A week of moments

Junie Bug amidst the flowers

Sophie woke up this morning—early, sigh!--full of the joy of life and energy, itching to go after the squirrels. She went out, did her business, came back in, and did a dance by my bed, clicking her nails on the wood floor. I watched for signs my neighbor was up before I let her out, but finally I couldn’t contain her. I gave her a stern and strict talking to that had to do with no barking. She stared at me, tail wagging, impatient. And so began her morning outdoors. She ran, top speed, from one end of the yard to the other, from one side to the other. Occasionally I’d see her tail, raised in joy, swing by my patio door so I knew she was all right. But she didn’t bark. Ever. She squeaked occasionally in excitement. But no barking. Finally I called her in about two o’clock, and she voluntarily went into her crate and slept soundly all afternoon. She is such good company—except early in the morning.

It has been a week of moments—we began to stretch the limits of our quarantine, ever so tentatively. A big moment for me—I got my hair cut. The wonderful stylist/friend who cuts it came to the house, masked and armed with all kinds of sanitizers. I told Jordan she looks careless next to the precautions Rosa took.

Then that same night, I left my own property for the second time since March 12. We went to friends for a distanced happy hour on their patio. As one said, it’s a whole new way of entertainment—everyone brings their own wine, glasses, ice, and snacks. The friends we visited, Phil and Green, have a large and beautiful yard. Highlight for me was a tree I’d never heard of—the Vitek. Two of them in fact. Also known as Abraham’s balm or a chaste tree, it is a bushy tree similar in shape to crape myrtles. But the Vitek has lush and plentiful lavender or white blooms with a slight fragrance.

One day my memorable moment was that I took a holiday from the novel I’m writing. I wrote a cooking blog, cleaned my desk and organized a pile of papers that had accumulated, indulged in the luxury of lingering over recipe magazines—Food & Wine and Southern Living. I’m a compulsive recipe clipper, but these days I am trying to be sensible about. With steely resolve, I pass by a lot of things that sound wonderful to me—things I know my family won’t eat (like wonderful summer fruit desserts), things that in another life I would have served to dinner guests. When the pandemic quiets down, if ever, I hope I can get back to entertaining.

In site of all this activity, I added 6400 words to the novel. It’s coming close to an end—I’ve got to tie up all the ends and figure out who did what.

The weekend looms and with it cooking, good meals, patio time, some company. Hard times but good times. I am grateful.

Where are the good guys today?

This was one of those days that it was hard to clear your mind and go about business. For me, the most pleasant moment was happy hour. Five-thirty is Sophie’s  favorite time of the day. When she senses that we are about to go out to the patio, she runs in and out excitedly. If I am slow—getting my sunglasses or phone, for instance—she runs back in and looks at me as if to say, “Well, are you coming or not?” Tonight she seemed to know that neighbor Mary was coming, and she sat expectantly watching the driveway. I thought it made a cute picture.

My sisters and brothers in Sisters in Crime consider it gospel that you should never talk about religion or politics on social media. You might alienate readers, and heaven knows, we all want each possible sale. I’ve been thinking a lot about that today. I rarely if ever talk about religion, certainly never to suggest what someone should or should not believe. I may occasionally allude to the way my faith governs my beliefs and actions, but that’s it. On politics, I am more outspoken, compelled by my conscience to speak out. If you truly believe that the nation—or a particular person—is leading us to disaster and you can express that in calm and reasonable terms, I think you are morally obligated to speak out. Otherwise, we become a nation of sheep.

But the two—politics and religion—collided last night when the White House ordered Lafayette Square in DC cleared of peaceful protestors so that the squatting president could have a photo op in front of St. John’s Church. It was wrong on so many levels, all of which have been thoroughly explored on social media today—the unbelievable violence against peaceful protestors, the arrogance of a man who defies Christian principles holding a Bible (upside down and backwards), the hubris of trespassing on church property—and forcing church personnel to flee for their lives.

Did it gain him any votes? Not from anyone I heard. All I have heard and read today is scornful. Except from trump himself, who apparently tweeted, “Thank you, Mr. President” for clearing “violent” protestors.

