Cooking fun

 

Holiday view from my window

As I write, Jordan is making Christian’s request for dinner: taco salad with Catalina dressing. A bit ago, she asked if I would pull up a recipe. I told her we didn’t need a recipe. You just make some taco meat, dice tomatoes, grate cheese, drain beans, chop lettuce and mix it all together. She wanted something printed in her hand that would give her quantities. So she went to Pinterest, but when she was following the recipe, she complained it didn’t tell her how much lettuce. I said you just add it until you have enough. Cooking styles clash.

Taco salad

Since we’re quarantining and trying hard to make the holidays special and festive, I suggested we should have Beef Wellington on Christmas Eve. Jordan’s response was that it’s really hard to do. But I set off on an internet search for recipes. Found one I really liked, hit the wrong thing, and never could find it again. But I found recipes for hamburger Beef Wellington, a vegetarian version, and several that were close but not quite Cooking funright. Some called for paté, but I knew even the thought of paté would not sit well with either Jordan or Christian; most called for duxelles, that combination of mushrooms, shallots, thyme, and whatever—I like the idea of adding a bit of sherry.

Most recipes called for searing the meat, which sounded good to me. One or two suggested then rubbing it with mustard, such as Dijon. And the ones I liked called for laying out overlapping pieces of prosciutto on plastic wrap, putting the duxelles on that, and then wrapping it around the meat. Sounds good to me. I announced that I could put together a recipe from what I’d found. That scared Jordan. One recipe said 25 minutes prep time, 20 minutes cooking. I doubt that would happen here.

When Christian heard all this, he agreed it might be just as cheap to buy it already prepared. Jury’s still out, but the entire evening has suggested to me the difference in the way Jordan and I approach cooking. She wants a recipe; I’m willing to wing it. I must add that her taco salad, sort of made with a recipe, was delicious.

And last night she made a crescent-roll ring filled with pesto chicken. It was not a recipe I would have tried, but she followed the instructions and came out with a dish that was attractive and flavorful. We agreed to put it on what she calls the rotation list.

Pesto chicken in a 
crescent-roll ring

What I do think is that we’re lucky that we can eat so well with such a variety during pandemic. It’s one thing that has kept us from staring mindlessly at the TV and given us an occupation that interests us. I’m learning a lot more about food as we go, and I’m sure Jordan is too. Christian, who sometimes cooks for us, is also the beneficiary of what we fix. Jacob would just as soon have mac and cheese, but I hope that’s a passing phase.

Aside from cooking, life goes on in our little compound. As the picture above shows, Jordan has us all decorated for Christmas. Jacob has virtual school until early afternoon, and today he had a golf lesson. Jordan keeps after her travel business, does all our errands including grocery shopping, and keeps the household running. And I sit at my computer and write—some days it goes better than others, but today was a good day, and I think I nailed the first chapter of Irene in Danger, sequel to Saving Irene.

I’m hopeful as 2020 draws to a close about the vaccine and about a new presidential administration. 2021 is bound to be better if we can all just hang on until then.

 

The devil made her do it

Sophie, worn out after chasing squirrels

Some doggie demon got inside Sophie this morning. She woke me early by barking at some critter outside my closet (praying it was really outside and not in the closet). I got up thinking I’d let her out, she’d come right back in as she usually does, and I could go back to bed for that extra twenty minutes. Cancel that as wishful thinking.

Jordan says the squirrels were insane this morning. I say so was the dog. The border collie half of her came out in full force. She jumped at the fence, barking and squeaking—seriously, she gets so excited she sounds like a squeaky toy. And she raced from one corner of the yard to the other, like a whirlwind. My calls of her name and my bribes of “Cheese, Sophie, cheese!” fell on deaf ears. She did not even glance at me. Like a child in the midst of a tantrum, Sophie was so caught up with the squirrels, she shut all else out of her world.

