Busy day

      

You know those days when you have a list—either on paper or in your head—and you check the items off one at a time? I had such a day today, and it made me feel great to go through that list. Phone calls, files sent, files studied. I sent my picture files for the Alamo book off to the editor—I know, deep in my heart, there will be problems matching pictures to captions, locating pictures I had, pictures she has, and merging all together. But I figured sending them off was a good start. And now I can stop worrying about that in the back of my mind.

Then I spent a long time on the phone with the TCU Help Desk, figuring out some computer problems. Lucked into such a nice tech person. First, we talked about why I couldn’t access online books from the library—I could get the book title on my Favorites but couldn’t open. She quickly found it was a browser problem—changed browsers and voila! There was the book. As I suspected, it had little of value for me—probably one footnotes to add. But once again, my conscience was cleared, and I could quit worrying about that book.

Then we turned to Word and the reason it told me upload was blocked and it couldn’t save my files. That took a lot longer, but she consulted others and found that TCU doesn’t license Microsoft Office for retirees, only active faculty and staff. So I had to license it for a year. I think we’ve got that solved too. I told the young woman it was a delight to spend the morning with her. And I have to say such technical support is one of the big benefits of being retired from TCU.

For a couple of weeks I’ve been an author in search of a project, and I don’t do well when at loose ends like that. Yes, I read—among other things Saving Ferris, in which a young widow’s murder trial hinges on whether a dog is family or property. If you read this blog, you know where I come down on that. The novel had all the elements of a sentimental story, but it managed to sidestep them nicely, and the story was told in a straightforward, sometime humorous manner. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

But reading someone else’s accomplishment was not like having a project of my own. I prowled and played with ideas and suddenly had an inspiration—or at least a semi-inspiration. I am going to do some research and brushing up on old files to see if I can re-shape a project of thirty years ago into a book for today. I’m not ready to talk about it, except to say that it’s Texas history—and that’s where I belong. So life looks good to me tonight.

Tonight was the first spring night we sat on the patio with wine. Jordan and I made a list of plants I want—well, let’s say plants she wants for me with some input for me. The backyard is apparently my kingdom, but that’s okay. I’m envisioning some gaillardia or coreopsis and plumbago in a pot, and she insists on geraniums. I want some herbs and have a planter I think will work. A plant store trip is in our near future.

It’s nearly nine o’clock, and I still have the patio doors open. May have to turn on the a/c to sleep tonight. It’s the best time of year in North Texas.

Happy hour with Jacob

Trying to take a spontaneous picture with my Fort Worth family is an impossibility—they all three take wonderful pictures, and they can’t resist posing. Tonight I missed the action shot I wanted. So here’s a posed picture in which Jacob looks quite glum about the artichoke his mother is pointing too. A few seconds earlier, when I didn’t have the phone in my hand, he was laughing and saying, “It’s really good.”

The amuse bouche

While Christian labored over a hot stove, Jordan, Jacob and I had a happy hour. Jacob had another assignment to cook something French for his language class. Previously he did a credible croque monsieur, and for tonight we found directions for an amuse bouche that was nothing more than goat cheese rolled into a ball and then rolled in chives. Somehow that didn’t translate—and it ended up goat cheese with chives mixed in and then spread on baguettes slices. Good, but not I think what a true French chef would serve.

I had gotten an artichoke with my Saturday groceries—and what looked like the smallest container ever of hollandaise (not cheap—I really must master making it at home again; I used to do it beautifully, but now I don’t have a blender nor the confidence). Christian doesn’t eat artichokes, so we added that to our happy hour.

When Jacob was little, I bought bottle after bottle of “kid wine,” carbonated white grape juice. I thought he had long outgrown it, but tonight he asked plaintively if we couldn’t have kid wine again. Jordan objected that it’s too sweet but guess what—it will go in my shopping cart next week. That’s what grandmothers are for.

