Writing in my sleep

 

Texas caviar

“I do not like to write — I like to have written.” That oft-quoted saying has been attributed to everyone from Mark Twain (who I always thought really did say it) to, gulp, Gloria Steinem—really? Well, I have a new twist on it: I do not like to write—but I like thinking about writing.

I can write wonderful things as I lie in bed waiting for sleep or sit at my desk, staring vacantly out at the garden, now just beginning to green up for spring. Plots hold together, characters are clever and interesting, never hackeneyd, their dialog brilliant and original. Things work out so well.

But put me at my computer and tell me it’s work time, and I become Erma Bombeck all over again. I’d rather scrub floors or clean the bathroom than face what for Erma was a blank sheet of paper in her typewriter and what for me is a blank computer screen. All rational thought flees, and I am back to staring out the window wondering how such and such worked so perfectly not two hours ago.

Case in point: I am as some of you may know working on a possible project about Helen Corbitt, doyenne of food service at Neiman Marcus or, as Mr. Stanley Marcus called her, the Balenciaga of food. Her cookbooks are legendary and a compilation published in 2000 gives a brief biography of her. But no one has ever done a real biography, and her archive is readily available though, unfortunately, not in any form that allows me virtual access. Still, I can’t seem to let go of the notion that I should write about her. So she fills a lot of “thinking” and “imagining” hours for me.

I began an introduction which would, I hoped, serve as a road map for a book. But then other projects called me away for almost two weeks, time I spent thinking about two paragraphs that I knew needed to be included. I must have written those paragraphs in my mind a dozen times. So today, I sat down to actually write them. Found I’d put bare hints of them in the text but not done them justice. So now I have to rethink the whole thing. And some people wonder why I go to bed so early!

If you’ve never eaten lunch at a Neiman’s restaurant—I think there is only one now and it’s on the edge of bankruptcy, if not declared—it’s worth a trip to Dallas. No matter what you order, your meal begins with a demitasse of chicken consommé seasoned exactly right with a tiny touch of bite to it and a warm popover with strawberry butter. The one time years ago I tried to make the butter I ended up with little globules of golden butter floating in strawberry jam—not at all like what’s served at Neiman’s. But that custom traces back to Corbitt as does a dish she famously invented when challenged to present a banquet using only Texas produce. She served what we now call Texas caviar: black-eyed peas seasoned with green onions, cilantro, chiles, tomatoes, and garlic and coated with a dressing of olive oil, lime juice, and cumin. Served chilled with corn chips for dipping. Over the years others have added everything from corn to black beans, but Corbitt's purist version had only the peas.

More about Helen another time. I’m fascinated by her cooking and her free-wheeling personality. So I guess I’ll keep writing in my sleep, though this week my project is to do more research on her career in Texas. She was not a native, but neither am I, so I’ll forgive her that.

A familiar anthem—so welcome!

 

This morning Sophie got me up early (like 5:30) with one of her snophalophagus attacks. I got up to give her a Benadryl, went to the bathroom, and saw an email from my high school BFF—she quoted these lines to me:

One early Easter morning,

I wakened with the birds,

And all around me lay silence,

Too deep for earthly words.

She didn’t have to say any more. I knew it meant she was thinking of me, and that in our faith, He is Risen, indeed! Long ago—really long ago—she and I were in a youth choir that sang that music on Easter morning, and it has stayed with both of us. So today, I went through the day with that melody playing in my head. One year, for a sunrise service, my church included it in the program—at my request. I was thrilled.

Good intentions gone awry—we were going to attend virtual nine o’clock church this morning but instead had Easter breakfast/brunch about 10:30 and then were ready for the eleven o’clock service (I think it was the same service, played over again). Brunch was a tater tot casserole that Jordan and Christian fiddled with—who really needs six cups of grated cheese? They cut it in half, substituted sausage for bacon, added eggs—and the result was so good.