           There was a time when I let her have her fun. She was, I figured, getting good exercise. But I learned better. For one thing, there’s been a lot on our neighborhood email about controlling barking dogs. And then there was the time I let her run all morning. By evening, she was limping a bit. By the next morning, she was clearly sick, though I didn’t know what was wrong. An emergency trip to the vet revealed torn pads on her paws. An expensive bill, a shot, medication, and a lotion we had to put on her paws for weeks or so it seemed.

Our yard has grass, but there is a large area of ground cover with fairly tough stems and there are small areas of deconstructed granite—where grass just wouldn’t grow. Soph runs over all of that with gay abandon and frequently disappears into that tiny strip between our house and the neighbor’s. I’m fearful of even investigating what’s back there!

This morning, after half an hour, Jacob came out to get her inside, but he had to stalk her. She kept running, whereas she normally would have run right up to him. He finally got her and literally shoved her inside the cottage. I closed the door tightly, told her no cheese because she hadn’t come when called, and went back to bed for that stolen twenty minutes. Sophie, who never gets up on the bed when invited, decided she wanted to snuggle. She leapt up on the bed, dirt and all. But she doesn’t snuggle well—she wiggles, and she soon tired of it and jumped down.

But I was not to have peace—she was still in frantic mode. She’d come to the side of the bed and bark demandingly; then I’d hear her race through the cottage to stand at the door and squeak in excitement. She kept this up until I finally got out of bed. Believe me, I scolded. I knew, rationally, that she had no idea why I was raising my voice, but she knew she was in trouble. She turned her head away from me and wagged her tail hopefully. When I went about my morning routine—from brushing my teeth to washing the pot left from last night and putting away the dishes, she was right at my side.

At one point I reached out a hand and asked if she wanted to be friends, but she wasn’t ready to forgive me (see how that shoe got on the other foot?). She backed out of my reach and stared at me. Then she went back to her squirrel watch at the door.

As I write this, it’s eleven in the morning, and I am at my desk working. Guess where Sophie is? Peacefully asleep in a chair. The doggie demon must have departed.

PS: I took an afternoon nap, because I’d missed that sleep this morning (and because I always take a nap). But I wasn’t to have peace even then. The yard crew, who should have come yesterday, came today. To do our house and the neighbors meant they and their machines were here for an hour. Sophie barked the entire time.

Tonight she is subdued. Repentant? I’m not sure.

 

Waste not, want not

 

White chili with turkey

I did something this year I haven’t done in a long time. In a fit of domesticity, I simmered the turkey carcass, at least as much of it as would fit in my biggest pot. (Remember tiny kitchen.) I had to give up on the breastbone. It was simply too big.

Jordan and Christian didn’t want to “mess” with it—his words. But it has been simmering in their kitchen for two nights now. On Saturday, I added the last of a bit of celery, a cut onion that had been in the fridge I don’t know how long, and some of the baby carrots Jordan puts in Jacob’s salad. Started it in the cottage but had a problem—my hot plate automatically shuts off every 30 minutes. Cooking something all day is an exercise in getting up and restarting the thing. Cooking it overnight is impossible. So the pot went into the house and simmered for two nights. This morning, Jordan asked what to do with it and I asked her to bring it out to me.

When I simmer a turkey, I don’t want the meat and vegetables that have cooked that long. To me, they get soggy and tasteless, so I strained them out and got three good-sized icebox containers and two small ones of a rich, good broth. But as I discarded those scraps of meat, I thought guiltily about people for whom that would be a feast. For many of us, this is a season of plenty, and we tend to put out of our minds those that may hunger. I’m not sure what form of outreach will come from that aha! moment on my part. Certainly not to save those scraps for someone or some animal, but perhaps an extra donation to the Food Bank or through my church to the Presbyterian Night Shelter. But that waste really hit home with me, and I’ll act on it.