Across the country, we are witnessing a terrible irony: some cops are using brutal methods to quell peaceful protests—against police brutality. They are making the people’s argument for them, their actions demonstrating the need for drastic and thorough reform of police departments, their education, government oversight. I haven’t yet heard much call for training in compassion, but surely that too is needed.

But increasingly, we are seeing examples of police reaching out, walking with protestors, kneeling and praying with them. These are the men and women who set the example we need. God bless them. I was proud of Fort Worth last night where an eight o’clock curfew cleared the streets, and the chief of police, among others, took a knee and prayed with protestors. We need more of that and less rhetoric about dominating the battlefield. Trump seems to want a civil war; we need to show him peaceful cooperation.

Does anyone else have the feeling as I do that the trauma in this country is building toward some sort of a climax? I don’t sense that these protests will stop as those after Martin Luther King, Jr.’s assassination did or the riots after the beating of Rodney King. Tonight the marches seem more peaceful, but I think the public won’t soon be distracted. I hope I’m right. But I wish I had a magic lantern that would show me the future. I cannot begin to think how this unrest will end, how the national will ever get back to normal or to a new and better normal. Still, I remain hopeful.

Protests in America

This is who we are

Not a land of violence and hate

I don’t think any of us can tiptoe around the topic of the protests, what they are doing to disrupt America, and what they mean. So here are a few of my scattered thoughts.

This past week has been a dramatic and intense learning lesson for Jacob. Perhaps because he’s scared (he wouldn’t admit that but then, we all are), perhaps because he never imagined anything like this, he wants to talk about it, explore it. Last night, Fort Worth saw a peaceful protest on the Seventh Street bridge into downtown go violent, and police used tear gas for the first time in this city in decades. Christian and Jacob drove down there on the road safely under the bridge, but Jacob later came and showed me pictures they had taken—what I could principally see was clouds of tear gas floating in the air.

Tonight, Jacob and a buddy wanted to go to Old Neighborhood Grill, just down the street, for burgers. They left a few minutes after seven, with our warnings to be home by eight ringing in their ears. But the grill closed at seven, so that people would be sure to get home. These are the stories those kids will tell their grandkids, but what will their interpretation be? They have no precedent in their memory: I on the other hand remember the night Martin Luther King, Jr., was shot and the riots that followed, and the beating of Rodney King and the burning of Watts. My memory is too full of these things, and I am afraid to hope that this time will be different. Yet it seems different to me, the violence longer lasting and more widespread.

We talked about it last night, and when I said I thought the looting went beyond simple acquisitiveness by poor blacks and was an attempt to create social discord by organized groups, Jacob said tentatively, “I agree with Juju.” Perhaps he’ll see that it is a racial issue, one that’s been simmering too long, but it is also a civil issue, a statement on democracy.

The sitting president spoke briefly on TV tonight. If you know me, you know it’s hard for me to listen to him with an open mind and unbiased ear, but I tried. I really did. I agree with the need to restore order and protect individuals and small businesses, with the lip-service he paid to the genuine protestors and the slight sympathy he showed for George Floyd’s family—he got the name wrong and called him Floyd George. Ah, well.

But when he talks about activating military troops, my hackles go up. And when he blames it all an antifa, I can barely keep from shouting. It’s clearly accepted that outside organized groups are causing much of the continuing disruption, but he has no proof that it’s antifa, a generic name for anti-fascists. He announced he was declaring that a terrorist group—but antifa is the name for a general resistance, not an organized group, so good luck with that. And local leaders, with their feet on the ground and not hiding in a bunker, indicate that much of the trouble comes from white supremacists and from several highly organized groups within that movement. We may never know the truth, but my hunch is that there is some antifa action and a whole lot more neo-Nazi, and at the base, now overshadowed, are the peaceful protestors who simply want to march and chant for  equal justice for all—long overdue in this country.

Will this end racism in this country? Probably not, but perhaps, finally, it is the wake-up call we needed. There is a long road ahead, and true equality won’t happen in my lifetime, but perhaps in Jacob’s.

Is this the end of the trump presidency, as many have suggested. I can only hope. But if it is, it’s a terrible price to pay to free us from an incompetent man who would be a dictator, who fosters hate and incites violence, and to whom 100,000 deaths from COVID-19 apparently mean nothing.