Tater Tot casserole

Our church, Fort Worth’s University Christian, has really learned some innovative things about presenting virtual services, and this morning was a triumph. Easter services usually conclude with Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus—this morning various members of the congregation popped up from unlikely spots spelling out the lyrics to accompany the music. It was good-hearted, good fun, and wonderful. The sermon struck a chord with me too because I hear on Facebook from acquaintances who sing of doom because Biden is president—I can’t believe I am patient with them, but I am for various reasons. The gist of what I took away this morning is to never believe that the moment of gloom is the last word. God always gets the last word, and it is “Life,” though I might suggest that it is “Love.”

The Burtons went off to Denton to celebrate with Christian’s family, and I, after a nap, welcomed Subie and Phil. We had gravlax that I had cured—absolutely delicious, with a perfect sauce of yogurt, mayo, balsamic vinegar, lemon, and dill. I will definitely do that again. Russian salad, also new to me, was great—sort of a version of potato salad, but you dice everything fine, aiming for the size of green peas because it has peas, along with potatoes, carrots, cornichons, ham. Dressing is simply mayo mixed with cornichon brine. I think I was a bit timid about the brine, but I will use it with a freer hand next time. Subie brought egg butter, which she had learned to make in Finland—like deviled eggs but without the devil. The perfect accompaniment for gravlax. And dessert? In the interests of being ecumenical, it was matzoh crack.

Matzoh crack
So rich, so good

I have to say, for all I worried about the gravlax, the matzoh crack was the thing I struggled with the most—trying to avoid burning myself with the hot sugar mixture, juggling pans, quick spreading first toffee and then chocolate before it hardened past the point of spreading. Plus I had to do it in my small toaster oven, instead of a traditional one where I could have done more pieces of matzoh at one time. I made two batches—and I have a whole lot of matzoh left over, so I’ve been singing to Christian about the virtues of matzoh brie—just like the migas he loves. Funny how so many cultures have the same dish by different names.

All in all, it was not the traditional Easter I always long for—I still wish I’d been in church and then had a leg of lamb—but it was a great, non-traditional alternative, and I am counting my blessings tonight.

Two days ago, I looked at a tree that is always so slow to leaf out that each spring I am convinced it is dead—and I thought that after our terrible snowmageddon. But tonight I just happened to look—and it has leafed out in two days.

He is Risen, Indeed!

What to do if you find a lost dog….

 

As a lifelong dog person, I am terribly distressed by all the pictures of lost and found dogs we see on Facebook, the heartbreaking pleas of families who miss their dog and are offering rewards. So I decided to investigate what you should do if you find a stray or lost dog. I went to neighbor, Robin Fulton, because I know she’s active in re-homing lost dogs. The result was an article in our neighborhood newsletter, condensed here.

What you should not do: offer the dog free to anyone who promises it a good home. Here’s my version of Robin’s advice:

If you can do so safely, take the dog to a veterinary office to have it scanned for a microchip—you may even have a neighbor who has a scanner. Many dog lovers do. Next, post on Nextdoor.com and Pawboost.com. Notices are posted in the immediate area and shared widely (and also on local neighborhood pages, of course). In ideal situations, a microchip will lead you immediately to the owner, but it doesn’t always happen.

Don’t necessarily post the dog on Facebook at all. You’re liable to get several people who say the dog belongs to them—it may or may not. If it’s a highly prized breed, some people may claim a dog intending to re-sell it (think of Lady Gaga’s recent experience). If someone does claim the dog, you probably aren’t the best judge of whether or not the person is the true owner, but there are several things you can check,

Watch the dog’s reaction to the individual—is it overjoyed, cautious, scared, hesitant? Ask for family photos, leave a tell-tale physical trait out of your description that only an owner would know, ask for vet records, and check inside a collar, too, just in case a name and phone number are there.

It is against the law to re-home a dog immediately. All found dogs must be put on stray-hold for 72 or 96 hours (depends on who you talk to). For your own legal protection, even if you want to hold the dog on your property, you should probably involve a recognized agency.

The best call to make is to the animal control unit in your city. Oh, you say, they’ll just euthanize it, and it’s such a cute young dog, and—oh, no, I couldn’t do that. Wrong! Most city shelters are making great progress towards minimizing the number of animals that are put down. Our Fort Worth unit now has a 97% live-release rate, a marked improvement over just a few years ago. 

