A bit of company, a dreary day, and some work

 

These may not be my salad days,
but tonight was a salad supper night

.

. Today was gray and dark, as most of you know. Not a day to inspire great joy. But, yay! I got a bit of a break in my isolation. Jordan came out this morning, masked, and I quickly put on my N95 mask. She only stayed ten or fifteen minutes—I guess I’d hoped for an hour of conversation or some such—but she did many of the small chores I can’t reach to do. Putting things on high shelves, retrieving mailing envelopes from behind the couch where my walker and I cannot go. Christmas is still up, and she said since it will be for a few more days, I might as well go ahead, light the lights, and enjoy it. I was delighted for her company. And she came back out tonight, all dressed in her cowgirls duds, to show me her outfit as they headed out for the Grand Entry of the rodeo.

Burtons a Rodeo 2022

And there’s the rub. I figure if they go to the Grand Entry—I presume Christian’s company has a box—with 14,000 other folks, they’re going to be exposed to the omicron variant. Christian has said he won’t change his lifestyle, and he figures everyone is going to get it. In my early eighties, I don’t subscribe to that philosophy. I feel quite healthy, but I know I have a couple of chronic conditions—age being one of them—that could compromise my survival of even this mild variant. I do not want to risk it, and if most people are going to get it, I am determined not to be one of them.

So I guess we are back to five days of isolation, asking them to test, etc. In some ways I am almost getting used to it; other moments, I am full of despair. Woke up this morning with a real feeling of dread—of what I don’t know, perhaps a dream. It soon disappeared.

Sophie had a bad night too—at 5:30 this morning she had a prolonged spell of coughing and snorting from her allergies. She wanted to go out, but I resisted that fearing she stay out, and I’d have to fetch her in the morning damp. Gave her a Benadryl instead—magic! She slept until 8:15. Early this afternoon, she had another bad spell, and I gave her another Benadryl—more magic! She took a longer nap than I did. I know about those people who overmedicate their dogs—and children—for their convenience, and I promise to resist. But oh my, it did work well.

Late this morning, I attended a Zoom session on plotting your mystery, taught by Hallie Ephron, who is a renowned mystery writer and teacher in her own right and the sister of the late and perhaps more famous Nora Ephron. It was good—not much I didn’t already know, but it’s good to hear some things again. As a result, I totally revised my thoughts on my work-in-progress and set about tonight reworking the paltry 5,000 words I have. Instead of losing words, I gained. Yay me!

And I baked the cranberry cake I’ve been wanting to make for days. It’s so simple, and so good, although a piece after dinner made me think it needed more oven time, and I baked it a bit more. I’ll try again in a bit.

And that was day—what? Seven of my isolation. An indication I’m ready for it to be over—I have a list of restaurants, new and old, that I want to go to. How soon, O Lord, how soon?

Stay safe, everyone. I hear reports from that great big world outside my cottage that few people are masking. Whatever is wrong with them? Please get your N95 masks and war them! Think of it as a kindness to your neighbor, if nothing else. We are all in this boat together.

Twelfth Night, more isolation, and a killer dinner

 

Jacob, about six,
on Twelfth Night

Jacob making a wish

Thanks to Covid and unusually cold weather, I missed our annual Twelfth Night observance. I’ve said this before and you may be tired of hearing it, but when I was a child, we had a neighbor who held a Twelfth Night celebration that, as far as I can tell, was of her own making. She had each person throw a small evergreen twig into the fireplace and make a silent wish. My family adopted it, and my children have done it since they were very young. Of course, there was the year my ex tried to burn an entire garland, and my Megan came running to me, “Mom, Dad’s burning the house down!” He almost did.