America tonight is in shambles—a pandemic, millions out of work, the economy on the brink of faltering, and riots from coast to coast. No, I don’t believe trump’s prediction that we are on the road to greatness. If we are to move ahead, it will be a long and difficult journey. But I believe, with new leadership, we can do it. I am hopeful.

The taste of home cooking

Dinner tonight: filet with mac and cheese, wilted lettuce

Like many other Americans, my family is not ready to sit in a restaurant and enjoy a meal. Even outdoors, even with appropriate social distancing. I’m blessed that they realize that I am vulnerable because of age. So we eat at home. We’ve been cooking a lot, but since restaurants began take-out, we’ve occasionally had a take-out meal—hamburgers, a club sandwich, a chicken dinner, enchiladas. We are pretty firm though—if the restaurant servers aren’t masked, we don’t want their food.

I got to thinking about it today and decided the benefits of home cooking are many. First of all, the food taste so much better. Granted, sometimes take-out meals lost something in transportation, but I haven’t had one yet that I’d choose over something prepared in our kitchens.

We’ve had some great meals. Stand-outs for me recently were the Mongolian beef Christian fixed and Jordan’s chicken enchiladas with cream cheese last night. But there have been Christian’s Asian meals and my down-home cooking of meatloaf or casseroles. Fairly often, Christian cooks the entrée, and I do the side. Tonight, for instance, our salad was wilted lettuce—a memory from my childhood. Fry some bacon, crumble it and toss with lettuce; dress the salad with the still-warm bacon grease and about half that much vinegar. Yeah, not good for your arteries, but we don’t eat it often, and it is so tasty.

The other benefit of cooking at home is that hackneyed word, togetherness. Jordan and I have spent a lot of time discussing recipes, weighing what her boys—Christian and Jacob—would like, sometimes discarding my experimental ideas (sob!), and making lists. Unfortunately we rarely follow our weekly lists, mostly because we end up devoting one or two nights to leftovers. But both of us are enjoying looking through recipe sources, finding things we think sound good. The chicken enchiladas are a perfect example—I had that recipe in my “to try” file for maybe a year but finally interested her in it. And it turned out to be a real keeper. Okay, it was a bit rich.

Tonight, however, I have a cooking catastrophe. I fried bacon for our wilted lettuce, then left it to warm until just before dinner was served. Jordan, a bit rushed and frustrated, said, “That thing is flashing at me. You’ll have to turn it off.” I thought she meant the toaster oven, looked at it, and it was clearly off. But after dinner, I discovered that the light on the induction hot plate was flashing. I thought she hadn’t pushed the off button twice as required—but it wouldn’t push. Unplugged it, plugged it back in, and it beeped incessantly. I think my hot plate has given up. A search on Amazon was a bit confusing. Jordan and Christian had rushed off to a birthday party but promised to be back soon, so I am waiting for them before making a decision. Maybe I’ll let the hot plate sit overnight and see if it collects itself by morning.

In light of what’s going on in our country, a dead hot plate is small pickings. I am still counting my blessings and praying for our country.

Saturday just feels different

Dinner tonight - cheese enchiladas

If you’re quarantining, as my family and I, Saturday’s no different than any other day. Sunday, for us, stands out in the week because we attend virtual church service and we try always to have a special Sunday dinner as a family. But Saturday? No. You get up, do whatever it is you do during these days, eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner, follow your routine. As I’ve confessed more than once, I am a creature of routine, and I do best when I have a set pattern for my days.

Monday through Friday that works just fine. My day includes work, reading, internet activity—yes, I follow social media, usually at the same time each day. But Saturday just feels different. On Saturday, email slows down (I get an extraordinary number a day) and social media isn’t as active. You can’t take care of business details effectively, so I have two follow-ups on my desk for Monday morning. Not as much takes up my time, so this morning, I browsed through the New York Times Cooking Community Facebook page--twice, something I rarely do. Even so I started on my manuscript and wrote my thousand words well before lunch—usually it’s 12:30 before I get there.

