We live in a disposable world

For years, I lived under the happy assumption that once you bought an appliance, you had it and could move on. I was dismayed when my dishwasher quit—maybe eight years ago—and the tech who installed the new one told me the old machine was probably 35 years old. Longer than I’ve lived in this house. That “new” dishwasher had to be replaced last fall.

Now my 22-year-old refrigerator appears to be on its last legs. Jacob told me yesterday that he tried to get ice and none would come out—and then it exploded ice all over. When I went into the kitchen, I detected the odor of an electrical overheating if not outright fire. Felt the panel over the ice maker, and it was hot. Apparently ice was jammed into the dispenser, so I cleaned it all out—twice. The panel cooled, and I’ve felt of it several times since. It remains fine and no ice has accumulated though I admit I’m a bit scared to try the in-the-door dispenser.

Jordan and Christian went refrigerator shopping today. Since they will be moving into my house they want a say in the fridge, which is only fair, and Christian said he will pay for it. But that’s a ways away, and I’m not ready to shell out $2,000 for a new fridge. Okay, the old one also leaks—but it makes ice and keeps food cold. I haven’t asked what they found because, like me, they’re busy watching TCU lose the bowl game to Oregon.

Years ago I was astounded by the advent of permanent press and fitted sheets. I had plenty of sheets, and they weren’t ragged. Why would I buy new sheets?

It seems we live in a world of replaceable commodities. I hate to sound like an old fuddy duddy, but back in the day manufacturers made things to last. Alas, now they make them—even cars—to wear out so we’ll have to buy new. By the by, my VW Bug is eleven years old, and I’m praying.

Moving on to 2016

I thought this was a sweet picture to begin 2016. These are the seeing eye dogs belonging to my friend Phil. The one of the left is Santiago, now retired, and the other is Porter, now the active service dog since February. It's wonderful that they are so close instead of rivals for affection, but don't let innocence fool you--they are both terrible table surfers. They are also sweet and so affectionate. Porter particularly is a cuddle dog. My poor Sophie caught the short end tonight because she too is a surfer--she got crackers and came close to getting cheese grits. It seemed that everywhere she turned someone was scolding her, and she did get locked in the office once--stood looking pitifully at the rest of us.

We’ve eaten ham black-eyed peas, and collard greens, so we should have a prosperous and happy year in 2016. Plus rolls, cheese, grits, chocolate chip cookies, banana bread. We will all be fat as little pigs in 2016. We had a quiet gathering of our regular neighborhood group tonight—quiet either because we’ve all seen too much of each other over the holidays or because we are just plain worn out. But the food was delicious—pot-luck—and the company pleasant. I for one was glad not to have a crowd of people all talking at the top of their voices so that I couldn’t hear any one individual. A thoroughly pleasant evening.

We agreed that nobody knows what day of the week it is. Holidays on Friday are hard. I have a lunch date Monday and started to lay out clothes for it tonight—then realized it is two days away. I take several medications in the morning and several vitamins in the evening, so I put them in day-of-the-week pill cases. Totally confused today on which pills to take when.

But the first day of the new year was the kind of day I like. I did housework by jumps and starts, sat at my desk in-between. Finished proofing the novel I’ve been working on forever, keyed corrections into the manuscript, and loaded it to Amazon’s print division. Promptly rejected because they found seven major problems. Before I corrected it, they had accepted it, so I’m not sure where I went amuck. I will worry about that tomorrow.

A long, lazy weekend looms ahead of me, and I couldn’t welcome it more. I’m going to follow my pattern of getting back to work, but I’m also going to read and sleep late and maybe cook a bit.

A cheering thing for me: I find myself landing in one room or another of the house and wondering where I left my cane. It means, yes, I’m liable to fall if I don’t lift my feet off the floor, but it also means I’m feeling confident enough to move about without the cane. I feel like a different person than I did a month ago, and I’m grateful and happy.

Yes, 2016 will be a good year.