Of my childhood custom, I should add that this neighbor couple, childless, became my adopted aunt and uncle, and spoiled me rotten. She loved to pick out clothes for me, with the result I had a more bountiful wardrobe than I had any right to expect. I frequently went back and forth between the two houses, and Uncle Jack, ever the gentleman, escorted me if there was the least hint of darkness. They used to take me to dinner, especially at the South Shore Country Club, then in its heyday of elegance. When I ordered fish because I really liked it, Auntie E., a devout Catholic, would say, “Oh, honey, you don’t have to do that. It’s not Friday.” I can see her yet—grey hair swept into a kind of chignon, wearing an elegant dressing gown, and delicately throwing a branch in the fireplace. Good childhood memories.

Back to Twelfth Night this year. Because we’re still quarantining, we were not going to have a fire in the indoor fireplace as usual, but Jordan offered to light small fire for me in the fire pit on my patio. That lonely fire for one, combined with the prospect of being so cold, sounded pretty bleak, and I declined with thanks.

They ended up doing a fire in their firebox on the front porch. Jordan sent me the above picture of Jacob making his wish, and I thought it was fun to pair it with a picture of him when he was about five or six. Two neighbors joined them, and Jordan asked for everyone to make a wish for me since I was hiding in the cottage. She told me hers, though I wanted to shush her—wishes are supposed to be secret!

If I had one wish tonight, I think it would be to have my garden magically reappear. I’m finding it dispiriting to look out at frozen plants—I think the one on the deck is a hibiscus, but the basil in my vegetable garden droops as though dead (which it undoubtedly is), so do the two lovely coleus plants in big pots by my door and the fountain grass in a big pot by the garden gate. Even the wonderful vine on the fence has given up and looks wilted. Were I mobile and the temperature not so frigid, I’d go yank those dead plants out. But if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

My grits dinner

Tonight, I fixed myself a semi-complicated dinner—most meals get more complicated when you have to do everything on one hot plate. When the directions say, “Meantime, while the grits are cooking, fry the bacon,” I have to do that in stages. But my dinner was a base of cheese grits with chopped bacon, sauteed cherry tomatoes, sliced avocado, and a fried egg. So good but, omigosh! was it too much food! An hour later, I still have that full feeling. Reminds me of Jack, my sons’ Boy Scout leader, who used to chant, “I’m full enough!” after dinner.

Tomorrow, we have decided Jordan can safely come into the cottage wearing a mask. And I’ll mask. So that’s something to look forward to, plus I want to do a Zoom class on plotting and Jordan brought me the ingredients for a cranberry cake, so I’ll make that tomorrow. These isolation days go faster if I have chores. And writing doesn’t always do it.  

Sweet dreams. Stay warm and safe during this cold spell.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

Thoughts on masking--and nonchalance

My pity party is over. I’m thankful that such episodes generally don’t last long with me. Today I’ve been much more upbeat and busied myself with some household chores like laundry, getting rid of stuff for the party that wasn’t, etc. Jordan and I have sort of perfected our delivery system, which means a lot of trips between houses for her. Today we exchanged laundry, and I packed up the wine caddies and things for the party—emptied a wine box that was perfect for that—and set it outside.

Tonight I made an experimental dinner, took out a portion for myself, and put the rest on the doorstep for Jordan to take inside. It was inside one of my treasured Corning Ware casseroles—and when I set it down, even with the stool for help, the lid bounced off. I watched in horror as it crashed to the cement driveway, but miraculously it did not break. (More on the dinner in tomorrow’s Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog.)

I may be over self-pity today, but I have a healthy dose of anger, indignation, whatever. I vowed this year to be kinder, to think of the other person’s viewpoint, not to leap to conclusions, and—this is a weakness of mine—not to assume that I am right and the other person’s opinion has no validity. But then, today, I read an essay from The Atlantic, titled “Where I Live No One Cares About Covid.” The writer, editor for a Catholic literary journal and a contributor to The American Conservative, lives in rural southwestern Michigan, an area I knew well as a child. I suppose now it is extremely conservative—Michigan is such a teetering state with a liberal governor who is always under attack.