The amuse bouche was good, but the artichoke was a learning experience. Jacob went from refusal to try it, to trying one leaf without the Hollandaise, to trying the sauce and then, with a sheepish grin, said, “It’s really good.” After Jordan extricated the heart and divided it, Jacob recorded on his phone that hereafter he gets the entire heart every time. We did not agree to that. But I have added another artichoke to my Tuesday order for imperfect veggies.

What most delighted me was that Jacob, not at all an adventuresome eater, tried something new and ended up liking it. I’m afraid I’ll badger him with this incident every time I want him to try something new. I can hear myself harping, “Remember the artichoke!”

I was grown before I ever had an artichoke. I remember my mother and I once tried to cook a package of frozen baby ones—but we didn’t know to put Hollandaise on them, and we didn’t know what to do with them. I suspect they ended in the trash. I’m not sure who taught me to like fresh ones—it may have been my brother’s ex-wife. But now I think they’re a wonderful treat, though I admit they are in part a vehicle for the Hollandaise.

I told Jordan we’ve done a bad thing, teaching Jacob to like them. My mother didn’t encourage me to eat avocadoes for a long time, because she didn’t want to share (my dad didn’t eat them). Now we have to share, but he cannot have the whole heart. I’ll stomp and throw a hissy fit.

As long as we're talking about food, here's our dinner tonight: pork tenderloin in a cream/mustard sauce, wonderful roasted potatoes with chives and Parmesan, and a green salad. Christian outdid himself as usual. The potatoes particularly hit home with me.

Another gloomy day, and Sophie is reacting to the weather by snuffling, sneezing, and spitting up. Ah, spring in Texas.

Rainy day stuff

It was a dark and stormy night—oh, no, I mean morning. By 9:30 the sky was almost dark as night, thunder rumbled, lightning flashed—and sweet Sophie followed me around mournfully with accusing eyes as though I had deliberately let this happen. No amount of, “It’ll be all right, Soph” seemed to help. The actual heavy storm, with a downpour, passed rather quickly, and we are left with a drizzly, dull day.

The chickens don’t like rainy weather any better than Sophie does, but they are much more vocal in their protests. My goodness, they’re noisy this morning.

Once I was sure the worst of it was over, I went to pick up my Central Market groceries. To my surprise, Jordan didn’t caution me not to go or to be careful on slippery roads or any of those things, but I was extra cautious, always watching to see that the other guy didn’t slip and slide instead of stopping.

As I drove away, a sleek black dog, medium in size, darted across the street and into our front yard, where it turned in circles and looked both scared and puzzled. It is too much trouble for me and my walker to get out of the car, let alone chase a dog across lawns, so I called Jordan and stopped to put the dog on the neighborhood email. Christian didn’t get out in time to see it, and it dawned on me it might be the neighbor’s half-grown lab. They didn’t respond to a call. I wish I knew so I won’t worry about that dog all day.

Was able to help reunite a dog and its family later in the day, through the same neighborhood email. I’d love if it were the same dog, but I don’t think so. The one I saw was black; the one that was found (on a busy street) was brown with a white paw.

Today was to have been our neighborhood-wide garage sale, postponed until next week way in advance because of the almost hundred per cent chance of rain. The annual zoo run was also on today’s calendar, which meant I would have to avoid my favorite shortcut when I went to Central Market. But with the weather, I went ahead and took the zoo road. Still don’t know if the race was cancelled or simply over by the time I got there, but there are few things more discouraging than empty race stations in the drizzle.

Saying for the day comes from TODAY show host Carson Daly, talking about his lifelong battle with anxiety: “If you took chalk on a chalkboard and made a mess, that was the noise in my brain. That was the anxiety,” he said. “And being on [his new medication] is like someone took an eraser and just erased it.” I don’t know what medication has made such a difference, but I am delighted for him. I too have battled anxiety much of my adult life but am no longer on medication. I think his description of the chalkboard is the most apt I’ve ever heard, and I would hope all those who poohpooh anxiety as “all in your head” will read and heed it.