It was surely a weekend of plenty around here. We took a break from turkey and had a fresh salmon filet Saturday and real beef bourguignon last night—you know, made with sirloin rather than hamburger. Jordan wanted to make an occasion out of the first night of Advent, so we splurged on dinner. But she discovered that prep work for the bourguignon was more than she expected. The final result was worth it. Today at lunch I made the leftover salmon into a delicious salad that Jordan and I shared. Tonight it’s back to turkey—in white chili.

Food seems to surround us at this time of the year. I have the makings of cranberry/apricot chutney and cranberry cake. I’ll try to talk Jordan into another cheeseball. Before we know it, it will be time to think about Christmas dinner. Jordan is already talking about plans. Apparently, there is one of the coveted Greenwood smoked turkeys in the freezer—gotten just before the turkey plant burned. So I don’t know if we’ll have a roast turkey also or a small ham or what.

Not at all related to turkeys, but I want to give a shout-out to my colleague Judith Copek, whose mystery, Murder in the Northwoods, debuts tomorrow as a Kindle e-book. The opening line of the blurb is terrific: “She’s into high tech. He’s into homicide.” Can’t you just hear the tension, danger and romance both, crackling? Judy has been hit with a triple whammy of health problems, one of which is shingles. Having just survived a bout with shingles, I send her all my sympathy, and I know she may not be up to marketing her book widely. So I want to help. Check it out here: Murder in the North Woods - Kindle edition by Copek, Judith. Mystery, Thriller & Suspense Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.

Happy reading. It’s a cold night. Perfect for getting lost in a Northwoods mystery. While the woods are cold and dangerous, you can be cozy and safe reading about it at home.

It’s a dog’s life—or should be

 

The Burton Cavaliers

When I was young, green, and new to Fort Worth, I worked writing copy for Tandy Leather catalogs. I found myself working with several wives of students at the Baptist Seminary. One day one was telling a story about the family dog which was eating too much (whose fault is that?) and getting fat. The daughter, maybe twelve, had taken the dog’s face in her hands and said, “Pooch or whatever, you’ve got to stop eating so much or you’ll die, and you can’t go to Heaven.”

Instinctively I said, “What an awful thing for a child to say to a dog.”

“But Judy,” the mother said, “it’s true. Dogs don’t have souls, so they can’t accept Jesus as their savior and therefore can’t go to Heaven.”

I’m not prepared here to get into a theological discussion of whether or not dogs have souls, but I am quite sure they have feelings. They love, they trust—and too many of them are betrayed. I heard lately of a man who needed to rehome a twelve-year-old dog because he was getting married and couldn’t take his dog (I’d rethink that marriage!). Or people who no longer want their dogs and just turn them out to wander and get lost. We all know stories of dogs kicked out of cars who chase the cars as they speed away—they are chasing the only person they know, even if that person is not a dog owner 

I heard recently that this time of year people turn their older dogs into shelters to make room for new puppies. Outrage! Would you turn in Grandma to make room for a new baby (being a grandma, I sincerely hope not!).

You see it in the eyes of shelter dogs. They are lost, abandoned, scared, waiting for the only people they’ve ever known to come back and save them. And too often those people don’t come back.

A dog is a lifetime commitment—not your lifetime but the dog’s. It is a living being with feelings of love, loyalty, hunger, fear, cold, joy—the whole range of emotions we feel. Treated right, they are loyal, trustworthy companions who will often go to any lengths to help or save their people.

Different dogs for different folks. Christian always wanted a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel because they are quiet dogs, bred to sit quietly on the king’s lap. But they come with congenital heart problems and may require expensive veterinarian care. My Sophie is half poodle, half border collie—one of the doodle dogs recently popular. But she s a cross of two of the smartest breeds known. We don’t get to put much over on Sophie. In a long life of dog ownership, I have had collies, farm collies, Irish wolfhounds, Cairn terriers, Australian shepherds, a Labrador with just a hair of Rhodesian ridgeback in him—each breed comes with their own characteristics, habits, personalities.