Most important, your local animal control is where owners will look first. You can register a dog for its stray-hold, and you’ll still be able to take it home with you. You can also work with recognized rescue groups such as Saving Hope or Good Neighbors Animal Rescue. They will search for owners during the stray-hold period. However, rescue groups have a scarcity of fosters so if a finder can foster, it makes it more likely that a rescue group will step in to sponsor the animal’s medical needs and thoroughly vet a potential adopter. 

When I started looking into the problem of lost and/or stolen dogs, I was convinced that dogfighting rings went door to door looking or bait dogs. A talk with experts at the Fort Worth Animal Care and Control Center convinced me I was pretty much needlessly frightened. Dogs are stolen, either for resale or because someone wanted that dog, and one or two people may set two dogs to fighting, but organized dogfights, with arenas and gambling, are rare in this area. The last big one broken up was in Arlington in 2018. Animal control officers can only issue misdemeanor citations—felony warrants must come from law enforcement. And dogfighting is a felony.

What can you do to protect your dog? Make sure it’s microchipped; secure the area where it exercises; and keep an eye on the dog.

A version of this blog first appeared in the Poobah, newsletter of the Berkeley Place Association, April 2021, yours truly, editor.

The great tuna casserole dinner

 

Gary's tuna casserole

Over a year ago the subject of tuna casserole came up, I guess in my blog and probably because I mentioned I love it and none of the rest of my local family will eat it. (Jacob loved tuna salad as a toddler but won’t touch it now, Christian won’t touch tuna at all, and Jordan does not want it cooked—go figure). Christian’s college classmate from Dallas, Gary, jumped on it, said he loves tuna casserole, and when could he come for supper. Of course, covid dictated the answer to that—we were all quarantining, entertaining on the patio if at all, and certainly not serving food.

But last night was the night. We are all vaccinated, Gary just had his second vaccination, and I made tuna casserole. As he said, it was a meal a year in the planning. I did suffer some performance anxiety because we had talked about it so much: what if it didn’t turn out like his mother’s?

And I ran into one real problem: I was going to make it with cream of mushroom soup rather than trying for my own white sauce, because I wanted the authentic Sixties feel. But when I opened the can of soup and dumped it on the tuna, it was the consistency of chicken broth, not jellied at all as canned cream soups are. The can made me suspicious because it was not a pop-top but an “old-fashioned” one requiring a can opener. I checked the date: 2022. The only other possible explanation was that it was low sodium (bought by mistake by my resident grocery shopper). I debated, Jordan came out and looked at it, and ultimately, I threw out the soup and the wasted can of tuna. New problem: we did not have any more cream of mushroom soup, and Jordan really did not want to go to the store. I used cream of chicken, and we couldn’t tell the difference.

I think it was good. Maybe a bit drier than it should have been, but good. Gary said he liked it. I liked it. Amye, who joined us, liked it.

Gary spent the night, and he and Christian thought they were in college again and stayed up until the wee hours catching up with each other. This meant everyone slept late, and breakfast became a late brunch. But Gary was treated to the best of our cooking—leftover spanakopita, fruit salad, sausage patties, scrambled eggs, and hot cross buns I’d bought from Central Market. I suppose he thinks we eat that way all the time. As he left, I promised him the next meal he wants: chicken divan.

I did post the ugly picture of my spanakopita on the New York Times Cooking Community Facebook page (no, it hasn’t disappeared yet) and so far have over 150 responses, most of them raves about how delicious it looks. One cook suggested serving it topped with an easy-over egg. And I responded to a query about what everyone is cooking for Easter dinner—my matzoh crack got some comments and requests for a recipe. It is on the agenda for tomorrow, along with a Russian salad for which I cooked the ingredients today. Now I have to chop carrots, potatoes, ham, hard-boiled eggs, cornichons, and add peas. Dressing is simply a mix of cornichon brine and mayo. Another experiment.