What’re you doin’, New Year’s Eve?

 If it’s true that the way you spend New Year’s Eve sets the tone for the coming year, I’m bound to have a good year. Jacob and I are spending the evening quietly at home. I asked what special meal he’d like, and he had no idea—finally settled on spaghetti. So I “doctored” a jar of bottled sauce in the cupboard (added wine, balsamic vinegar, paprika, a bit of brown sugar, a bay leaf), and he declared it wonderful. I insisted he take off ear phones and turn off iPad—told him it’s a special evening, and we would have a sophisticated dinner. He was reluctant but soon got into it—we talked about family and football, cussing and church. At one point I was through and ready to get up, as was he, but he said, “Well, what should we talk about now?” You couldn’t have blasted me out of that chair. We had an hour-long, honest conversation in which, among other things, he analyzed my lifestyle. With perception. I wouldn’t trade for that hour.

At eight-thirty, he began to worry about how we’d stay up until midnight. I had been hoping eleven and the dropping of the ball in Times Square would be enough, but apparently not so. He says at 11:59 we’re going to toast—me with wine, and he with sparkling cider in a flute. He wouldn’t let me take a picture at dinner, for fear someone would think he was drinking wine.

We made it to eleven and to watch the ball drop in Times Square—but on NBC there was no ball! Just all of a sudden, a huge “Happy 2016” and lots of smooching. Jacob left the room in disgust. I meanwhile finished proofing the book I want to put up on Amazon. Weekend project: make corrections. Found plenty! At this point 40 minutes to go until midnight.

We made it, watched the countdown in crowded downtown Fort Worth and the spectacular fireworks. Toasted with kid wine and wine (no pictures allowed by my date for the evening).

Yes, 2016 is going to be a great year. And Jacob and I wish the same for each and every one of you.

Let the good times roll

Watch for it in print on Amazon soon--I hope

 For a lot of people I know, 2015 has not been a good year. Everything from deaths in the family, job problems to health and financial worries. For me, it’s been a year of poor health, principally problems with my low back and left leg and, of course, my balance. I began to think it was the year in which I suddenly become an old lady. With physical problems and the associated pain—believe me I did hurt some of the time—came depression, and I felt like I was becoming an old lady with a sour disposition. I had no energy and no ambition to do laundry, household chores, things around the house. In addition, my publisher went out of business, and all my mysteries disappeared from Amazon and other sources. So on both a professional and personal level, I’m glad to put 2015 behind me.

2016 is going to be a much better year. My neighbor, who has just started a new job, and I agree on that. I felt my depression lifting about a month ago, and now feel I’m back to being cheerful which is my normal state. A dear friend from out of town visited in early December and said, “Well, you seem just fine.” Jay, the neighbor, said, “You should have been around here the last four months!” But to me it’s like a whole new world.

I don’t hurt, and I’m going back to physical therapy next week, to restore my self-confidence and balance. I’m working on getting my last book on Amazon in print—proofing is taking me an extraordinary amount of time but the holidays do bring distractions. Then I plan to put the rest of the mysteries up as e-books, one every month so I’ll have something to crow about in publicity. And I will publish my historical novel about the Gilded Age in Chicago in the spring. It’s a heavy work load, but I can do it. Watch for news about The Gilded Cage—it’s a departure for me and a book I’m really excited about.

This year will also bring major changes in housing—the merging of the Burtons household with mine. So Jordan and I will spend many afternoons downsizing my belongings, and then I’ll live through construction.

Busy hands make happy hearts, and I expect to be busy and happy in 2016. In fact, I think something wonderful will happen, and I will live in anticipation.

I hope 2016 brings each of you magical good things.

 

My appalling collection of recipes

I am, I admit, hopelessly addicted to recipes. I clip them out of magazines, though I’ve narrowed my subscriptions down to two: Southern Living and Bon Appetit. But I can’t resist, “Oh, that sounds good” and I tear it out with never a thought about whether I’ll really fix it or not. The result is that two drawers in my mother’s antique secretary are filled with files labeled Entrees Tried, Entrees Not Tried, Vegetables and Sides, Appetizers, and Desserts.