Another problem: the dog that needs a new home because the owner suddenly is unable to care for it and the family doesn’t want it. I can’t imagine that, but it happens. Have you made arrangements for the care of your pet in case you die or are unable to care for it? My family has long had an informal agreement about my dogs—Colin would have taken the Aussie if anything happened to me; now, if that happened, you couldn’t pry Sophie out of Jordan’s arms. I have a friend with no children, family members not liable to love her cats—so she has provided generously for them in her will.

A dog is a four-legged, furry member of the family and deserves to be treated as such. Spread the word. A pox on people who abandon dogs.

Jordan and Sophie
Soph thinks she's a lap dog

The Toaster Oven Thanksgiving

 

Jordan at her table

Late last night, I scrolled through Facebook, amazed at the number of people who, celebrating alone because of covid, nonetheless had the traditional meal, set a fine table for themselves. Oh sure, corners were cut—one picture showed a frozen turkey dinner, but a nice place setting; several who were feeding one or two opted for a turkey breast; one woman said they just served gravy out of the skillet. But this adherence to tradition, in whatever form it took, speaks of an optimism to me, a belief that Thanksgiving next year will be better, that we will be with our families again. I love seeing that attitude during the weirdness that was Thanksgiving 2020.

I also read about people who couldn’t put food on their family table. One Fort Worth suburb gave out 800 meals yesterday. I’m sure similar stories are told across the country—the stock market may be doing well, but people at the other end of the economic spectrum are suffering. Yesterday was also a national day of mourning for indigenous people, a fitting contradiction to the happy story we were told as children about the Pilgrims and the Indians sharing a feast. The native people came out on the bad end of that deal and still do. I shared on my page a moving picture of a home on a northern reservation, cardboard fastened on all the exterior walls to serve as insulation. In the midst of plenty, we must remember all those less fortunate.

We had a bountiful feast at our house/compound, despite a few glitches. We were supposed to be in Austin, where all seventeen of us would gather to celebrate in Megan’s new house. That didn’t happen because we followed safety guidelines. All the families had dinner at their home, with no more than six people. We had just the four of us who always eat dinner together. But Jordan pulled out all the stops to make it as festive as possible.

She set an absolutely gorgeous table, using the Golden Grapevine china that my mother and my aunt had chosen for me when I was far too young to care about china. It belongs to Jordan now, who puts it to better use than I ever did. She used gold chargers, Italian wine glasses embossed with gold, and the gold-washed flatware. (No, she has not been influenced by Donald trump’s penchant for gilt—this was tasteful and elegant.)

We started with happy hour on the front porch. Jean joined us, at a socially correct distance, but to my delight she brought northern white bread dressing. We had Jordan’s cheeseball, a family tradition, and a chutney spread I like—only this year I made it with cranberry chutney. Lots of laughter and fun, but we couldn’t convince Jean to stay for dinner. She had her own dinner for one all planned—and covid kept her from joining us at the table. She feared both getting it and giving it.

For dinner, we had turkey, which Christian cooked in his air fryer, mashed potatoes (which Jordan forgot until we were all seated and had said grace. I think it was Jacob who said, “Something’s missing.”) But there was mac and cheese (Christian’s mom’s recipe) and green bean casserole and fresh rolls and real butter (the latter is important to me). And there was dressing—northern white bread dressing that Jean brought. Jordan and Christian have always known cornbread dressing, but, darn! They liked the northern style (I thought I’d get it all to myself.)

Putting that feast on the table was more problematic than usual, because the oven in the main house was out—and the repairman can’t come until next Tuesday. It literally was a toaster oven holiday. Jordan cooked the mac and cheese in the toaster oven in the cottage; the mashed potatoes were in the crockpot; the green beans cooked in their toaster oven, and the dressing re-warmed there. Jordan even went across the street to use a neighbor’s oven for Jacob’s beloved yellow cake—the neighbors had gone off to a Thanksgiving celebration. I call that real neighborliness!