No anxiety here today. I have a good book, and it’s a perfect day for a nap. A good friend coming for an early glass of wine this evening. My kind of Saturday. Stay dry and cozy, friends (actually the temperature has dropped quite a bit).

The magic of imperfection

The Japanese have a word for it: wabi-sabi. Like so much of Asian thought and language, there’s no direct English translation. One essay says it is “the magic of imperfection.” Elsewhere it is described as everything that is imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete. It’s the opposite of the symmetry of perfection that we seem to demand in so many parts of our lives—from architecture to fashion to food. It is not sleek cars and shiny shopping malls.

I got my first box of imperfect vegetables last night. I signed up for a service that calls itself Imperfect Produce partly because I see it as yet another way to save our planet, partly because it offers both traditional and organize versions of many fruits and vegetables, and partly just out of curiosity. Just using imperfect produce rather than throwing it out justifies the idea in my mind.

Over the years I’ve experimented with food coops. I guess they’re still around, but the coop idea takes my mind back to the eighties. I remember having to work sorting vegetables one Saturday a month and getting whatever was available that week: if they had turnips and you don’t like them, too bad. You got turnips.

Imperfect Produce lets you choose. In my area they deliver on Tuesdays, so from Friday night until Sunday night I can go online and customize my order. That freedom is nice, because I changed my mind a couple of times over the weekend.

All my avocadoes

Ultimately, I got more oranges than I’d ordered—something like six or seven, a plethora of little, runty rock-hard avocadoes that will be great in a few days, a head of leaf lettuce, a lovely bunch of radishes (because Christian loves them), a nice symmetrical onion, a couple of apples, and an eggplant. I’m looking forward to eggplant parmigiana, a dish I haven’t made in several years.

And I had the sweetest orange ever for breakfast this morning.

The order comes with a handy storage guide that tells you what to keep on the counter, in the pantry, and in the fridge. The chart warns that apples, bananas, and pears give off ethylene gas, which causes other produce to ripen and go bad faster. Got to get those apples away from my avocadoes!

I haven’t checked on this for sure, but I’m assuming the produce is locally grown—yet another huge reason to try the service. Check it out yourself at http://www.imperfectproduce.com

And on the subject of the pure and natural, Sophie had a spa day today. A little over a month ago, her allergies were giving both of us fits. She was wheezing and coughing, and when she slept her breathing sounded like air going into a wet sponge. She was living on Benedryl. After a bath and haircut, all her symptoms went away, and I decided it was because the groomer got all that dust and pollen out of her thick coat. So now I’m determined to pay more attention to her grooming schedule.

Somehow eating imperfect organize produce and keeping a dog allergy-free and off medications go together in my mind. And they both make me happy.

A doctor’s appointment can sure mess up the day

After my many encounters with the medical profession over the last couple of years, a medical appointment makes me nervous. Today I had a 1:15 appointment for a follow-up with the nephrologist. I knew ahead of time that the blood work looked good, and I expected her to dismiss me—quickly.

Still, I never settled down to any serious work all morning. I did odds and ends and spent too much time on Facebook; I indulged in a luxurious reading of the newest issue of Southern Living and found several recipes I want to try—sautéed radishes with bacon and cilantro, for Christian who  loves radishes; I deconstructed some boxes—I do wish Amazon would be more environmentally conscious with their packaging. I ignored the unfinished food blog I drafted yesterday and the last remaining bit of research material on the Alamo that called for one more search. I was a dilletante.

Christian went with me to the doctor’s office, and we arrived on time. I was seen quickly by the nurse who took my blood pressure and weight and all that and assured me the doctor would be right in, closed the door and left me in a sterile exam room. No wifi, so I couldn’t even read emails or call up a book on my Kindle account. I sat, alone with my thoughts, which grew grimmer by the minute. Out of desperation, I scrolled through the pictures on my phone and did a bunch of housecleaning—which later made Christian laugh.