I cannot rid myself of the notion that today is Saturday. I am all ready to go to church in the morning. The weather forecast for not only Easter but all week is almost too summer-like for early April—mid-eighties all week. I remember Easter in Chicago when I was a kid—we never knew what the weather would be, but cold and wet was a good bet. I’d get lovely frilly dresses and have to cover them with my old winter coat which by then was ratty and tired. But my memory is that we hunted eggs outside, no matter the weather. I’m a bit sad that all my grandchildren are too old and sophisticated (the youngest is fourteen) now to hunt for eggs.

Tonight I pray for the families of the capitol police officer killed today and that of the attacker whose people also must be devastated. Too much crazy has been unleashed in our society, and I’m not sure our government has a firm idea how to deal with it. Some days I’m so hopeful about the way things are going….and some days I despair. Today, with the attack at the capitol, the shooting in California, the Texas voter suppression law, I’m afraid despair is uppermost. But as my faith reminds me, the dark (which is today, Good Friday) must come before the light and joy of Easter.

A cooking milestone

 

Obviously not a professional job
but, hey!, it was so good!

Color me proud. This is my first attempt at working with phyllo. It is not, I don’t think, my first attempt at spanakopita—I remember making it for Jordan and me (the boys in the household won’t eat cooked spinach), but I think I used puff pastry (I just found a picture and, yes, I did use puff pastry before--and may again). This was a lot more work, and obviously it’s not as pretty as the original—a New York Times recipe. But it tasted delicious.

I told Jordan this morning she’d better enjoy it, and before I could finish the sentence, she did: “Because we’re never ever having it again because it’s too much work.” Almost true—it will be a while before I make it again. Last night I dreamt about making the dish, and this morning I got up and did it, so you know it’s filled my day. And there were roadblocks—I put 1.5 lbs spinach on the shopping list, and Jordan brought home 5 oz. So I had to add to my open order at Central Market and wait till late afternoon for Jordan to pick it up Then I incorporated the seasoned spinach, which had been cooked with leeks (yes, leeks—I did not, as is my habit, substitute green onions) and garlic, etc. with the newly cooked spinach, while trying to preserve the large chunks of feta—cooking is not always easy!

I really wanted moral support when I tried to “work quickly,” as the directions said, with the phyllo—but Jordan had gone to a neighbor’s for happy hour. And despite her promise to be home at six, it was almost seven before she got here. Meanwhile, I was fighting (well, almost literally) with the phyllo—and once I got it put together, I realized it’s a time-sensitive dish. So there are all my excuses, but clearly I need more practice with the dough. And I have at least half a box left—so I’m watching for other recipes. Suggestions welcome. Still it was delicious—we will have company for breakfast on Friday, and leftover spanakopita just got added to the menu.

The TV was on while I puttered in the kitchen most of the morning—and did my PT exercises. I find it agonizing to hear the witnesses at the trial of Derek Chauvin for killing George Floyd, to hear people describe watching a man die, hearing him call for his mother and plead, “I can’t breathe.” I’m glad I’m not on that jury, because I could not be impartial.

Another thing that distresses me—there was a Facebook picture today of a big game hunter with a high-powered rifle who had killed an elephant in the wild. I am so angered by these “brave” hunters that I share the pictures on Facebook to spread their shame (doubt they feel it, but still…..) Trouble is, when I share it, other people share it and each time they do it shows up again on my timeline. And I can hardly bear to see that damn picture again. I’m afraid I have a not-good fate in mind for that hunter.

Splurge for the day—a bunch of tulips for my coffee table, which is the only table in the cottage. My friend Phil was having trouble eating on a tray table the other night and said maybe he should eat at the table. Phil is visually challenged and didn’t realize there is no dining table out here, but I will say it is one thing I miss. I’d love to once again give a dinner party at a real table. Meantime, tray tables are a better solution than hunching over the coffee table. I generally eat at my desk, even when there’s company, which doesn’t do a lot for ambiance. Tomorrow, for the great tuna casserole dinner, we will dine on tray tables on the patio, providing it’s warm enough.