New Year’s Day, the Burtons and I are hosting a small neighborhood potluck so that everyone gets their ham and black-eyed peas. Friend Subie tells me we must also have collards for prosperity—collards are a bad childhood memory for me, but I want to be prosperous so I’ll eat a few bites. My neighbor Susan said they have a huge ham left that they will bring, so relieved of getting the ham I decided I should provide another side—like mac and cheese or cole slaw. That sent me to my vegetables and sides file, which was huge. I probably threw away half the recipes—going through one by one (took me an hour and a half). I had several criteria: since the Burtons will be merging with my household, I threw out recipes I knew they wouldn’t eat—squash and zucchini, things with anchovy, spinach, a chicken liver salad (sounds good to me) etc. A lot of those I know how to fix for myself. Most potato salad recipes went—I have a couple of stand-by potato salads that I love, so I’m not likely to try others; I also discarded recipes that looked impractical, like a lot of work. I think I’m beyond that in my cooking.

It was fun to discover things I’d forgotten about that I’d like to fix again—an onion and vinegar slaw to put over green beans, Aunt Reva’s asparagus, corn pudding. But I came up empty on cole slaw (well I did find one recipe that included apples which sounds great to me, and another for vinegar and oil slaw but Christian doesn’t really like cabbage in any form). The one tempting mac and cheese recipe was built on a foundation of a box mix for mac and cheese. Not what I had in mind.

I finally decided that to go with our peas and ham sliders I’ll fix a recipe a friend gave me. She got it from her stepmother, and it is delicious. I close my eyes and overlook the prepared foods in it. Here’s Louella’s rice:

1 cup Minute Rice
1 cup sour cream
1 cup shredded cheddar
1 can cream of celery soup
4 oz. can green chilies

Mix and bake at 350 for 35-40 minutes. Serves four. I’ll double it. I’m sure my source, Barbara Bucknell Ashcraft of Mississippi, must at least triple it for her huge family. Thanks, Barbara, for your contribution to our dinner.

Are we dogs’ best friends?

Sophie

I heard today about an older, small dog (chi mix) that ended up in a shelter’s care. Somehow they knew the identity and phone of the owner, so they called to ask her to pick the dog up. She said she would but when she didn’t show up after a day, they called again. “Don’t you get it?” she asked. “I’m not coming. Send the dog to the pound.” So much for love and compassion for animals. Too many people believe that dogs have no feelings.

Today in particular I can testify about dogs’ feelings. My Sophie has been my shadow all day. Everywhere I went, she tagged along behind. She even napped on the bed with me, although she’s a restless napper—there this itch to be tended to and that to scratch and hark! Was that a noise in the attic? I get the sense that she thinks she let me out of her sight and I disappeared for four days and it’s not going to happen again!

Facebook is full of dogs and a few cats lost and found in Rowlette, Garland and other areas devastated by the storms. Many pet owners who have lost their homes seem to feel it will all be better if they can get their beloved dog back. And kind souls have rescued animals from debris, wet and shivering, and taken them into their homes. The problem of course is matching them.

For those who have taken dogs in, I have one request: please be sure to get definitive i.d. of the person and the dog before you turn an animal over (I have a persistent and terrible fear of dog-fight people who will use even small dogs as bait). And when you do reunite owner and dog, watch the animal’s reaction. If you can’t find the owner and can’t keep the dog, take it to a shelter (preferably no-kill) where anyone claiming or adopting it will be properly vetted.

If you’ve lost a dog, check with shelters, both the city kennel and private shelters in the area. They are overcrowded with storm dogs, and yours might well be there. Here’s another hint: put a large poster, with a picture, in front of your house. If, God forbid, you lost your home, put the poster where it was. When allowed, curiosity seekers will be driving through the area and might help; chances are also good that the dog will return to the home it’s known.