Finally after an hour, I ventured out to inquire and was told they were waiting for lab results. A mix-up I was sure I had straightened out the day before and had left a message to check on this morning—all, apparently, to no avail. I decided to sit in the waiting room with Christian rather than alone in that blank room. After a few minutes I volunteered that I had the lab results on my computer at home—how about if I went home and called them in? I mean, this was getting ridiculous!

Finally, the doctor got the results, talked with me, apologized profusely, said everything looked fine—better even than the last visit, and she’d see me in six months. I was aghast. “You mean I have to do this again?” She was a bit stiff when she said, “You don’t have to. It’s up to you. You can follow up with your primary care physician if you want.”

I’m not sure what I want. But I do know that I came home, tried to nap and was too upset to sleep, and have now wasted the rest of the day. Writing this blog is the only constructive thing I’ve done all day.

I grew up in a medical family and have been on the edge of the medical community all my life. My father and my ex-husband were osteopathic physicians; my brother, nephew, his wife, and a niece are physicians today. At fourteen I want to work in the administrative offices of a hospital; between college and grad school, I was a pathology secretary. It’s not that foreign a world to me, nor one that intimidates me. I know that incidents like today shouldn’t happen, that medical practices can be run more efficiently. I’m not casting blame here on either the primary care office, where the blood work was done, or the specialist’s office. But I am saying doctors need to pay more attention to the public relations side of their practices.

I am becoming a patient advocate, and first of all I’m advocating for me. Today reinforced my refusal to be caught up in the medical machine. We definitely need an overhaul of our patient care system—insurance yes, but patient care almost more importantly.

The problem of hugging

A quiet weekend here in the hinterlands of North Texas. Visits with favorite people, including a friend who lives thirty miles away and might as well live 300—always so glad when we get together. And my favorite newlyweds came for wine—Teddy is such a gentleman, always tells me I look younger and prettier every time he sees me. I know it’s not true, but it makes me feel good.  And Teddy gives great hugs.

I’m puzzled these days by the problem of hugging. Psychologists tell us we need something like eight hugs a day for optimum mental health. That might lead you to hug everyone you meet during the day but wait! At the other extreme is the current occupant of the White House who apparently does not hug—he attacks, hands under the skirt and the full-on assault. And in the middle is apparently Joe Biden who is, by nature, an affectionate man and a hugger but not lascivious.

As the whole world now knows, Lucy Flores, a former Nevada legislator, has come forward to say that “Uncle Joe” kissed her inappropriately five years ago. I don’t know anything else about Lucy Flores, but I do know she has just scuttled the presidential ambitions of the Democrat with the highest poll numbers. Because he made her feel weird.

Yes, Biden needs to watch his physical interaction with women, especially now that it’s become a national distraction from the real issues that beset us. But I think Ms. Flores needs to do a bit of self-examination. Maybe she wasn’t hugged enough as a child and consequently doesn’t know how to receive physical affection? Or worse yet, maybe she was abused and see every physical touch as a threat. But the bigger question to me is why now?

If Biden’s actions truly offended her, she should and could have dealt with it tactfully at the time. As a gubernatorial candidate (or was it lt. gov.?) she surely was a politician with enough self-confidence to turn the situation any way she wanted to. But no, she says now it was creepy. Five years later, when she’s had all that time for memory to distort, she comes forward at a critical moment in his career. As I always feared, the ”Me Too” movement has gone too far.

It’s sad that as a country we cannot distinguish affectionate from lascivious, and we castigate the former and make a hero of the latter. I’ve even heard too many stories of elementary school teachers who are afraid to give a student a comforting hug for fear of being misunderstood. Ah, old Aristotle gets it right all the time—moderation in all things.

I’m not promoting Joe Biden for the Democratic nomination. I haven’t chosen a candidate yet and don’t intend to for some time, because I think it’s important to choose the woman or man who can defeat the Republicans. But I do think Biden is a seasoned statesman with much experience, a reasonable and sensible man, and maybe our greatest hope. It isn’t even about the fact that he’s gotten a raw deal. My indignation is about the fact that voters have been robbed of the chance to make a decision on a level playing field.

