A spat with my dog

 

Can't believe I yelled at this sweet thing. On the other hand,
I can't believe how she threw herself at my bed in anger.
Shame on both of us.

This afternoon, Sophie and I had a stand-off. A terrible battle. She went outside just when I wanted to nap and wouldn’t come in. Jacob happened along and between him and a bribe of cheese, I got her inside. She ate her cheese and immediately wanted to go back outside. I knew, because she’d been outside for long enough to take care of needs, she didn’t have a bathroom issue. I also knew she wanted to go outside and eat grass. I wanted to nap.

There ensued a half-hour battle in which she did her little dance clicking her nails on the wood floor, barked, growled, threw herself at my bed, and did all kinds of things. I responded in an unladylike manner, telling her “No!” in a loud voice, even telling her she was a bad dog—how could I? Thank goodness she doesn’t understand the words, though she got the tone of voice. I yelled, she barked. I tried to put myself in a trance, because I figured if I gave in, I was reinforcing bad behavior. On the other hand, if she’s ten years old and willful, am I too late trying to change her behavior? Or mine?

Finally, disgusted, I let her out and said a prayer that no dognapers chose a sunny, pretty Saturday afternoon for their nefarious activities. I crawled back into my bed but of course sleep wouldn’t come. At some point, I heard her come in and lie by my bed, though when I got up, she was in the living room.

I think we were both ashamed of ourselves. We both know better than to behave like that, and we are both too old for such. I was afraid my irregular heartbeat was banging off the walls. But later, on the patio, she and I made friends, and she came willingly to me for love. Maybe we are both allowed our bad behavior moments.

It was a glorious evening on the patio. Longtime friends Carol and Lon came for supper. Well, I had invited them, but they ended up bringing the supper. I had fixed a seven-layer salad—if you don’t know what that is, you’re too young. Carol and I talked about it and both agreed our mothers never made it. Somewhere along the way, I learned to make it and appreciate. Carol, less interested in cooking than I am, never made it. But the prize was they brought fried chicken (from Drew’s Place, quite probably the best soul food fried chicken in town), fresh fruit, bread and butter. We had a delicious dinner.

Carol and Lon and I have so many interests in common that an evening with them provides me with the kind of conversation that I spend much of my time longing for—a lot of politics (we’re all on the same indignant page), some philosophical talk about aging, and a bit of gossip. There are not many people with whom you can share opinions so freely, so an evening with them is a special bonus for me.

Lon was for many years a representative in the Texas Legislature, so he knows his way around causes. He is also a man of passions—environmental protection and climate change, voting rights, fair elections—a lot of the liberal causes I care so much about. Carol, a trained archivist with a master’s in library science, is so knowledgeable about architecture and historic structures and related history that I hardly know where to begin to say how important she is to my work. She has proofread and edited for me, written books for TCU Press when I was there, and solved many a historical question about several of my projects. I count on Carol to keep me historically honest and well documented. Beyond those professional associations, they are friends I have cherished for thirty years. A nice evening.

They have toddled off into the darkness now, and I have done the few dishes. The patio door is still open, because the temperature is lovely. As Lon pointed out, too early for mosquitoes. A perfect Texas spring evening.

Justice, computers, cozy mysteries, and sloppy Joe

 

Sloppy Joe

Count me among the many who rejoice today that we now have Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson (why can I not get beyond wanting to spell it Kenanjti?). When Biden first announced, way back before the South Carolina primary which gave him such a boost, that he would appoint a Black woman, I cringed—not because I didn’t think there was a qualified Black woman but because I thought he had boxed himself into a corner where he could have been accused of a kind of reverse racism—not considering qualified Anglo candidates. That is not, of course, what opponents overtly objected to, though it may well have been the underlying thought. On the surface it was that she was too progressive, too lenient on pornography, too this, too that. They tried to trick her with everything from “Do you attend church?” to “Can you define a woman?” They were rude and insolent and demeaning.

Through it all Judge/now Justice Jackson was cool, calm, and clever. She never fell into the verbal traps. Her answers were intelligent, straightforward, and respectful. I have seen a chart that indicates she brings more professional credentials to the nation’s highest court than any of those now sitting.

She shifts a balance—white men will now be in the majority, and she will be one of four women sitting on the Supreme Court. Conventional wisdom is she will not be able to do much in the face of the “originalists” who dominate, but I somehow have faith in this woman. I think she will have a major impact. And I rejoice, not because she’s Black, not even because she’s a woman, but because she’s highly qualified, which is a pleasant change from the last three appointees. No, I’m not afraid to name them: Gorsuch, Kavanaugh, and Bartlett. A packed court, but Justice Jackson may make some cracks in that originalist wall.