The goal of course is to see all these dogs in loving homes, reunited with their owners; if that’s not possible, then let’s get them into safe new homes. The elderly girl above? She was rescued and hopefully is settled in a much more welcoming home than the one she came from.

Christmas seems like a dream

A lazy group--look at the logs in those walls!

 

Here I am, sitting at my computer in my office at home, and the last five days seem like a delicious dream. I spent them with all fifteen of my family in a log cabin (oxymoron) mansion in a resort on either Lake LBJ or Lake Buchanan or in between the two lakes. No water visible from our cabin except a swimming pool and hot tub. There were five bedrooms, plus a dorm-style room which accommodated all the grandkids. Lots of common space for hanging out, a well-equipped kitchen, and I had my own little desk at a small table adjacent to the kitchen. When someone came to talk, I invited them into my office.



Pair of aces take it

We were blessed with mountains of gifts—enough to make any family blush at our largesse. Books, clothes, books, family pictures, a poker set, you name it and it was in that pile. Some of us did a huge and difficult jigsaw puzzle (and finished it except for one missing piece); others played monopoly; at night they were rowdy poker games.



And we ate—and ate and ate. I was the laziest one there. My meals were served to me, and I wasn’t expected to help with cleanup. We had chili, tacos, a family favorite casserole, the traditional turkey dinner for Christmas with three or four desserts. I discovered Christmas Crack, which is a toffee/chocolate thing easily made with saltines. Can you imagine? So good. Hats off here to my two daughters and two DILs—they labored long and hard in the kitchen, and it was always spotless before they went to bed.

Grandkids at Christmas dinner

I don’t help anymore because they have their act together and I feel like Adam’s off ox. My one duty was to remove the giblets and put butter under the skin of the turkey—Colin did it with Megan’s help. First time she ever touched a raw turkey (and she’s slightly over 40). I enjoy the pampering I get but sometimes—okay, a lot—I want to be part of the action in the kitchen. Next year, when I’m walking better, watch my smoke!

A special moment: my mom had a wonderful roll dough recipe which the children remember to this day. Megan not only made the dough and served rolls for Christmas dinner, she made one of her grandmother’s Christmas tree cakes and the pecan sticky buns Grandmother used to make. A sentimental walk back in time for me.

I had moments with the grandchildren and with my adult children—a couple of evenings around a fire pit on the patio, while the children splashed in the hot tub and dared each other to jump into the cold pool—which most of them did.

What can I say, except that I am blessed with a wonderful family and so grateful? I hope in the midst of it all we didn’t forget the gifts of hope and peace that come with this holiday. I think my grandchildren are young enough still that “What did I get?” overwhelms them, but I hope the rest of us realize the importance of what the celebration stands for. I read a wonderful piece lately by Jewish author Sara Paretsky who said she loves the story of the babe and the hope for peace that the story brings to the world. She ended it with the Jewish prayer that, loosely tanslated says, “May the One who establishes peace in the high places bring peace to us all.” Amen.

A hoverboard Christmas

With Christmas morning and the opening of gifts behind us, six of my seven grandchildren now have hoverboards. For the uninitiated, a hoverboard is like a segue without the top part—simply a connected pair of footpads on wheels, with a battery-powered motor or something that makes it go. Speed and direction are determined by the person on the hoverboard which is a scary thought. I will have nightmares of blue lights coming at me for days. I’m not convinced of the safety of these contraptions but efforts to enforce a helmets-only rule have been pretty much futile. We’ve had some crashes, even some tears—they seem to land on their elbows. But the kids have all mastered the balance and control required, and I am impressed. They do present a traffic hazard, whizzing around the house, and one grandson has a tendency to speed. But they’re delighted with themselves and their new acquisitions (two granddaughters had hoverboards before and most of the kids tried them a few months ago).