Just as I admire those who had a traditional meal all alone, I admire Jordan’s determination to keep the spirit of a holiday. She might easily have said, “Oh, it’s just us. Let’s just eat around the coffee table in the cottage like we always do.” But she made it special, a holiday, a celebration. A sign of optimism and hope.

What's on your plate?

 

Americans never debate food as much as they do as Thanksgiving approaches. This year, I’m beginning to feel it’s a little de trop to want turkey. People are having everything from tenderloin to pizza and decrying the traditional turkey. Frankly, I like it, look forward to it, have mourned the last few years because we were always at one child’s house or another and never had leftovers. A benefit of staying home this year is that we will have the leftovers. I’m already having dreams of turkey hash.

Today there are ways to cook the turkey that my mom never thought of. I remain a fan of good old oven roasting, which provides good flavor and lots of gravy. For several years, my sons and sons-in-law have fried turkeys, and I admit that produces a good bird with crisp skin. But still, my Austin daughter and I often have a separate turkey roasting in the oven, so we’ll get gravy. Then, there was the year of the rancid oil—but we won’t go into that horror. This year, we are operating in this house without an oven (long story), so Christian will air-fry the turkey, which he would do anyway because he loves that way of cooking the bird. I have bought extra gravy from Central Market. It’s usually good in flavor but pale in color, and since food is half eaten with the eye, I use Kitchen Bouquet to darken it.

Then there’s dressing or stuffing. I think years ago we solved the nomenclature problem: stuffing goes inside the bird; dressing is fixed in a separate pan. About the same time we figured that out, we realized that while stuffing the bird had real flavor advantages, it also offered health problems in the form of potential food poisoning. I don’t know anyone who stuffs the turkey these days.

In Texas, there is not much controversy about dressing—except in my mind. I do not care for cornbread dressing. I want good old northern stuffing made with Wonder bread and lots of celery and onions and butter and sage. My good luck because my friend Jean also loves northern stuffing and will bring me some. She is a bit upscale though and uses Pepperidge farm white bread to make it. Meanwhile Christian will make the cornbread dressing of his childhood.

And then there are sides. My family is firmly convinced green bean casserole is essential, and they want it made with canned green beans, mushroom soup, and French’s onion rings. Period. One daughter-in-law makes it with fresh green beans (the horror!), sour cream, and Parmesan. We’re all polite, and it’s good—it’s just not the same. Recently I’ve discovered that some families consider Brussel sprouts traditional, and I’ve come to realize that my family wants mac and cheese on the table.

Folks move away from traditional desserts too. I have a childhood friend whose large family still makes my mom’s chiffon pumpkin pie recipe. Pumpkin won’t go in my house, which bothers me a bit, but one son loves sweet potato pie. Mostly we don’t pay attention to dessert because we’re too full by the time it comes around. This year, for the four of us, Jordan will make a chocolate pie and a yellow cake with chocolate frosting—the latter because Jacob loves it. Overkill in my mind, but I am quiet about it.

So there it is: in spite of all the trendy changes and rebellious choices of new foods, my family comes down firmly on the side of tradition: the four of us will have turkey with gravy, mashed potatoes, dressing (with northern for me), green bean casserole, and mac and cheese. For dessert, chocolate pie and yellow cake.

Although we have much to be thankful for this year—health, plentiful food, meaningful work, a safe home, the love of family, a year without the devastating losses many families have faced—it is a year tinged with disappointment. We should be in Austin, at Megan’s new house, with all seventeen of the family. Covid put the squelch on that gathering, so we will give thanks for a new administration coming in, a vaccine on the immediate horizon, and other blessings—and we’re watching for the next occasion when we can all gather at Megan’s. Heck, we might just create our own Alter holiday some weekend.

Meantime, join us in giving thanks. May your table be bountiful, your journey easy and happy.