Hugging is in part a matter of instinct, and maybe that’s where Biden went wrong. I have friends, both male and female, who are huggers and friends who are not. It’s a difference I think I can sense, but I value both kinds. And I’d welcome a hug from Joe Biden any day.

Bloom where you are planted…

That old advice has taken on new meaning for me lately. I visited the other night with a good friend who lived in Texas forty years but, twenty years ago, moved to Manhattan where she is deliciously happy. When we were driving to dinner, the western sky was painted a beautiful gold with streaks of red, and she said, “I never see sunsets.” Well, of course she doesn’t. The tall buildings get in the way. But that one remark sort of summed up for me the differences in our lifestyles. That, and the fact that she, once a southerner, said she never felt at home in Texas.

As a transplanted northerner, I think I always felt at home in Texas. Maybe the only other place I’ve felt that way was Santa Fe, and I think what I thought were echoes of an earlier life there were simply hidden memories of a trip there in my late teens.

When my ex-husband first explored moving to Texas for training as a surgical resident, I was surprised and slightly appalled. To me, it was a foreign country. His mother, a Jewish woman from the Bronx, was horrified, and believed until her dying day that Indians (she would never know the term Native Americans) would jump out at her from the bushes.

As we drove across Oklahoma, that long-ago spring, for our first visit to Texas, I was impressed by how lush and green everything was. Pastures and fields were dotted with blooming plum thickets, and it was all lovely. “Just wait,” he said, “everything will be barren and brown.” He had been to Turkey, Texas for a funeral—his one previous visit. I thought perhaps a curtain would fall when we crossed the Red River. To add to my confusion, my parents had been to Texas to visit my brother, then stationed at the Corpus Christi Naval Station. They described a lush tropical land with palm trees. I rode with puzzlement and anticipation.

OF course I found North Texas wasn’t that much different from Missouri, where we’d been living. Hotter, of course, but not a foreign land—at first. But the longer I lived here, the more I realized that it is a different place, a different way of life, one that got under my skin. My process of acclimatization was helped by my study of the literature of the American West in graduate school. I soon found myself immersed in Texas history and lore, and I loved it. By the time my kids were born, I was a tad resentful that they were native Texans while the stigma of an outsider clung to me.

My ex- always thought pastures would be greener on the other side of anywhere. Finally, several years after we divorced, he moved to California. I stayed in Texas. After all, I had those four native Texans to raise. Besides, I had a job I enjoyed with TCU Press, and I was still deep in Texas history and lore. Over the years a few places have called to me, mostly Santa Fe, and a few more lucrative job opportunities beckoned, but I stayed where we had a comfortable life and lots of friends.

Now at my advanced age—the kids call it elderly—I feel very much a Texan, and I cannot imagine pulling up stakes. I have watched other friends leave—one lives in the DC area but hungers for retirement in Texas; another left because she could not stand the politics—and I’ve marveled at their adjustment to other places and climes.

Yes, I too hate the politics of Texas, but I see that slowly changing, and I am encouraged. I don’t particularly like the hot summers, but I am grateful to be away from Chicago winters. I love the people of Texas—not all of them, but most of them. I love the history and folklore, the architecture, and, yes, the wildly varying landscape. I am glad I was planted in Texas.

My New York friend? We had a delightful dinner, reminiscing, catching up on families and people and everyday life. And she sort of nailed Texas when she talked about the dichotomy she found—driving around the city, seeing all the familiar places, and then, she said shaking her head unbelievably, “there’s all that newness.”

The night the tornado came through

Nineteen years ago tonight a tornado roared through central Fort Worth. It came from the northwest, and I know it did some damage in the Rivercrest area, then moved on to devastate the Linwood neighborhood and cause widespread damage downtown.  Then it, or storms spawned by it, roared onto Arlington where there was also severe damage. I’m sure everyone has their story of that evening. For me, it’s memorable because of the tornado and because it reminds me how long I’ve had the wonderful tradition of dinner with my friend Betty.