I realized today, with a gulp, that she is the same age as my oldest daughter, coincidentally a lawyer.

Yet another computer problem day. This afternoon for several hours, I could not establish a Wi-Fi connection. I am trying to determine whether it’s just our property, just me, or a neighborhood problem. But when I don’t have Wi-Fi there’s not much I can do—not even save Word files, nor print. Just read a book, as long as I have one downloaded. No Facebook, no email, none of that. It’s a huge frustration. I can get most of that on my phone, but I don’t like the small screen or keyboard. If I get desperate, I boot up my iPad but I don’t keep it charged.

Not quite ready to broadcast it about, but the last couple of evenings, I’ve been exploring posting to Pinterest. I think when I gave it up several years ago, I was simply a consumer and not using it to market my own books. I was using it like Jordan who searches it for recipes. Besides, when it was new and wildly popular, I created boards like a madwoman with no sense of organization, so now I am working on eliminating irrelevant boards and organizing posts. But I did get a board up for Irene in Chicago Culinary Mysteries. And I did write more yesterday and today, so I’m creeping toward the conclusion of the third mystery in that series.

On a mystery listserv, we’ve been discussing cozy mysteries. One point that came up was whether it is a convention of the genre to have justice served in the end. I always remember Texas novelist Elmer Kelton who said life is not tied up in pretty packages with a bow and plots should not be either. But many see that as a criterion of the genre. I think a lot about that as I work toward the end of Finding Florence.

Ona lighter note, Jacob and I were alone for dinner tonight. Days ago he rejected my idea of sloppy Joe, but I’d been waiting for a chance to cook my own special recipe (posted on Gourmet on a Hot Plate last October) and I was not to be deterred. Tonight, when push came to shove, he was hungry and asked for a sandwich. His verdict was, “Pretty good.” I asked if I can now put it back in the menu rotation and he said yes. It was awfully good—if I hadn’t burned my bun. I was more careful with his. For those who are interested, Sloppy Joe is thought to have begun in the 1930s as a "loose meat" sandwich in Iowa served by a cook named Joe. References to it began to appear in print in the 1940s. You can still get loose meat sandwiches at restaurants in the Maid-Rite chain.

 Burtons will be out for dinner again tomorrow, and I know Jacob won’t like my plan: an old-fashioned, seven-layer salad. Now that’s what I call good eating!

An absolutely nothing day

My first "outrageous cozy."

It didn’t start well, but it started early. By two o’clock this morning, I had been in bed maybe two hours and was sleeping soundly. Sophie woke me, clicking her nails on the wood floor and doing the dance she does when she needs to go outside. As I let her out, I lectured her on coming right back in—but she never does. While I waited, I booted the computer and checked something that had been on my mind. Then I sat in the doorway, hoping she’d come to me.

Instead, Christian appeared. After we both said, “What are you doing up at this hour,” we straightened out that I was up because Sophie was out, and he was up because he heard Sophie’s distinctive bark and thought something was wrong if she was out at two o’clock. Then he looked out the window, saw me at my computer, and thought that was definitely wrong. He brought Soph inside, and we all went back to our beds.

Only Sophie was desperate to go out again at four o’clock, five-twenty, and six-thirty. One time I watched to see if she really had a problem—and she did. She tried hard to throw up. Another time, knowing she gets out and won’t come to me, I put her on her leash and sat in the doorway holding the leash. Of course, she just stood there looking bewildered.

After the six-thirty adventure, we both slept until almost nine. But she is clearly not feeling well. She's turned down both turkey and Velveeta, the things I use to sneak a Benadryl into her. Although she’s not snuffling as much as sometimes, I think it must be her allergies. She’s been eating grass for a couple of days and hasn’t eaten her food. Guess who’s calling the vet in the morning. And meanwhile hoping for a good sleep tonight.

With a late start, I was just a bit “off” all day. Wrote almost a thousand words, but they weren’t my best words, did odds and ends, put on my activist hat in a couple of instances—truth is I can’t tell you exactly what I did with the day.