But I do think my Easter table looks pretty, and I love having flowers in the cottage. I talked to the lawn guy today, and he is going to cut back the rosemary (dead at the tips but green near the ground), cut back the iron plants (same problem), and pull out the fountain grass, which has been a sort of lovely tan arrangement all winter. It’s time to repace it with living grass, and I prefer the purple. The oak-leaf hydrangea have come back nicely, but the Turk’s cap is iffy (gone, I think) and I need to have someone check the lantana. But the redbud is blooming—that’s an essential part of spring for me.

Easter and rebirth and the greening of the world—it makes me cheerful. Even as I fight with phyllo.

Distracting myself

 

Balsamic pork with rice noodles

Today I realized that physical therapy takes time—oh, not the exercises so much but all the extraneous involvement. The therapist who works with me, Dan, came this morning, earlier than I expected—yikes!—and was gone in half an hour. We did lots of small foot and arm exercises plus my walking route and checked my oxygen level every time. So far, the results are better than I thought, though I haven’t tested this out in the real world beyond my cottage.

But then the case manager called “just to check” and see if I had questions, etc. I assured her I didn’t, but I was on the phone longer than I liked as she repeated apparently mandatory warnings, including what to do in case of tornado, which struck me as wildly unrelated to my shortness of breath. Then the intake person called and wanted to come check my “vitals” between one and three. Proud of myself that I stood up and said that wouldn’t work because I sleep every day about two o’clock. So she said she’d come early—and arrived at 12:15 just as I finished making myself a BLT. I wanted to tell her Dan had just taken my blood pressure and pulse but figured it would do no good—she had to do what she was assigned to do which included asking personal questions about other bodily functions. She assured me she will be back every Tuesday, which I guess is okay because from what Dan told me we won’t do this for long and then I’ll be on my own.

All of that was great distraction, but I did start a second read-through of my Waggoner ranch manuscript and its edits and was heartless about cutting out repetitions. But I am still limiting the amount of time I spend on these edits, figuring that a short time with narrow focus is better than long sessions with perhaps wandering attention. Never fear, I have other distractions.

Somehow, I have committed to a lot of cooking this week—not a situation that makes me unhappy. Tonight, we had pork tenderloins in a balsamic sauce that I’d cooked all day in the slow cooker—except I goofed and had it on high too long. Nonetheless, it was good. Jordan fixed Asian noodles (rice) and green beans to go with it, and there will be good pork sandwiches for lunch tomorrow.

Tomorrow I have promised to make skillet spanakopita for Jordan and me. We ordered all the ingredients, but I realized tonight, reviewing the recipe that it is not what I did before and what seemed so easy. Now I am committed to working with phyllo, which I’ve successfully avoided all my cooking years. I figure I’ll make the filling in the morning and assemble the dish in the afternoon. Still, I am a bit intimidated.

Tomorrow I also must work with the salmon I am curing for Easter—again intimidating just because I have never done it before. Come Saturday I’ll make a Russian potato salad (potatoes, peas, carrots, hard-boiled eggs, and cornichons with lots of brine and a bit of mayo) and matzoh crack (kind of matzoh with a toffee topping—don’t judge until you’ve tasted it!).

Thursday Christian’s good friend Gary is coming for tuna noodle casserole—that’s an easy cooking chore, and Jordan will make salad. She and Christian will order in because neither will touch tuna casserole. Jordan invited our good friend Amye to join us and explained she too could order in. Amye, bless her, said actually she’d probably rather have the tuna! Gary will spend the night, so I have put hot cross buns on the Central Market list for tomorrow—my annual fix and our Friday breakfast.

So there’s my cooking week. Next week I may want to eat out or order in every night. Probably not. Have you planned a special Easter, Passover, Ramadan meal? Share the menu with us, please.

 

 

Lessons in gratitude

 

Sophie and me with new haircuts

Each day I am more convinced that we make our own happiness. It’s up to us to decide if we’re going to be happy or sad, full of joy or full of regrets and “what if” dreams. Oh, sure, everybody has down days, but I’m talking about overall general attitude.