All those things I don’t do well

I can figure my way around a paragraph or a page of prose and I’m pretty much okay in the kitchen, but outside those areas I’m at a loss. Several years ago when I was director of TCU Press, the editor was a man who could fix—or jerry-rig—most things. I have forgotten what the occasion was, but I will always remember him saying to someone, “She’s not exactly handy.” The result is that when I do the slightest mechanical thing, I tend to be inordinately proud of myself.

In the last couple of days, I have “fixed” three things, and I am bursting with pride. Never mind that one of them just involved deliberately leaving the thing alone. The commode in my cottage wouldn’t flush. Since I do not have two bathrooms in my small quarters, that’s a real problem. It not only wouldn’t flush, it wasn’t making plumbing noises like it was working on something. So I left it alone. Two hours later, it flushed perfectly! Deliberately ignoring a problem is part of my tool kit.

The light in the panel in my refrigerator door that goes on when you get water or ice? It suddenly was on and stayed on. Now in my small quarters, nothing is far apart, and that light bothered me at night when I slept. I finally got so I pulled the pocket door between bedroom and kitchen partly closed. I meant to ask Christian about it—until I discovered a light bulb image on the control panel.  Pushed it, and voila! The light went out. See how handy I am.

The third thing—and these things always come in threes—that broke was my Apple watch. I put it on the charger and saw that instead of the usual panel of numbers, I saw just the corner of one big number. After it charged, it was the same. My phone does that sometimes and I simply reboot it. Not an option with the watch. There’s only one button you can push on the phone, and I pushed it. Nothing. So I called the genius granddaughter who works at an Apple Genius Bar in Boulder. She said we’d zoom the next day. Meantime I remembered what she told me—the watch is nothing by itself. It needs the cell phone, which is essentially its switchboard. So I opened the watch app on the phone—I wish I could tell you what I hit after that, but I just kind of touched buttons. I think it was “complications” which sounded logical to me. Anyway, suddenly the phone was back to normal.

I wrote that to genius granddaughter but told her I’d still like a zoom call to see her pretty face. Still waiting tonight, though she said she’d’ call sometime after she got out of class.

So that’s three things I have fixed—or ignored while they fixed themselves: the toilet, the light on the fridge, and my watch. Color me proud, and let’s not talk about the fact that Christian had to show me tonight how to use a pill cutter.

Apparently there are horrendous storms headed this way. Thunder is rolling in the distance and I see lightning flashes. Reports from a friend who is about forty miles to the west at a local lake is that it is like a hurricane. Sophie is in, and I have given her a Benadryl, just because. I enjoy a good storm, but I’m aware of the dangers. When Jacob came out with word of it, I asked him to check on us after it passes.

Be safe, stay inside, and hide under the covers until the storm passes.

A dog day (aren't most days?)

 

It doesn’t take much to be the highlight of the day around here—a grocery trip, a new recipe, a bit of gossip. Today it was Sophie’s spa day. I had been unhappy with her previous groomer—that’s putting it mildly. The groomer shaved her stomach for whatever purpose I will never have an idea. The whole trim was rough, uneven, and she trimmed her face close instead of the Benjie look that I like. She used our hose and left it strung across the front yard. Color me unhappy.

So, on the recommendation of our wonderful pet sitter, Jessica of Ball and Bone Pet Care (that’s a plug, folks—use Jessica, she’s awesome) I called Aussie Mobile Pet Care. As Christian pointed out, the name is deceptive. You might think they only care for Aussies, but it’s not the breed that gives them the name. The phone is answered with a hearty, “G’day, mate!”

It dawned on me last night that Sophie had a 10 a.m. spa date this morning, even though it hadn’t made it to my calendar. So at eight I called to confirm, and the “G’day, mate” guy said, “Actually, I have you down for eight. The groomer is outside your house now.” Jordan scrambled to get Sophie out, which meant that my carefully constructed list of instructions ended in the trash barrel. As Jordan said, I had sent a picture of how I wanted her to look. They came pretty close, and I am pleased.