This writer seemed to think that concern over Covid was strictly an urban matter. In rural areas like his, he claimed, people go about their business as if it’s over. His children have continued to go to day care, unmasked, and to see extended family every weekend. The only time he has seen masks is when he went to D.C. and was astounded. Frantic concern over Covid, he writes, is a folly that urban elites are imposing on others. He believes sooner or later they will realize their folly

Part of my indignation was that he seems to nonchalantly overlook the deaths of nearly a million of our citizens (we are truly moving up close to that number), let alone the long-term effects of those who survive. We have the long-haulers, and we don’t even know what complications will arise in survivors thirty or forty years from now. I think of chicken pox, which I had at the age of six or seven (no, I won’t say how long ago, but you can guess—it was a long, long time). Last year I had a case of shingles, because that chicken pox virus hiding in my body all these years decided to make itself known. Similarly, polio survivors are having complications—muscle weakness, joint degeneration, etc.—some sixty or more years later. Who knows what Covid will do?

More than that, the writer seems to dismiss the anxiety many of us feel as bureaucracy instigated. He apparently doesn’t believe the CDC. He is not worried that he does not know one person who has had a booster (data has suggested that the booster makes the difference with the omicron variant), the controversy over masks is silly. And this, apparently, is an educated man with some intelligence. Although he writes for a conservative publication, I found nothing in his essay to indicate that his stance is politically motivated. So I am at a loss to understand it.

Meantime, tonight a friend in an assisted living facility says that today they are near lockdown. She can come out, but restrictions are severe. There is no communal dining; she must wear a mask at all times, until she is in her own apartment; no guests are allowed. Our county has high statistics of cases, though as is the case elsewhere with the omicron variant, deaths are not as high as with the original or delta strains.

I am angry that there are people in our country, even our world, who take this so lightly, ignoring the tragedy it has brought to so many families. Masks are not major protection, but they do help. I saw a chart recently that said if two people both have KN96 masks, it takes two and a half hours for the virus to transmit; if they are not masked, it’s something like ten seconds.

Me? I’m going to isolate and mask and wish the rest of the world did. If they don’t—and I truly mean this globally—we’ll never eradicate the virus or even tame it.

Stay safe, everyone.

My pity party

Feeling like whining tonight. I, who have crowed about not minding quarantine and maybe becoming a recluse, have to eat humble pie. Isolation 24/7 with just a dog—okay she’s sweet and responsive but she can’t discuss books or menus—is wearing on me. Since my family went to New Orleans, we all decided they should quarantine away from me for five days—and then mask for five more days. See the irony there? They got a trip, and I got the isolation, while the three of them are together in the house. Plus friends that ordinarily would come to visit are staying home for reasons that range from caution to possible exposure. So here Sophie and I are, and she’s not taking it any better than I am.

Yesterday, we were busy with emails and package exchange. Jordan or Jacob would bring a package and set it on the step by my kitchen door. I’d retrieve it, and then replace it with the bag of stuff I had to go into the house. At one point I suggested using a small stool—with packages on the step I had to lean so far down from my seat in the walker that I was in danger of tumbling out headfirst. The stool was a big help. Today there was not as much traffic, but I did get a package from Amazon I was anxious to have—a new electric toothbrush since mine died. And tonight Jordan came out to retrieve a half red onion and a small can of green chilies. When she wrote that request, she said, “I hate this.”

My cottage needs her. The remnants of the party that never was are still taking up space in my work area. Most of them go back in the house, and I have no space to store them, so they wait until she can take them. The buffet that serves as a chest of drawers in my bedroom is covered with Christmas stuff, and I need her help to put it away.

Although it seems like forever, we’ve only been at this two days, and I admit I’ve gotten lazy. My bed is pulled up but not really made, and, yes, at nine o’clock at night I am still in last night’s jammies. I did put away the contents of several packages that arrived. The toothbrush interior package turned out to have been opened—someone had zipped of the perforated strip that held the top together and then closed the gap with clear tape. Makes me think the package had previously gone to someone who returned it, but I’m sorry—I don’t want a toothbrush that’s been examined by other hands. I’m returning it. And I cleaned out some files, started a grocery bag (my very efficient method I’’ve used for years) for 2021 tax stuff, and put new files in the rack by my desk for 2022. And today I sent a proposal for my Helen Corbitt project to a publisher who I really hope will be interested. By the time I got it all together, the proposal was, in my eyes, a thoroughly professional piece of work. So I’m not totally lazy, but there’s a strong drift in that direction.