I don’t know if back then we had settled on Wednesday nights, as we do now, but we had gone to Pappadeaux, one of our favorites. There were storms forecast, but who pays attention to that? As we enjoyed our dinner,  we  watched the sky go from gun-metal gray to that ghastly green which foretells real trouble.

I remember once being away from home when my children were little, and the sky turned green. My ex and I called the nanny, and I said, “You do know what to do in case of a  bad storm?” I asked. “Oh, yes, ma’am,” she reassured me—followed by “What?” We lived at the time in a house with a basement, and I told her to take the children and go to the basement.  Nothing happened that time, but nineteen years ago we weren’t so lucky.

Betty and I decided it was the better part of wisdom not to go out in that scary weather, and so we sat and watched a horrific storm—sideways rain, high winds, all the things you dread. I still marvel that in that restaurant with all its windows we were not told to hide under the tables or something, but I suppose they wanted to avoid panic. We ordered a second glass of wine  and watched. After a bit, the sun came out, and the sky turned blue again. We finished our wine and left, still not knowing what had happened.

When I walked in the house, the phone was ringing. I answered to hear Jordan say, “I’m all right.” Well, why wouldn’t she be? Only later did it dawn on me that she assumed, as kids will, that her mom was okay and at home and frantic with worry. She never asked, “Are you okay?”

Gradually I learned that the tornado had gone less than half a mile from where we sat sipping that second glass of wine. Ever after, Betty’s husband, Don, would say, “I can’t believe the two of you just sat there and ordered more wine.” But what would he have had us do? I think rushing out in the storm would have been the worst kind of foolishness.

The anniversary is also important because it reminds me how long Betty and I have made a ritual of our weekly suppers. And it wasn’t even a new tradition then. I’d say we’d been going to supper—or sometimes happy hour—for three or four years. Today our friend Jean has had a change in her family situation, and we include her so now we’re a regular threesome. But longstanding friendships are one of the things I appreciate in life, so tonight I look back on a long tradition of dinners with Betty. We’ve had some adventures and tried some wacky places, but we also have our favorites, and I am so grateful for the friendship—and for the near-escape of tragedy nineteen years ago.

Tonight Betty, Jean, and I had supper at La Madeleine on Camp Bowie, carrying on the tradition. The weather was calm and lovely, and tornados were far from our minds. Christian reminded me when we got home.

Here’s to a spring full of warm rains and gentle breezes and free of severe storms.

Some days are really rare

Some days are ho-hum, with work and that’s sort of it, but some days are really rare. Yesterday was one of the latter for me.

I worked in the morning, but about eleven Jacob, who did not have school, came out to the cottage and we ran errands. He helped me take review copies of the cookbook to the post office to mail for an upcoming blog tour. Then we went to PetSmart for dog food. First big problem: I know Sophie eats ProPlan but Christian usually gets it, and I was unprepared for a thousand choices of flavors and target ages and consistency. (An aside: a long time ago I sent Christian to PetSmart with a request to find ProChoice dog food—he called me perplexed because there was nothing by that name!) Jacob had no doubts—“My dad gets this brown bag,” he insisted. So we got 35 lbs. of shredded dog food—shredded? Sophie eats kibble. He insisted. (It turned out to be a bigger kibble than usual, and she loves it.) He also chose a new treat since they didn’t seem to have the Purina Dental Chews which are a staple of her life and which I usually get on line but had run out of. He insisted again, and we came away with a large bag of Beggin’ Strips—some sort of faux bacon that the label said was real meat. She liked them so much I have to keep them hidden.

Jacob often doesn’t talk a lot on such trips, but on the way home I did my usual back-roads thing, weaving through neighborhoods to avoid congestion on major streets, and we got into a discussion about which houses we liked. He tends toward the stark and modern, while I love old houses. But it was great fun to pick out a house and pass judgement on it.