I wouldn’t want you to think Sophie rules the roost around here, but I am having a problem with her. Her clock and mine don’t mesh. She sleeps all day until four, which is about when I get up from my afternoon nap. Then she’s wired until midnight. The trouble is, she’s wired outside. When I call her to come, she stares at me—if she were a child, I would call it an insolent stare. She refuses to come in, and I have sat until midnight, waiting for her to take my bribe, desperately yelling into the back yard: “Cheese, Sophie, cheese.” She loves a tiny strip of Velveeta. Jacob claims I disturb the neighbors. I know, I shouldn’t have to bribe her. I should have her so well-trained that she comes immediately to my call. In my dreams. Have you ever tried to convince a half poodle, half border collie of anything?

My salvation now is a semi-arrangement with Christian. He agrees that either he or Jacob will be up until eleven, and if Sophie is still out at eleven, I can call, and they’ll get her and bring her home.

Right now, it’s eight o’clock and she’s outside. I might like a short nap, if I can get her in. A big IF. Sometimes, my walker and I venture outside to find her. Ordinarily I do just fine getting over the high lintel between my cottage and the patio, but there’s usually someone watching. Doing it alone, in the dark, is a whole different thing. I am careful to tuck my phone into the seat of my walker, for security. Sophie is often so startled to see me in the yard at night that she comes right in. But I am reluctant to do that as the weather gets colder.

I did just now go get her, and it worked. I’m off for a quick nap and then will work until the wee hours.

Life with a dog is such fun. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Falling into bad habits

 

My family has left me on my own for supper on this drizzly Sunday afternoon. I’m not particularly blue about it, because I have a dinner plan—I will open a can of that good salmon I get straight from Oregon, put a lot of lemon and a bit of sour cream on it, and run it under the broiler. But I realize how quickly I would fall into bad habits if I totally lived alone.

Jordan has a cardinal rule: you don’t eat dinner in the clothes you slept in. But I am still in those clothes—a bright tie-dye T-shirt that the Tomball grandchildren made for me years ago and a pair of pants that could pas for slacks if your standards aren’t too high. But on the positive side, I have cleaned up, my hair is washed, and my bed is made. I’ll probably eat supper a lot earlier than we would eat if we were having family dinner.

I’ve just talked to Megan in Austin and of course we hit on the fact that all 17 Alters were supposed to be at her house for Thanksgiving. It’s not going to work out that way. They are recovered from covid and have disinfected their house thoroughly, including using those special lights hospital use. The problem, for me, is the trip down there. As soon as you tell me we can’t stop, I will have to make a bathroom stop—as Megan pointed out, a woman with a walker doesn’t have the bathroom options a man does. My sons do not feel that they have quarantined well enough to be with the family, so we will be four separate family units. It is more than a little sad to me.

It really is a gray day and chilly with drizzly rain predicted. I’m grateful that Jordan has decorated the cottage for Christmas, and I have two bright spots of light—a glass block with Christmas lights inside it that I’ve had for years and Jamie’s table-top artificial fireplace that glows with realistic flames. Or, depending on how you look at it, depicts the fiery eruption of a volcano. Scientists have now proven that putting up lights will make you happier, and these days I think we should give scientists all the credit we can. So I’m glad for that bit of scientific knowledge..

Beside that scientific boost, I’ve had a longtime habit justified in print. For years, when entertaining—a formal dinner or the huge tree trimming parties I used to give—I put the serving dishes out days in advance and put a little note in each to remind me what I intended to put in that dish. After she married and began to entertain on her own, Jordan did the same. Christian was astounded and finally told her, “You and your mom have a screw loose.” (Megan would be the first to let you know that gene for organization skipped her.) Today in his column, Sam Sifton mentioned putting the dishes out early and putting a sticky note in each. Need I say more?