Computer woes of the minor variety have chosen this time to visit me. I read a Facebook post I thought well-put and shared it, only to have Facebook tell me such content violated their community standards. Wait! If that were true, why was it on there for me to share? Last night I tried to respond to an email on a list on which I’m active—and the message bounced back several times. I respond on that site all the time without a problem. Tried my other email account—same thing. The president of the writers’ group suggested another avenue, which I tried with success, but it bugs me that my usual  way didn’t work.

And then Amazon book reviews! The Most Land, The Best Cattle: The Waggoners of Texas has five-star reviews except for one three-star, which dragged my average down considerably. So I wanted to see who objected and why, but it is a well-kept secret. I can’t find that one review anywhere.

It’s no wonder that I recently realized that I frown a lot. Actually I realized it over the holidays when family took pictures. There I am in too many of them with that furrow above my eyes. And since I’v become so aware of it, I can feel myself doing it all the time. Then I make a conscious effort to relax those muscles. I wonder if there are yoga-like exercises for facial muscles. I already do them for my feet and recently discovered some exercises to relax and strengthen the hands, which I really need. Why not the face?

Enough. I’m going to have a glass of wine and read about what Barbara Pym ate. Tomorrow will be a better day.

Back to daily life—sort of

 

Jordan and Jacob ready for Breakfast at Brennan's

Life is hard!

My Fort Worth family will be home today after several days in New Orleans for the Sugar Bowl. Christian is a Baylor alum and remains hugely involved, so I know he’ll be happy about last night’s game. But of course I have my reservations about them having gone to a bowl game with the omicron variant so infectious, though Jordan assured me proof of vaccination was required for entrance to the stadium. I don’t see that as foolproof. (A friend last night persisted in saying they were at a superspreader.) Still, they will quarantine away from me for the five days the CDC recommends, and I will ask them to follow CDC guidelines and wear masks for an additional five days.

Sophie and I are just fine and were warm enough and almost cozy last night. She keeps wanting to go outside and doesn’t understand when I tell her it’s very cold out there. But she comes back in quickly, which means a lot of up and down for me.

While the Burtons are gone, I’ve been fixing myself things I love and they won’t eat—salmon cakes, a baked egg with spinach, ham salad. And I’ll continue cooking just for myself for the next week. It’s not a problem, because I have a list of menu items for just such an occasion—egg salad, tuna casserole, quick spanakopita (Greek friends would think it a travesty), and various leftovers in the freezer.

In addition, friends must think I’m wasting away for they brought me wonderful meals. Neighbor Mary sent over an entire generous serving of their New Year’s Day luncheon—ribs from a crown roast of pork with gravy, homemade applesauce, sauerkraut (I love it!), and two kinds of cake. It will be my Sunday dinner tonight, though I know there will be leftovers of the leftovers. And longtime friend Kathie arrived last night with a quart jar of homemade split pea soup. She knows I love it and my family won’t touch it. Christian will want some of my black-eyed peas and cornbread, however. I’m not sure how we’ll work things out to pass from house to cottage and the other way without exposure, but we will.

I have work on my desk, as always, but I’m also reading an interesting book: Laura Shapiro’s What She Ate: Six Remarkable Women and the Food that Tells Their Stories. Her choice of women is eclectic to say the least, and I wonder if it was not dictated more by materials available to her than by her thesis. At times I thought she chose her thesis and fit the women into it, rather than letting the thesis grow organically out of her findings. Still it is interesting reading. The women are Dorothy Wordsworth (poet William’s fragile sister), Rosa Lewis (turn-of-the-century chef and owner of The Cavendish Hotel in London), Eleanor Roosevelt, Eva Braun, Barbara Pym, and Helen Gurley Brown. So far I’ve read the Wordsworth piece (interesting but I’m not a follower of the romantic poets so it was of minimal interest). Then I skipped to Helen Gurley Brown, who I knew next-to-nothing about except Cosmopolitan. My goodness! She was incredibly shallow. The most important things to her seemed to be marrying a rich husband and staying thin. Her food choices were inconsistent and sometimes silly. Now I’m reading about Eleanor Roosevelt whose personal life always makes me sad. I have no interest in Pym and certainly not Braun, so I’ll skip them, but Rosa Lewis intrigues me.