No rule says quit at a thousand words and many days I go over, having done as much as 1700 in one day. But today at a precise 1,014 I ended a scene and thought it best to do some thinking and planning before going on. So there I was, not yet noon, and I was through work for the day. I do have a couple of projects that call me, but I had effectively met my goal for today.

My day got a lot more interesting late this afternoon. Good friend Jean came for a distanced happy hour—we laughed about quarantine, but she has been so isolated that she has not had to put gas in her car for over two months. We talked of many things—history and houses—and it was good to take a break from riots and looting and conspiracies and health crises. As our country is in a mess on many fronts, it amazes me that daily life goes on so pleasantly.

Jordan was our chef tonight, and we had chicken/cream cheese enchiladas—a recipe I’d clipped some time ago because of her love of all things with cream cheese. The enchiladas were rich and delicious, and the recipe madelots—she says we have 300 left. She made a huge salad with blue cheese dressing, and we feasted.

So another Saturday down. I just counted. This is twelfth Saturday I’ve spent in quarantine. No wonder I’m tired of them. It feels good to be opening up just a tiny bit from quarantine—we are only seeing people, no more than two at a time, who we know have been as careful about quarantine as we have. Still, it’s a bit scary since asymptomatic people can spread the virus. I read today that twenty-four states have uncontrolled outbreaks of COVID-19, and Texas leads the list. To me, it’s due to two things: a lack of strong national leadership and a large section of the populace who is non-compliant. I wonder what outbreaks there will be after this weekend of protests.

Be safe out there, folks. It’s still scary.

Dreaming a novel

Last night was one long dream for me. I was telling myself a novel in three parts—three parts because twice I got up to use the restroom, not out of necessity, but because I wanted to leave the world of that dream. But the characters were persistent and kept returning, although they changed considerably from segment to segment.

At first, there were three people, two men and a woman, incarcerated at a prison in a desert, presumably for nonviolent crimes. They escaped disguised as employees (more like cleaning people or someone in scrubs than guards) and spent the night in a nearby empty house. Then they took off in a van.

Sometime during the night they morphed into three women. Think Thelma and Louise or a “Golden Girls Take to the Highway” episode. While they were always on the run and in some perilous circumstances, including snowbound in a cave, they agreed it was the best time of their lives. (Don’t anyone get Freudian on me!). Finally, they ended in a twin city area—two small towns. They grocery shopped in the lesser town figuring they would not know anyone. But they ran into the husband of one; then another met the love of her life, and the third asked for a ride to the bus station. I woke up, and my mind finally went back to my WIP.

I know I’ll never turn the dream into a novel, what with changing characters and a lot of unexplained things like the snowy cave, but the kernel of a story is there if I wanted to pursue it. What I found interesting is the process involved, the way the story flowed in spite of my efforts to stop it. I thought of Elmer Kelton, the late dean of Texas fiction. He once described writing his award-winning novel, The Good Old Boys, saying he was sitting at the bedside of his dying father and listening to stories of the old-time cowboys at the turn of the twentieth century. Suddenly, he began writing, and the words wouldn’t stop. Elmer used to say that it was like a horse with the bit in its teeth, and he was just along for the ride.

Elmer wrote that way. One of his favorite pieces of advice was, “Listen to your characters, and they will tell you what’s going to happen.” He did not use Scrivener or Grammerly, a story bible, or any other devices and aids designed to help novelists tell a story. He simply told the story. A graduate of the University of Texas, he was not some unlettered genius but was knowledgeable about structure and the need for a story arc. He just never let those things dominate his storytelling.

For me, the three-part structure of my dream is significant, because I too learned about structure in school. Not so much the arc within an arc and subplots and all the intricacies that guide us today, but the basic Shakespearean pattern of rising action, climax, and denouement. To this day the parts of a novel to me are the beginning, middle, and end. 

To say that storytelling should be natural is not to jump into the pantser vs. outliner controversy. I’m a pantser who works best from a page of rough notes. But I know everyone has to choose the way that works best for them. Perhaps what I want to suggest about storytelling is that it should be less of a science and more of an art, more instinctive and organic.