A couple of nods to nostalgia: when I was a kid, my mom used to mix cornmeal with milk or water (I don’t remember which), pour it into a loaf pan and let it harden. Then she’d slice it, fry the slices, and serve them to us for breakfast with lots of maple syrup. We called it fried mush. These days, we have a fancier name for it—polenta—but you can put lipstick on a pig and it’s still a pig. I made tamale pie with polenta for the family last week, and it reminded me how much I liked fried mush. So when we ordered from Central Market, I got more polenta, and this morning I fried a couple of slices in butter and slathered them with real maple syrup. So good. I was a kid again.

My other nostalgia trip even pre-dates me. But Sam Sifton mentioned in his column that this is the 125^th birthday of Hoagy Carmichael and offered a link to Carmichael doing his 1930 classic, “Georgia On My Mind.” And there was Lauren Bacall in the still photo accompanying the music, looking intently at Carmichael who looked up sideways at her. Classic 1930s jazz. I loved it.

And speaking of anniversaries, I thought this anniversary of the assassination of JFK went by with little public notice. Too bad, when we are embroiled in one of the worst political threats our democracy has ever seen. It would be soothing to go, even briefly, back to the days of Camelot.

I kind of got carried away, and I apologize for this long blog. Stay safe and well—and cozy tonight.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

A perfectly rosy day

 

   

 That’s the kind of day I’ve had—a perfectly rosy day. This morning, the sun shone so brightly that I thought I might have to wear sunglasses inside. And though I thought the prediction was for low seventies, the temperature soon climbed near eighty. Balmy and gorgeous with a slight breeze.

The main event today was a visit from my longtime friend, Linda. We’ve probably known each other over forty years, with the friendship increasing as we grew older. We’ve seen each other through bad times and good, and we can laugh together about ex-husbands (mine) and deceased husbands (hers). We have old friends in common and feel close to each other’s kids.

Linda lives in Granbury. If you shopped the square a few years ago and went into an upscale gift store called Almost Heaven, that was Linda’s store. After too many years, she got out of retail and, like me, is now retired. Having grown up in Granbury and lived there most but not all of her adult life, she hates Texas summers and bought herself a tiny condo in Taos. And though I encouraged her to write—she’s good at it—she found her passion in painting, probably because of one teacher in Taos. So anyway, between distance to Granbury and her long absences in Taos, we don’t get together nearly as much as we’d like. Pandemic complicates things. We were masked at first and socially distanced this afternoon. One thing Linda said resonated with me. She talked about how lucky we are that each of us has our passion—her painting and my writing. Our passions keep us young.

I fixed tuna salad—ubiquitous at my cottage—and Jordan served the three of us lovely salad plates with tuna, cottage cheese, a pickle, hearts of palm, and a scone to top it off. She laughed that she still has her waiting skills—she can hand carry several dishes at once. We loved it and have already decided on the menu for our next get-together—salmon croquettes (I’ll fix those) and salad with blue cheese dressing (Jordan’s specialty).

Sophie is an important part of my patio entertainment. She wanders from person to person, only occasionally venturing beyond the patio to scold an errant squirrel or investigate something. The patio is her territory, and she is most happy there.

After Linda headed home, Sophie and I had a long and lovely nap. I slept so deeply!

Tonight, while we wait for whatever Christian will do with chicken, Jordan is in my tiny kitchen, making the cheeseball that has been a holiday tradition all her life and most of mine. I remember Christmas Eve when I was quite young—we went to friends of my parents for a huge buffet. Two items I remember are marinated shrimp (I’m now allergic and can’t eat those) and cheeseball made with blue cheese, cream cheese, and Old English, which they no longer sell. We use Velveeta—shhh! Add a few other ingredients, chill and serve with crackers. But it’s not easy to mix all those cheeses. I’m glad Jordan is doing it and not me.

I just turned on the news. Full of the horror of Covid19. Two terrible things are threatening our country, our people and our way of life—the virus and the political upheaval caused by trump’s attempt at a coup. In my cottage, I feel apart from all the turmoil sweeping the country. I won’t tempt fate by being smug about being isolated and safe, but I do feel like I’m in a bubble that allows me rosy days.