The most interesting piece so far is the afterword in which Shapiro talks about her own food challenges. As a new bride (and a vegetarian), she was whisked off to a year in India where her husband was studying, and she suddenly realized she was responsible for every meal. It wasn’t India that was the challenge, she writes, it was marriage. Her tone is light, her observations astute, and it was fun to read, if not wholly enlightening about food.

Happy eating, happy reading! Two things that make life really good—and today they‘re both mine! Yours too, I hope.

 

2022 will bring flowers—if we plant them

 

It is still Christmas in the cottage and will be
until Twelfth Night, January 6.
I like Santa Mac with his poinsettias.

It wouldn’t be bad at all, in my mind, if today set the tone for 2022—for me. I speak for no one else. Sophie went out way too early but came back in quickly, and I went back to bed for a nice, long doze. Sometimes I think dozing in the morning is the best part of sleeping, But then I was up, getting ready for the day, finishing cooking my black-eyed peas, making cornbread, and fixing myself a stupendous New Year’s brunch—a baked egg. I put a slice of thin white bread in a greased ramekin, added the spinach left from last night’s supper and then grated sharp cheddar. Then I made a nest, cracked the egg into it, and added salt and pepper. Usually directions for baking eggs suggest covering it with a thin topping of milk or cream to prevent the egg from drying out. I didn’t have that, so I plopped a dollop of sour cream on it. So good.

I got an early nap—note that I always work that into my plans—and then was up and ready for the party that wasn’t. Jean came by for her required dose of peas about four, and just as she left two couples arrived, both of whom had said they’d come if they could sit on the patio. Since by then the temperature had dropped to the mid-forties and the wind was strong, the patio was out. Much discussion—mask or not? We finally didn’t. They are all vaccinated and boosted and pretty careful about where they go. We had happy hour with black-eyed peas and cornbread.

Cooking peas doesn’t come naturally to me. I’d never had them until I moved to Texas, and for years after that I resisted, quite convinced I wouldn’t like them. I may have said this already, but as an introduction, I made Hoppin’ John. Now I like them just plain, with seasonings. Some people claim they taste like dirt but I don’t see that--have they not washed them thoroughly? Tonight my peas received praise, including from one man whose partner had served him canned but individually seasoned peas, and he had rejected them as inferior. He pronounced mine they way they should be—and I did cook fresh peas. The cornbread didn’t fare so well—I made that Jiffy recipe where you add butter, sour cream, and sugar. Subie dismissed it as northern, though I always thought the sugar made it southern. I do remember “up north” making cornbread that had yeast and honey in it—from a Rodale cookbook. (The Rodale Institute in Pennsylvania pioneered research into organic agriculture, and my mom, a fan of Adelle Davis, was all about Rodale stuff.)

It struck me today that all the voices I heard in the two online writing groups I belong to—one small, one huge with 800 members—were about how awful 2021 was and how they couldn’t wait to boot it out the door. I didn’t find it nearly as difficult or scary as 2020, but maybe that’s just me. Despite Delta and Omicron, we got a better handle on the virus and many more of us are vaccinated—is it wrong to say, “a pox on those who won’t vaccinate for the good of the community”? The economy is up, unemployment down, our international prestige recovering. Personally I published two books, had two wonderful get-togethers with my sprawling family, and enjoyed many happy moments. So, yes, I’m glad to welcome 2022, but I won’t besmirch 2021, although I know several who had personal tragedies and lost loved ones and I grieve with them.