And I think that starts with the daily-ness of life. So here are the things I’m grateful for today: A beautiful spring day, with lots of sunshine and lovely temperatures, plants showing their spring glory all around. The ground cover in the back yard went so suddenly from dull brown to brilliant green, and the big oak trees that make my driveway a known hazard seemed to leaf out in less than a week. I’m particularly glad to see the oak-leaf hydrangea coming back, and the bed is cleared for this season’s crop of pentas to be planted. Some questions remain—like most of the shrubs on the north-facing front of the house, including the big rosemary bushes. And I don’t get up to the front daily so I’m not sure what the lantana is doing but my understanding is you can’t kill that stuff if you want to so it should survive a freeze. And like trees all over town, my redbud is blooming.

Sophie and I both have new haircuts, though I must say she wears hers better than I do. I’m working on getting her to look directly at me for a good picture—do you have any idea how hard it is to photograph a black dog?

Jordan and I got some errands done today—mailed some give-away books, went to the pharmacy and to the delicatessen to get matzoh so I can make matzoh crack for Easter. I thought it only fitting to have a Passover dessert with what will be a rather odd menu for friends Subie and Phil and me—home-cured gravlax, Russian potato salad, egg butter that Subie learned to make in Finland, and asparagus. A midsummer’s feast.

My cottage is shining clean. Zenaida got into all the nooks and crannies this morning, and I have clean clothes, a sparkling kitchen, wooden floors without puppy tracks on them. And the whole place smells so good.

Things I’m a little less grateful for: it is impossible to reach the county tax office. You must appear in person, notarized form in hand, to renew a handicapped parking tag. So we went out there today only to find it locked tight—apparently they closed for lunch without advance notice. But I am uncertain if we need an appointment and if I have to appear or Jordan can go in and get it. Their phone messages is left over from February. Tried to call the main office, mis-dialed and got the weather forecast. Most frustrating! Anybody remember when you could call an 844 # and get the weather? Well, the tax office is 884, and I mixed the two up and was indignant when I got a weather forecast.

Just got the email receipt for Sophie’s new haircut. She looks gorgeous, but I am going to be a dog groomer in my next life—costs way more for her to get a haircut than it does me, and I’m fairly sure she’s as well behaved as I am. This writing business is fun and challenging, but it does not quite make one rich.

And today I read that whatever you spent on hand sanitizers and masks is a tax deductible medical expense. Since thanks to trump’s great tax cut for the rich, all medical deductions were disallowed for 2020, who thought to save those receipts? Surely not me. Now they tell us!

On the whole just for today, I’d say the things I’m grateful for outweigh those I’m a bit hesitant about. I’ve known several people with various ways of recording their gratitude—one friend had a gratitude month, where she posted each day one thing for which she was grateful. Another friend kept a joy jar—every time something good happened she jotted it down on a piece of paper and stuck it in the jar. Said at the end of the year it was enlightening to read all those bits and scraps of paper. I haven’t gotten so organized as to follow either of those suggestions yet, but it seems to me stopping every once and a while to count your blessings moves you ahead on the road to joy.

Have a happy evening everyone.

 

Waste not, want not and some matters of perspective.

 

A little politics, a little literature, some good happy hour talk
with Carol Roark and Lon Burnam

I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later. Thursday night I fixed a really good, ersatz Mexican casserole—a layer of refried beans, the next layer a mixture of chicken, Rotel, Velveeta (shhh! Sometimes nothing else will do—or melt—as well), corn, onion, and cilantro. Top that with generous grated cheddar and bake. (See “Gourmet on a Hot Plate” blog for February 25, http://gourmetonahotplate.blogspot.com/2021/02/another-week-of-bare-grocery-shelvesand.html ) Christian was at a work event, Jacob asleep, so Jordan and I ate huge helpings and talked about how good leftovers would be the next night, when we again expected it to be just the two of us. I really had my mouth all set for it.

Friday late afternoon Jordan came to the cottage and said she had good news, bad news and which did I want first. I chose bad, figuring I would get whatever out of the way. The casserole had been left on the kitchen counter all night. We didn’t want to risk it, so it went in the trash, and we ordered Tex-Mex which—sorry!—wasn’t nearly as good as what I’d made at home.