If you’ve never read Elmer Kelton, you have a treat waiting for you, whether you think you’re interested in cowboy literature or not. Start with The Good Old Boys, move on to The Wolf and the Buffalo—Elmer set out to tell the story of a particular buffalo soldier, but a Commanche chief kept taking over the story. And then move on to his classic, The Time It Never Rained, described as one of the twenty or so best novels by an American of the twentieth century.

Me? I’m going back to sleep and see what happens next.

Big doings in the neighborhood

I thought of Mister Rogers tonight: “It’s a lovely day in the neighborhood.” I am fortunate to live in a close-knit neighborhood with a lot of community pride. In fact, I I live across from the community elementary school. And tonight that provided one of those special neighborhood moments, though I only heard it distantly.

At Lily B. Clayton Elementary, known locally as “Sweet Lily B.,” there’s a tradition of “clapping out” the graduating fifth graders. The students parade down a long hall as families, friends, and faculty line the hall and rhythmically clap. It’s a moment to bring tears to your eyes—I know because I was there for the clapping out of Jacob and also, earlier, of my Canadian daughter Sue’s son, Hunter.

This year there would be no clapping-out ceremony due to social distancing, quarantining, whatever you call it. But school administrators arranged for a clap-out on the street in front of the building tonight. We were in the back yard with socially distanced happy hour guests, but we heard and enjoyed the hoopla. Police cars and fire department vehicles led the parade with horns and sirens blaring someone played "Pomp and Cirumstance" on a car radio, and kids hung out of cars, waving at the people on the street. A perfect show of neighborhood joy for these young kids who have accomplished so much and yet not been able to celebrate as they expected.. Jordan snuck out to the front porch and took the picture above.

We had a company happy hour  with two couples who are longtime friends of mine. Jordan worried and worked a lot to arrange it so seven people could sit with appropriate distancing. In spite of rain threats during the day, it was a lovely evening, perfect temperature, and the garden looked pretty. Everyone brought their own drinks, glasses, snacks, and even napkins. I wonder if this is the entertaining of the future. Guess it is, at least for the foreseeable future. But we were certainly glad to see these friends, and there was much lively discussion, even if it did seem to focus on true crime stories such as the Cullen Davis mansion murders. Not sure how we got on such a topic.

I had prepped dinner tonight, knowing we wouldn’t have a lot of cooking time. Jordan went to Central Market this morning, intending to go inside first thing when it opened instead of using curbside pick-up as we usually do. Seemed to me a perfect time for us to have a seafood supper, so she came home with a pound of bay scallops, plus shrimp for Jacob—he adores shrimp but we all doubted he would try scallops.

Note my fancy new fish spatula

I made scallops Provenҫal—tossed the scallops with salt, pepper, and flour and sautéed them in butter; added chopped shallots, garlic, and parsley to the skillet and cooked a bit longer. Then added white wine and cooked gently until the sauce just thickened a bit. Christian, who apparently wasn’t sure he liked scallops, said he wanted his well done. I explained that well done scallops were rubbery, and besides, they would all be done in one skillet—they were after all, the small bay scallops, and it wasn’t like putting steaks on the grill and assigning each to a person. Apparently, I got it right, because he said he now realized he likes them. Such fun enlarging his taste—he joked that I had made a salmon eater out of him, and now a scallop eater   Hmm, maybe I'll go for mushrooms next.

Another pleasant evening. We all agreed that the days go by quickly, even without scheduled things to do, without lunches and dinners out, without haircuts and doctor appointments and shopping trips and travel. It’s strange to be so comfortable in such difficult times, although at least for me personal comfort doesn’t keep me from worrying about the state of the country. I pray for our nation daily, because I think we are in perilous times.

Don’t name that baby girl Karen!

Always a good day when you learn a new word. My new word of the day is Karen. If you already know what a Karen is—notice, it is what, not who—I’m sorry for being late to the party. Apparently, the term has been in slang usage for some time. A Karen is a middle-aged, privileged, entitled white woman. You know her, she calls the police on a black family picnicking in the park or a young black girl selling cold drinks on the sidewalk.