Still, for reasons I can’t explain, I feel optimistic about 2022. I have my own ambitions and goals, I think Joe Biden has as steady a hand as possible on the lever of government, I think the crazies are diminishing in number and voice (though the extremism is scary).

The best explanation I’ve seen for optimism comes from a cartoon. One unidentifiable creature says to the next, “Aren’t you terrified of 2022, with all the confusion and evil in the world? What do you think the new year will bring?” (This is a rough re-creation.) The second creature, busily doing something, says, “I think it will bring flowers.” The first demands, “How can you think that?” and the second replies, “I am planting flowers.”

Some things are beyond us—like the pandemic—but we too can plant flowers. We are not just hapless, helpless beings caught on a ship out of control. We can steer much of our future—and one way is to make our voice heard in the upcoming political campaigns and elections. Even beyond that, we can personally work to make sure 2022 is good for ourselves, our families, our neighbors.

Remember Molly Ivins’ words: “Keep fighting for freedom and justice, beloveds, but don't forget to have fun doin' it. Lord, let your laughter ring forth.”

Have a great 2022!

 

Here we go again

 

Set-up for a cancelled party,
I think it makes a nice still-life.

When you begin the day by getting the tea bag string so tangled with the spoon, you have to use scissors, you get a hint it might not be your best day! Yesterday I cancelled the small open house I’d been planning for New Year’s Day—come and go for black-eyed peas, ham, and good luck. Only at most twenty people and, I prayed, not all at once because twenty people would crowd the cottage beyond conviviality. The guests were my closest friends, people I knew would be vaccinated, masked, careful. Even so, one good friend wrote that they would come only if they could stay outside, and a neighbor couple sent heartfelt regrets. Still another friend said she was relieved and they had planned to stay on the patio. A grandmother planning a trip to see grandchildren said she was refusing all social invitations as she kept herself virus-free for the visit. As a final blow, the wonderful woman who was going to “spiffy up” the cottage that morning reported she has tested positive.

This was particularly poignant for me. For fifty years or more, I gave an annual tree trimming party with sixty or more guests. I began cooking and freezing things in November. The week of the party I laid dishes out on the table with little notes in them of what went in which dish. (When he saw that, Christian said to Jordan, “You and your mother have a screw loose.”) It was a big deal party—cheese ball, caviar spread, smoked salmon, an annual tradition that I looked forward to and so did my guests. I haven’t done it in at least six years—hard to cook like that when you need a walker, and then in the cottage there was no room.

So this was to be a mini-recreation of tree trimming, and I was excited about it. I’m a bit surprised that instead of sadness, I feel relief. I wouldn’t want anyone to get sick because they came to my cottage. I will say planning a party that doesn’t come off is a great way to straighten your living quarters—Jordan and I put away a lot of the clutter in the cottage, most of it in places where it will not appear again at least for a while. And I sure have stocked up on liquor, including that really good eggnog with the nog in it.

I did offer curbside pickup on the patio for black-eyed peas in the late afternoon on New Year’s Day. I expect it will be a tad too cool for much patio sitting.

I am sad, relieved—and a bit angry. For myself, I am going into quarantine again, just when I’d been working to convince myself I didn’t want to be a recluse. Having stayed home for almost a year, it was hard to get into the routine of going out again. But I was enjoying restaurant dinners and the like—and now, boom! Yesterday alone, there were a thousand new cases in Tarrant County, and the total for the last week is something like 5,500. If people had listened to the science and not the politics and followed the advice, vaccinated, worn masks, kept social distancing, the omicron would not have had so many hosts.

I honestly don’t understand anti-vaxxers and, yes, I am angry at them. They are so self-absorbed with their indignation that they fail to see their folly could not only kill them, it affects the rest of society. We’re all in this damn boat together. It was philosopher John Stuart Mill who believed that individuals should have absolute freedom except when their actions could harm another or the community in general!