That wasted food made me think of my Depression-survivor mom who abhorred waste. How many remember being told to clear your plate because children in China were starving? After a while, those children were in Hungary, but there were always children somewhere who would welcome the food I didn’t want to eat. I never could see that my eating liver and onions did them any good, but ….  Mom saved the tiniest bits of food. When we cleaned her fridge for the last time, my brother was horrified at all the jars with tiny bits of something, each growing mold. Depression perspective stayed with her all her long life. Waste not, want not.

And speaking of food, did you read about the police who poured bleach on food intended for the homeless? It’s an old story now—2018—but somehow made its way into the news again today. In Kansas City, I believe. What is wrong with people? How inhumane can they be? Reminds me of the meme going around that says it should never, ever be illegal to give a fellow human being a drink of water. In Georgia now, to give someone in a voting line a gun is legal; to give that same potential voter a drink of water is a felony.

I think Georgia has bought itself a whole world of grief. I‘ve lost count of people who’ve posted such things as, “I guess I’m going to jail for the first time ever, because I sure am going to be passing out water to those in voting lines in Georgia.” One woman, whose page title indicates she cooks professionally, said she guessed she’d be catering the voting lines in Georgia come 2022. Love it!

And, finally, speaking of perspective, there’s the former friend who wrote today that in the matter of the shooting spree in Boulder, we must keep things in perspective. I told him my oldest granddaughter goes to school in Boulder and shops at the store where the shooting occurred. There is no such thing as perspective for me. He did not acknowledge that but replied about the horrors of gun violence in Chicago which he blames on leaders—and yet he would hamper those leaders and not give them the authority they need to deal with guns: better background checks and a ban on assault weapons. He and I once worked together and respected each other, but from my perspective today, he is a former friend. I can only stomach so much.

On a lighter note, I’m expecting friends for happy hour. Hope the rain holds off, but the sky is looking gray, and the air is eerily still.

Searching for a recipe, PT, and a celebratory supper

 

I can’t believe I really did this, but I scrolled through the entire page of the New York Times Cooking Community Facebook page looking for a specific recipe. The backstory: we debate every year what to do about Easter so that I get a celebratory meal with the family and they also get to Coppell to see Christian’s family. Brunch or dinner? If we do dinner and they want a roast or leg of lamb, I’m out of it because I can’t do those in my toaster oven. Brunch is okay, but hey, they have scrambled eggs and bacon every Sunday. Quiche? Maybe. I did find a biscuit recipe called Butter Swim Biscuits—who could resist?

Then I found a recipe I thought perfect—pork tenderloin cooked in a slow cooker and a sauce of soy/sesame. Supposedly makes rich gravy. That I could do while the Burtons go to Coppell and I get a Sunday nap. But when I looked for it, I couldn’t find the recipe, although I was sure I saved it. So I scrolled through that long page—took me a while and gave me several other ideas, but I tried to stay focused. No luck. Then I paged, recipe by recipe, through the appalling collection that I want to try one day—and there, near the bottom of the pile, was what I was looking for. Now to sell it to the family.

Perhaps you’ve heard that the NYTimes is “ditching” its Cooking Community Facebook page. That’s not quite the whole story, though there’s been a lot of flap and snark about it. The official word is that they want to replace NYTimes moderators with qualified volunteer moderators, with the goal of eventually turning the page over to the members. I can see the Times point—in one year, the page went from 8,000 subscribers to 77,000, and the Times found it was not driving subscriptions to the paper. So they were paying moderators and not getting a return.

Besides that, an unbelievable number of people were downright unpleasant—some wanted straight recipes, others enjoyed (as I do) the story behind the recipes. They sniped at each other. And there were lots of off-topic posts and, inevitably, some political posts which were absolutely out of place. Now people are busily accusing the Times of abandoning us and are fishing for new names for the page. Me? I just want everyone to play nicely. I really like the page, and I think those who cry “Foul!” are jumping to negative conclusions. This is an ongoing story—we’ll see what happens. No firm date has been set for the big shift, though many talk as though it is tomorrow.