I saw the term this morning in an article entitled, “Karen” isn’t going “wild.” She’s just being documented. The article began by comparing the term to the use of the N-word, saying both are offensive. Minutes later, I read an account of a white woman and black man who tangled verbally in Central Park when he, a dedicated bird watcher, asked her to leash her unruly dog. It escalated, she called the police and, according to the report, lunged at him, breaking social distancing. The man was later quoted as saying, “Her inner Karen came out.” Police came, no summonses were issued, but by evening “Karen” had been temporarily furloughed from her job and asked to surrender her dog to the rescue group from which she got it. Now that’s a word I already knew: Karma.

Later today I saw a clip about a middle-aged, overweight white woman, with unkempt hair, yelling at a Mexican family for playing Mexican music in the park. Maybe they should have played “Degüello.”

Don’t name your new baby Karen (with apologies to the only Karen I know who is a really good person).

We resumed our weekly ladies’ happy hour tonight with neighbors Mary Dulle and Prudence Zavala—so good to see these ladies again. We sat distanced, and everyone brought their own drinks. Mary brought individual appetizer plates for each of us, and Pru brought each a canister of piroulines—great dessert tonight. We sent them home with bags of chocolate mints—the good kind you sometimes get on restaurant plates, and a bag of corks for Mary who swears someday she will do something with them. During this quarantine, I’m trying to guilt her into it by supplying lots of corks. Jordan plans an early morning trip to Central Market tomorrow and so asked each of the ladies what they needed. That’s how the world works these days—going to the store? Check with your neighbors. Sitting on the patio was so pleasant—no bugs, though Pru brought her bug zapper—lovely temperature, slight breeze, a perfect evening.

Now Christian is fixing Mongolian beef, and Jordan has put Louella’s rice in my toaster oven. We will have a good dinner—and I’m hungry.

Stay safe and well, everyone.

Thoughts on a rainy Memorial Day

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

    That mark our place; and in the sky

    The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

                from "In Flanders Fields," by John McCrae

                McCrae, a Canadian teacher, served in WWI and died January 1918

The all-day rain probably ruined a lot of Memorial Day picnic plans—but then maybe it saved some people from crowd exposure they didn’t need. Whichever, I found it a delightful day. Too wet to even stick my nose out of the cottage, so I wrote an amazing (for me) 1800 words.

Sophie was not so taken with the rain, though she did sleep until I woke her. But even with the patio door open, she refused to go out in the rain. Finally about eleven, she began to bark at me, and I had the distinct impression that she was telling me to make it stop raining, so she could go pee. My explanations fell on deaf ears. She finally did go out, took care of business, and came right back in.

Later, I watched Christian and Jacob try to get June Bug to go out. Jacob came and closed my door so there would be no repeat of last night’s horrendous peeing accident on my floor. June Bug took one step out the door and stopped dead still. Christian patter her on the behind, urging her to go on. As if to say, “Nope,” she turned to go back in the house, only to find her way blocked. Finally Jacob had to pick her up and carry her down to the grass. Gave me a good laugh for the day.

Like most of America, I take Memorial Day seriously as a day to pay tribute, something more significant than just a day for a picnic. Many who post on this day come from a military background, which I always think makes the impact of the day on them heavier. I do not come from such a tradition, although now it sounds unreal to say that my father fought in World War I. By the time I came along, the war to end all wars was twenty years into his memory, and he rarely talked about it. Althought Dad fought for the Canadian Army, not American, I suppose he could still be called a doughboy--the nickame given to soldiers at that time. Books I’ve read about that time—and the wonderful work of the war poets--have made me realize that as a foot soldier he probably endured some pretty tough times. He was subject to chest colds, which was attributed to having been mustard gassed. And when jet planes began crossing our skies, every time one whined by—the really did whine in those days—Dad would duck for the garage if he was outdoors. It sounded like incoming artillery to him.

If any of my uncles were in the military, I don’t know about it, though I do know my brother’s father was in WWI and had shrapnel in his face. The decision at the time was to leave it, but Russell Peckham died in 1934 of meningitis, an infection from the shrapnel. My brother was a Navy pilot in the days just after the Korean War. For much of his service, he was in Corpus Christi, and when I finally visited there, I felt like I already knew the city from his descriptions.