This morning I put a pot of peas on to cook (you don’t know how badly I wanted to fill out the alliteration with pickle instead of cook!). Tonight I’ll still be in my jammies, and I’ll cook my favorite comfort food—salmon croquettes. TV? Probably not. Rather a good book, I don’t know if I will last until midnight or not, but I will treat myself to a nightcap of eggnog. I’ll be perfectly happy, but I hope that my New Year’s Eve doesn’t set a pattern for the year.

A Scottish blessing, traditional on Hogmanay (the last day of the old year): “A good New Year to one and all, and many may you see.” And there’s an Irish custom you should know. I’m told it’s traditional to open the door to be sure the old year leaves! An especially good practice this year.

When do you really start the new year?

 

When Sophie was home with Christian in the main house, 
she kept watch out the front door for any lurking dangers.
Christian labeled this, "Our security system takes a break."
Soph knows one place she is not allowed is that gold couch.

Some people claim that the gap between Christmas and New Year’s is the perfect time to cut yourself some slack, take it easy. January 2 you can once again set the world on fire. But for now, read several books, watch a lot of movies, treat yourself to that second glass of wine after dinner. Most times I would say, “Have long lunches in your favorite restaurant,” but with the omicron variant spreading so quickly, I think I’ll leave that out.

For me, though, the lax period extends from about Thanksgiving to Christmas. I’m wrapped up (pun intended) in Christmas planning and preparations—buying gifts and wrapping them, cooking for gifts, planning meals (most of my meal planning comes to naught because my daughters take over kitchen duties and generally ignore my suggestions; when I said recently that I missed the cooking, Colin suggested that I could be the wise consultant; soon enough Jordan wanted to know how to tell if her egg casserole was done and I told her to stick a silver knife in it—does that qualify as wisdom? But I digress.

After Christmas, I am energized rather than experiencing the letdown that many do. Having not done much serious work for over a month, I am full of ambition and goals.  This year is no different. My goals aren’t exactly New Year’s resolutions—those come in a whole different category about being a better friend, being less judgmental, thing like that. But it’s my work plans I’m thinking of now. At present, I have two projects as many of you know—another Irene mystery to finish (“The End” is a long way away, as I’ve just begun) and the Helen Corbitt book. I think I’ve decided that Corbitt will be my priority, at least to get fifty pages done and to focus on interesting a publisher. Those are goals that will develop slowly—for instance I am waiting to hear from the archivist who has Corbitt’s papers and since she’s with an academic institution, I figure she’s on vacation until classes resume. So I’ll fill my days with re-readng what I have on Irene. But I really hate to juggle two projects at the same time.

Today I played catch-up, paying bills, answering emails, ordering some things—all stuff that I had put aside during the week I was in Austin. Yes, I had my computer, but there are some things that are just easier done at home with my big-screen monitor and my files close at hand. Too, I need to straighten my desk: I am having a very few people in for a come-and-go open house this weekend (one can’t have a large guest list in a 600-square-foot cottage) and I need to make sure the cottage sparkles. Cleaning my desk is a big part of that. Jordan has cleared some surfaces to the point that I am wondering how I can live and cook in this space between now and Saturday!

In a bit of related trivia, Jordan went to the grocery this morning with my list in her hand. My list included a two-lb. piece of boneless ham—I know, I know, bone-in is so much better and the boneless is scraps welded together with who knows what—but I simply wanted it to dice and stir into black-eyed peas. I now have two 2-lb. boneless hams. I foresee ham in our future meals and am welcoming great recipe suggestions.

I’ve thought about my expectations, other than ham dinners, for 2022 with some puzzlement. Everywhere I see the hope that 2022 will be better than the previous two years, but I am leery of the omicron variant and can foresee another surge strong enough to send us back into at least voluntary quarantine. When Covid-19 first hit, I didn’t know anyone who had it. Gradually that changed—some of my family got it, a few friends. Still I was isolated and felt remote from it. Not so now—several close friends and/or their families have come down with the omicron variant. I am more alarmed than I like because I read that in heathy people who have been vaccinated and boosted, it should be mild, but the jury is still out on the elderly (ahem! That’s me!) and the immune-compromised (that’s one son and one son-in-law plus one close friend).