For me, it was a peacock Christmas, in tribute to my latest book, Murder at Peacock Mansion. Colin and Lisa, who have fostered my liking for colorful outdoor metal sculpture, brought me a peacock to go outside the cottage door when I get moved in. It stands maybe two feet high—when it was lying down by the stockings in the morning I didn’t recognize it. Besides, next to it, was a wicked-looking piece of metal—three prongs with another sticking straight up in the air. It looked like a weapon—turned out one of my peacock’s feet had come off and needs to be welded.

Jordan found a magnificent pair of peacock pants—black with peacock pattern at the bottom of the wide legs. I will look elegant and now need a special place to wear them.

Christmas isn’t about the gifts—and shouldn’t be—but we had a bountiful supply of gifts under the tree, chosen with special care and thoughtfulness. That too is part of the celebration of the greatest gift of all—the hope that the story of the baby Jesus brings to the world for everyone. I hope you got a gift today that gladdened your heart and that you felt the hope and joy of the day.

Signing off

I didn’t sleep well last night—holiday anticipation?—and was awake in the early morning hours with weird thoughts. Woke about 7:30 in a funky mood but resolved to get rid of it and enjoy the day. And it worked remarkably well—the power of positive thinking.

Lovely lunch at Nonna Tata with dear friend Melinda, happy hour with good friends and a cheerful present exchange, followed by dinner at the Grill—our usual Tuesday night. Tonight everyone was in a jolly holiday mood, and it was fun. Plus I got quite a bit done today, including my back stretches, some Christmas emails, and the like. Still trying to get the January Poohbah together.

But tomorrow my family will gather—all sixteen of us—and I’m signing off blogging for the duration. Will be back Sunday or Monday night. Meantime I wish all you of you blessed holidays, no matter how and what you celebrate. I personally feel 2016 will be a good year, but I hope it is also a year in which the world makes some progress toward peace. For those of us who celebrate Christmas, let us remember the message is all about love, not war.

Praise God from whom all blessings flow—your God, my God. It doesn’t matter. Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanza, a Muslim holy day—we all embrace the same basic beliefs. Let us also embrace each other and live in peace.

Merry Christmas everyone!

The beauty of quiet, nice moments

 A quiet, unremarkable day, but I’m sitting at my desk looking at a sleeping dog curled in her favorite chair, perfectly content, sure that she is safe. Today, when my daughter came in after work, Sophie directed her to my bedroom because I’d been napping. But I’d gotten up and gone to the bathroom. Sophie barked and yipped at Jordan to follow her and went to stand and bark (her view of talking) outside the door, telling Jord that’s where I was. (Usually she just barges through the door, destroying any semblance of privacy.) She was doing her job as keeper of the castle. Now she’s relaxed her duties.

Last might Megan called and asked “Guess what I’m doing?” She was making her grandmother’s roll dough, something I haven’t done in years. She had a false start, called for advice, and started over again. But her dough rose beautifully, as I warned it would, and I suggested she roll it out, bake rolls at home, and freeze instead of trying to do it Christmas day in a rental kitchen. So proud she wants to carry on the tradition.

Jacob to me last night: “I acolyted today, Juju.” Priceless. Jacob and I had a crisis today—he landed here at 1:00 p.m. not having had lunch and asked for waffles (is this a spoiled kid?). I couldn’t find the new syrup I knew I had, so he had the tag end of a bottle which barely moistened his waffles but he ate them all. When his mom came, she found two new bottles plus the jar of honey I couldn’t find (she recently rearranged my cupboard).

Lunch with a good friend—we were serious about some matters (I think she worries about my tremors and uncertain footing and so watches me carefully) but we ended up laughing a lot. I suggested we make a pact to always laugh and not become those old people who always see the downside of things and end up being glum.

Presents are wrapped—when Jordan saw them, she called me Mrs. Claus; grocery lists made, and I’m all ready for Christmas, so the days are made up of these small, precious moments. I’m wishing the same for each of you.