We had our Memorial Day picnic on Saturday—hot dogs and macaroni salad—and I had another picnic yesterday when the Zavalas sent me a bounteous feast. So tonight, I will try to rescue a pasta/tomato dish that didn’t work, add a chicken breast left from yesterday, and a bit of the corn dip that Jordan took with her tonight. A nice satisfying meal. I have some editing to do on what I wrote today and then a culinary mystery to settle down with. I’m not hooked yet, but then I’m not far into it. It is set in Santa Fe, in an upscale Austrian restaurant (really? In Santa Fe? Is this an exercise in the absurd?) so it has some compensations.

Sweet dreams amid the rain.

Highlights of an ordinary day

General Tso's chicken with a lettuce wrap

Ordinary days are pretty common during quarantine, and this started out to be one of them. I have noticed that the weather affects my mood more in quarantine than usual, and this morning I felt draggy, a bit lethargic, not bursting with enthusiasm. Of course, I did—it was predicted to be rainy day, although the sun shone all morning. In the late afternoon, a friend who lives maybe three blocks away emailed they got 20 minutes of rain. I was looking at dry sidewalks. One of us has our stories mixed.

Highlight of the day should be Christian’s dinner. He really looked forward to cooking for us. General Tso’s chicken, a dish I’ve heard about a lot and never tried. But more about that later.

The day began with church, after I fiddled with email and the news of the day which was as it often is pretty discouraging. But church was good. I am continually amazed at the creativity and passion that my church brings to online services. Today, the photography particularly impressed me. And the way they involve lay members in the service—children participating in the call to worship, a member reading Scripture. And an inspirational message from Dr. Russ Peterman on the current theme of “Now, what?” So we’ve had Easter and we have the resurrection, but how does that help us live our daily lives on this planet—and in this sorely divided country? His answer? To remember that all of us, no matter our beliefs on politics and the virus, are children of God. That’s an oversimplification, but ….

Then my neighbors, Pru and Victor Zavala, surprised me with a feast for lunch. They hurried to grill before the rain came and sent a plate of corn on the cob, chicken thighs, sausage, and beans, with strawberry sweet bread for dessert. Absolutely delicious. I believe Victor has a career as a pit master should he ever want to give up surgery. Oh, and a sweet strawberry bread topped with turbinado sugar which gave it a slight crunchiness.

So I settled down to nap and then work at my computer while awaiting Christian’s dinner. But June Bug, one of the Burton Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, had a special treat for me. Junie is nine or ten, deaf, has had a heart attack, and—there’s no getting around it—senile. Sweet as she is, her elevator does not go all the way to the top. She likes to come in the cottage because she thinks she can snitch some of Sophie’s food. But tonight she got right in front of me, squatted, and peed a lake on my wood floor (fortunately she missed the rug, but she did highlight the uneven floor of my cottage—everything runs downhill to the north, so pee ran into corners and under the desk). I called Jordan. She came out, justifiably furious, and began a lengthy cleanup process, assisted by Jacob. I was shoved out of the way, but I couldn’t tell which smelled worse—the pee or the cleaning/disinfecting products. Finally, I poured two glasses of wine and we went to the patio. Jordan even jokingly offered Jacob a glass, but he laughingly declined. More turmoil than any of us needed on an ordinary day. June Bug is banned from the cottage, but that means someone has to either tell me she’s out or shut my door—sometimes she sneaks in and I don’t know it until she comes from the bedroom, having gone the long way around.

But we got past that bit of trauma and had a great dinner. I sat on the front porch with Jordan so I could see the pugs that a neighbor walks every evening about 7:30--cute dogs and a friendly neighbor. Then General Tso’s chicken--fried chicken pieces in a sweet/sour sauce—so good. And Christian made lettuce wraps with ground turkey because he couldn’t find chicken. At dinner, he said, “I have a confession,” and we waited breathlessly for what would come—but it was that the filling for the wraps was turkey, not chicken.

Also at the dinner table, we discussed long-range plans if the pandemic continues for a year or more. Where would we go to get away? Perhaps building plans in the air, but it’s a thought to consider. If staying healthy is still a primary concern in the future, how and where will we live? I’m too old to think about it, but I recognize in myself the signs of becoming a recluse. I need to work on that. More about it at another time.

All in all, another satisfying day in quarantine—with unexpected highlights. And a lot to think about.