Other than an abundance of caution and the fact that Mercury will be in retrograde a lot of the time (I never understand that, but I know it’s not good), I do think 2022 will be a good year, and I have high hopes for it. How about you?

Memories of an Austin Christmas

 

A Christmas photo of me with my four loves

Before we bid Christmas and 2021 goodbye, I want to share a few thoughts and pictures of a memorable trip to Austin. Jordan, Jacob and I traveled on December 21—Christian followed two days later. Both on the way there and the way back, I was pleased and surprised by how much land in Central Texas is still worked as small farms and ranches, so much open land. (Sure, I’d seen it before, as recently as July, but it really struck me this time.) A wreck outside Leander sent us on a detour and suddenly, we were smack in the city with ticky-tacky boxes all jammed together, each identical to the next. The contrast made me sad, but then I realized I was being judgmental—many people were happy to have those homes. Good lesson in taking another viewpoint. In an unfortunate coincidence, coming home we happened on a wreck between Hico and Glen Rose that had only happened minutes before. As Jordan said, if we hadn’t stopped for a potty break and to buy me some chocolate, we might have been there at just the wrong time. Makes you think—with gratitude.

In Austin we were at daughter Megan’s house—all eighteen of us during the days. The nights were cool, but the kids liked to sit on the patio, so one night I bundled up.

Colin helping me keep warm

On Wednesday, we had lunch with a writer I know from a small online group but had never met—a real treat and a highlight of the trip. Stephanie Raffelock writes about women coming into their own as they age—a message I find most encouraging. Her new book is Creatrix Rising. But we talked mostly about cooking—the turkey we planned and her duck confit. I didn’t even know how confit is pronounced—kän’fē]—but now I am determined to try roasting a duck—I’ll let the confit part wait. In the oven in the main house. I got a new toaster oven for Christmas that will give me much more flexibility and an air fryer, but I don’t think it’s up for a whole duck.

Lunch with author Stephanie Raffelock

One night we all piled into cars and drove the Trail of Lights, an Austin phenomenon once sponsored by the city but now presented by individual sponsors. It is fantastic, best I’ve ever seen. I was particularly impressed by the tunnels of light. This picture hardly does it justice.

Christmas morning was pandemonium, but what can you expect with eighteen people? The old controversy about when to open presents was neatly solved—on Christmas Eve, Jordan gave each of the girls matching pajamas. I posted a picture Christmas night. Christmas morning the gift opening vs. breakfast dilemma was equally well solved—the guests sleeping in an Airbnb and a hotel were so slow to get there, we were all starving. So we had breakfast and opened gifts afterward.

Me and Jordan in our Christmas pajamas

Our Christmas dinner was traditional and delicious. I keep hearing of people who have prime rib and duck confit and even enchiladas, but not my family. Megan, with Melanie’s expert stirring, made the best gravy I think I’ve ever had—a combination of my mom’s technique (shake flour and cold water in a jar really hard) and the addition of Central Market gravy. So flavorful—and plenty of it. I always worry about running out of gravy—probably selfish because I really want it all over everything.

I posted the other night about my grandsons but can’t resist sharing this picture of them. The youngest is the tallest, and the oldest is the shortest. Each so very different and individual, but when together they seem a bonded unit. I alluded to the Beatles before, but that really only applies to Sawyer, the oldest, who is a skilled guitar player. The other three are more into individual sports.

My grandsons--how did they get this big and old?

Hope each and every one of you enjoyed Christmas, whether you celebrate the day or eat Chinese. It’s a special time. And now, into the new year.

A Christmas wish for all my friends

 

The women of the Alter family

Hope you had the merriest of Merry Christmases

And that 2022 brings you the gifts of this blessed season—

Peace, hope, and love.

“And of these the greatest is love”

(The guys would join us but

nobody gave them matching pajamas!)