And then last night I went with neighbors Margaret and Dennis to a dinner party to meet Carol Coffee Reposa, the 2018 Poet Laureate of Texas. I had met Carol’s daughter, Ruth, and her husband, Scott at a holiday dinner party, and we’d talked about getting the mothers together. Ruth and Scott hosted the small dinner party, and I simply could not have had a better time. Carol and I had lots to talk about—turns out we met in the ‘90s at a conference in San Angelo TCU Press is publishing a book of her poetry this spring, and we know a lot of people in common. Fun to catch up.

Ruth is an obstetrician and, to my surprise, attended the Texas College of Osteopathic Medicine, once my stomping grounds and home to a lot of people I knew and liked. So we too compared friends and talked of the new medical school at TCU and the effect it will have on the osteopathic school. We plan to continue the discussion soon. Scott cooked an absolutely wonderful meal—pork tenderloin with citrus/ginger sauce, seasoned tiny new potatoes, green beans, and Caesar salad. The wine flowed freely.

A bonus: they have two of the most wonderful dogs—shh! Don’t tell Sophie. One is a cross of an Aussie with a poodle. He’s Willie Nelson, and he’s about the same size as my beloved Scooby with the same blue merle markings. And, as all Aussie dogs are, a real sweetheart. I was instantly in love. Then came a shaggy white dog, slightly bigger—she is a Golden Doodle, though I’ve never seen a white one, nor one with as straight a coat. But they were both friendly and well behaved—sat at the table, under our feet, while we dined.

Scandal! I didn’t get home until 10:30, and Jordan immediately came to the cottage to say that she and Jacob had waited up for me. When she tried to get Jacob to go to bed, he said, “I’m not going to bed. Juju isn’t even home yet.”

Nothing like a good book

Jacob went camping and fishing this weekend

In a tent, the fish they caught for supper

What a great experience for a twelve-year-old

            Today I treated myself to an occasional self-indulgence—a day devoted to a book. I dearly love to get lost in a good mystery, but lately I haven’t had time to read much—still proofing the Alamo book and have miles to go, plus I was reading some “serious” nonfiction. And there’s the problem that nothing I casually picked up really spoke to me.

So yesterday I started Hemlock Needle: A Maeve Malloy Mystery by Keenan Powell. And today I spent the day reading—oh, I went to church (with all three Burtons, what a treat!), and I made the stuffed lettuce from the “Gourmet on a Hot Plate” blog last week for supper tonight, and yes, I took my nap. But I read …a lot.

I chose Hemlock Needle because I know Keenan from Sisters in Crime, Guppies, and Facebook—and mostly because I know she had an Irish Wolfhound. That’s enough reason to like anyone in my book. I’ve owned those gentle giants, and I adore them, though I am saddened by their relatively short life span. Keenan ran into that too, when her Fitzhugh recently died.

But I kept reading this because it’s one of the new mystery series I’ve read in a long time. Not a cozy, which is what I usually read, but what I guess you could call a legal thriller. Set in Anchorage, where Keenan just happens to be a lawyer, so she knows whereof she writes. This is her second book in the Maeve Malloy Series.

Alaska and the Native culture are the backbone of this novel, and I find reading it is much like reading Tony Hillerman’s novels of the Navajo culture. It’s a different world for most of us, and the customs and mores dictate the direction the story will take. So does the climate. Hemlock Needle is set in Alaska’s deep winter, with plenty of snow, subzero temperatures. The plot revolves around a young woman who is found frozen to death in a snowbank—unfortunately not an unusual death for the alcoholic, homeless Native population. But Esther Fancyboy was none of those things—mother of a young son, she owned a condo and had a responsible position with a corporation that worked to bring water to remote communities.

It goes without saying that Maeve and her sidekick search for the truth behind Esther’s death and uncover corporate corruption, illicit affairs, and all manner of bad. It’s an absorbing story. And I look forward to finishing it tonight.

And now I’m back on a fiction kick, with several other titles on my TBR list. What a lovely way to spend a day. I read at my computer but today I had the patio doors open, so it was like bringing this glorious day inside. What happened to our storms?