shading over to burnt. I think if I fiddled more with baking temperatures, I may have invented something. I’ll call them tuna puffs.

Meantime I have a whole lot of the tuna filling left!

All’s right with the world—or is it?

 

Oh glorious day!
Six years ago, finally getting read to leave rehab and go home.

Jordan’s home from Hawaii, the sun was shining all day and the ice melting, and Sophie got a good doctor’s report. All’s right with my world.

But we all know all’s not right with the world in general. My usual habit is to start the morning with the news and emails before I get to my own work. And today I barely got to my own work, mostly because so much is out of kilter in the world. I think I am fixated on being aware of what’s going on, particularly with our government in my state, Texas, and in Washing, D.C., because I came late to political awareness. And it was even later that I realized my voice might accomplish something, even that I had not just a wish to speak out but an obligation because I felt so strongly about some things.

I don’t know if the way I speak out—this blog and Facebook and occasionally Twitter—is effective or not. I’ve read statistics that claim you’re not going to change anyone’s mind on social media, and some days I’m really afraid that’s true. On Facebook, I stumble across people whose minds are held captive by conspiracy theories. They truly believe that Biden is out to destroy the country, and it does no good to ask them why he would want to do that. Here's a man who has devoted a lifetime to American politics, who has risen above personal tragedy to put the good of the country first, who generally by those who know him is considered a genuinely good man. Remember what Lindsay Graham said (before he was held in thrall to trump): “God never created a better man than Joe Biden.” And now, Biden has saved us from the brink of recession, created programs to bolster not just the infrastructure and the economy but the lives of ordinary Americans—and created new job numbers that are so good they confound the experts. But yeah, he’s out to destroy the country.

Today as in many days I was captivated, not happily, by the antics of House Republicans: Jim Jordan claiming that Biden is intentionally flooding the country with dangerous immigrants; MTG defining CRT as a theory that teaches grade school kids that their white skin is not as good as another kid’s black skin; Texas representative Chip Roy announcing that the armed forces should be out with lethality killing people and blowing things up (yeah, that’s for sure what I want our country known for). Don’t even ask about the debt ceiling which they are deliberately conflating with the budget. I wish more Americans would educate themselves about the way our government works.

Mondays and Fridays are also busy days on two writing listservs I follow—on Mondays in one group, we commit to our work plans for the week and on Fridays, in both, we brag about our accomplishments and praise others on what they’ve done. If you read everybody’s posts, as I feel I should, it takes a lot of time. But if I want people to comment on what I post, I must return the courtesy.

As you can see, it was a busy day, and I barely got to Irene and her Texas adventure. But yesterday I sent the manuscript off to the mystery editor I use and to the man who has been my mentor (he hates the term) for fifty years. I am still left with putting together front matter, a recipe section, and a blurb. Didn’t get to it today, because in addition to keeping up with our out-of-kilter world, I cooked a big dinner to welcome Jordan home—an herb-stuffed sheet pan chicken on a bed of onion, potato and carrot, with a lettuce wedge dressed in a blue cheese sauce.

And that brings me to recipes, which also take up a bunch of my time. I subscribe to the New York Times cooking column and America’s Test Kitchen and perhaps my favorite, the online “Kitchn.” Sometimes I find recipes that really speak to me; other days, not so much. Today what I found included a recipe for creamed kale pizza—uh, no thank you. And in the Times, a recipe for white soondubu jjigae, which is described as a tofu stew.

I’m out of here on that note. Need chocolate and wine.

 

Snowbound mentality

 

Another photo from Hawaii,
just to reassure us that there is sunshine and warmth somewhere.

There’s a definite psychology to being snowbound. The first day it’s kind of fun. You are home all day and can do whatever—all those little chores you’ve neglected, read a book and nap, cook something wonderful. Christian spent yesterday teaching himself how to make sushi. Jacob spent the day in a poker game with friends (with, I was glad to learn, fake money).

But ah, that second day. The snow isn’t quite as bright a white, and the luster of a day at home is dimming. People post on Facebook about boredom and cabin fever. In a new twist I only learned about today, they start looking for Uber drivers with four-wheel vehicles. With that trick, Christian has gone to the rodeo tonight. It is realtors' night, and though the formal event was cancelled, he knows there will be a lot of realtors there.

Me? I’m just as glad to stay home and inside. Spending the first twenty years of my life in Chicago gave me as much snow and cold as I wanted. When the wind came off Lake Michigan, it was bone chilling. I remember cold mornings when my dad would get up early to go to the basement and stoke the coal furnace so that the house would be warmer (never really warm) when the rest of us got up. And I remember leggings—no, not the fashionable, tight-legged leggings of today but heavy wool pants, often lined—we wore them under our skirts to school. I remember shoveling sidewalks, and snow piled in the street almost high as my head.

At twenty, I moved to northeastern Missouri, sometimes called the “icebox” of Missouri. I remember thinking if I could just wake up one morning and not look out on dirty snow, I would be happy. A lot of people in the small town where I first went to graduate school still heated with coal, and the snow got dirty quickly. And the roads solidified into icy ruts—I drove a VW Bug which didn’t fit the ruts at all, so I bounced all over the place. Nope, I’ve had all the winter I want. I sympathize with the neighbor who posted on the neighborhood listserv that she was grateful garbage collection for tomorrow is cancelled, because she really dreaded taking the carts down an icy driveway.

Jacob came out to the cottage for supper, and we ate poor boy sandwiches together. He was elated that there will be another snow day tomorrow—that makes three this year, and as he pointed out, three years in a row where snow has cancelled school. My comment that it was a bad sign, a result of climate change, fell on deaf ears. When you are sixteen, you often don’t think beyond the moment. Climate change doesn’t really mean much. But I am grateful that he’s home tonight—I know he’s safe. It made me nervous that he rode with friends, even if they had four-wheel drive, but he assured me they drive carefully. I asked if he would tell me if they didn’t—he thought about it and said, “Probably not. But they really do.” I am also grateful that he’s home if that foolish Sophie stays out too long. I can call and ask him to go get her—she’s out as I write, long than it takes her to pee.

Tomorrow is iffy—some reports say we’ll get ice tonight, which is a bit worrisome because it could load the power lines down and cause power failures. Jacob said tonight though that it is to snow all night. So far, at nine o’clock, no sign of anything. And the high tomorrow will be anywhere from low thirties to forty, depending on who you listen to. There it is again, that uncertainty that winter storms bring. We just never know who or what to believe.

Jordan flies home on a redeye tomorrow night. I asked Christian earlier tonight if he though her flight would be delayed, and he said not. But there again, I worry. I like to have all my chicks safe at home in weather like this. My Austin family is, I hope, staying home because their weather is as bad as ours. And I heard from the Frisco contingent that their drive is sheer ice—it’s such a steep long driveway that to me it’s perilous in July, let alone in an ice storm. The Tomball folk must be okay, because I saw that Colin was in Houston again today for work. Of course, last week, a tornado hit square on his office building in Deer Park—and he forgot to tell me. Thankfully, the building held, though those nearby sustained damage, and he said driving away from there was chaotic. I once dated a man who said to me, “Once a mother, always a mother” and I find it’s sure true in iffy weather.

Wherever you are, stay warm and safe. This too shall pass, and spring will come again.