Cooking aside for a minute, I met with the PT person today, and he turned out to be the one who had worked with me five years ago before I had hip surgery. We had a mini-reunion, though I did remind him he had thought I was lazy. He denied that and said he knew I was in pain. But he was the one who insisted I should have an x-ray, so he did a really good thing. Today we moved on to the present and agreed that walking unassisted is not my goal—but increasing my stamina is. Dan gave me an assignment and said we can work on such things as walking slowly and taking deep breaths as I walk. Did you know many people hold their breath, unconsciously, when they exercise?

Tonight Jordan’s girlfriends are taking her for a belated birthday dinner at the Japanese Palace (now that makes me jealous!), and I will have a solitary but splendid dinner. I had to go on another search, but I found the lone loin lamb (say that fast!) chop in the freezer and will cook it with anchovy butter—because I have anchovies left from last night’s salmon. Asparagus with Aunt Reva’s good sour cream sauce, and a bit of leftover vinegar potato salad Jordan made the other night. Sometimes a solitary meal can be a celebration.

I was going to post a lovely picture of my solitary, celebratory dinner--until I flipped most of the asparagus onto the floor. Sophie did a good clean-up job--she isn't crazy about asparagus but sure liked the sour cream topping. Christian happened along just in time to finish the clean-up and point out that I had also showered Soph with a spray of sour cream. Not the evening I envisioned.

Excuse me, I have to go walk the small, circular route in my cottage three times—about sixty feet—and practice breathing. Take care in the storms tonight. Right now I hear thunder in the distance every once in a while, but mostly there's that eerie, still silence that often precedes a storm. Take care.

My lost day

 

Do you ever have a day that is simply lost? That was me today. For all the good I did the world—or myself—I should have stayed in bed. And in a way, that’s what I did. At the risk of sounding like a neurotic old lady, I’ll blame it on—wait for it!—foot pain. Yesterday afternoon, I started having intermittent, sharp pains in my left foot. To my dismay, they continued all night.

By three a.m., that dark hour when your imagination can run away with you, I had convinced myself that my hip revision/replacement/whatever had gone south, that was why my whole left leg ached, and I would have to be hospitalized to have it repaired—probable/possible surgery. I was a mess. To add to the atmosphere, a thunderstorm was raging outside, and Sophie was clinging to me, following me each time I went to the bathroom, which I did a lot because walking made my foot and leg feel better.

As things often do, they looked better in the morning—but not a whole lot, because I was exhausted. The pain in my foot was not gone but was less. Jordan suggested I go back to bed, which I thought was a brilliant idea. So I did. And that set the pattern for the day—I had no ambition for any of the several things on my desk, so I got up, went back to bed, got up, took another nap, etc. In between those naps, I managed to make Reuben dip for Jordan’s late birthday dinner tonight (her request), go get blood work done (something I dread—and no, it’s not the needle; it’s the whole depressing place, even though the people are polite and friendly—not sure why I’ve developed a “thing” about it).

Tonight, our regular Tuesday night happy hour ladies came to celebrate Jordan—they brought flowers and cheese and crackers and wonderful mini-grasshopper pies for our dessert. And a gift certificate for Jordan to Saint Emilion, which I had strongly suggested was too extravagant (is this where I can use the Henny Youngman line about getting no respect?). They ignored my request.

And poor Jordan cooked her own b’day dinner, though I helped some. At one point, she moaned, “I’m in the weeds, and it’s my birthday dinner!” We had oven-roasted salmon with anchovy/garlic butter—delicious—and a big salad.

It ended being a festive day, but I had the nagging feeling of not having accomplished much. Do not ask me why in retirement I feel I must “accomplish” something every day. I think that compulsion was coded into me at birth. I have never been able to putter well. One of my good friends used to say she could happily watch paint dry—I would go stark, raving mad.

So Sophie and I are settled down for the night. My foot is no longer zinging me, but I am still sleepy. It’s early to bed (fits in with my day). I plan to get up tomorrow ready to conquer the world—or at least finish organizing my tax stuff. Usually, when I go to bed with that resolve, it works, so we’ll see.

Stay safe, all. North Texas is supposed to see more storms in the afternoon, some possibly heavy.