Jordan came out to have a companionable glass of wine while we watched the evening news. Christian was in Dallas at a get-together of his high school friends, and she was going out to a business dinner. We talked about what Jacob would eat since he would not have the tuna casserole I was fixing for myself. With homemade chicken broth and white wine and topped with crushed potato chips, it was so good I ate too much. As I was cooking, Jacob came in trying for casual and said, “Hey, what are you doing for dinner tonight?” When I said I had already offered to share my tuna, he laughed and shook his head. Pretty soon he was back, asking nicely if he could have my credit card to order a hamburger. He came in a minute ago, handed me the card, and announced he had ordered McDonald’s. I told him he’s a real class act.

The good news is that surgeons were able to align grandson Kegan’s broken leg today, under anesthesia, cast it, and secure it with pins. No surgery necessary—surgery is difficult in a fifteen-year-old because the insertion of a rod would mess with the growth plate. So Kegan is lucky, and we are all relieved. In hospital pictures, he’s got kind of a wry smile but at least it’s a smile.

And last night out of the blue I had a chatty call from my oldest grandchild—Maddie, in Denver. She’s working at an Apple genius bar and preparing for nursing school which she will start in June and which preparation is more complicated than I realized. She called just to say hello and check in. Be still my heart!

So now I’m going to tackle a few more words on that mystery. If they’re not my best words, at least they are something on paper, and I can change, edit, etc. later. I am calling the Irene in Chicago culinary novels “outrageous cozies.” Want to read my thoughts on this sub-genre I may have named if not invented? I talked about it on a guest blog today. Here’s a link: https://saraheglenn.blogspot.com/.../judy-alter...

Sweet dreams, y’all!

Some books you might find interesting

 

In West Fort Worth, we have two iconic shopping malls—Hulen and Ridgmar. Because it is closer and a bit smaller, with stores I liked, Hulen was my mall of choice. Doesn’t that sound funny now? I have lots of memories of trailing kids through the department stores and up those twisting stairs. Perhaps the worst was the time Jordan, maybe five or six, decided to climb through the railing on the second level—and there she was, hanging outside in space. People rushed to her in alarm, but I had the sense to say, “Please leave her alone.” Then I spoke softly to her, and she, not at all flustered, climbed over the railing to land safely on the floor at my feet. I’m not sure today I could be that sanguine.

When they were teens, three of my four wanted to “hang out” at the mall (I can’t remember that Colin ever did), an event that I let happen but not without strict instructions and a lot of trepidation on my part. I’m not sure what I thought would happen, but probably I was convinced food courts were dens of iniquity with pedophiles lurking in every corner. And there was the time Jamie, just old enough to ride his moped around town (remember mopeds? How could I forget?), rode his to Hulen Mall (quite likely against my rules) and while he was inside, doing that dreadful hanging out, it was stolen. At something like one o’clock the next morning, we got a call from the police that the moped had been found abandoned at a gas station on the South Freeway. It was a bitterly cold, icy night, but we went out there—I imagine I took all the kids because there is safety in numbers, even if they are young. But we finally decided Jamie could not ride it home in those conditions. We secured it at the gas station and went back the next day.

So no, my memories of Hulen Mall are not good, and I haven’t been there in years—I’m pretty much an online shopper these days, and I understand the good shops have deserted the mall and it is sort of a ghost town. Same for Ridgmar Mall of which I have fewer memories, except for Neiman Marcus where I loved to eat lunch and a strange little restaurant—I forget the name—run by a friend. Nope, I am not a mall person.

Still I was interested today to read a review of Meet Me at the Fountain: An Inside History of the Mall. Author Andrea Lange considers the history of the mall, from the 1950s, when it was the nirvana of suburban shoppers, up to today when it is considered dead. But her text questions the predictions of demise, pointing out that malls continually reinvent themselves. She deals of course with nationally known ones—the Mall of America in Minnesota and North Park in Dallas (I was never as crazy about it as my kids). If you’ve lived through the mall era, you might find the book of interest.

Another book Fort Worthians might particularly like but one with a universal message is Carry-Out, Carry-On: A Year in the Life of a Texas Chef, by locally renowned chef and farm-to-table advocate Jon Bonnell. During the heigh of pandemic, Bonnell’s restaurant, bearing his name, flourished by providing family to-go meals for which customers lined up as early as three o’clock in the afternoon. Bonnell’s is strategically located on a bypass highway and with a good flow to its parking lot, both of which Bonnell says enabled his success. His downtown restaurant, Waters, did not fare so well, which he attributes to difficult access and traffic patterns and a reluctance of folks to go downtown. Bonnell’s book is essentially a story of perseverance despite hardships, disappointments, unbelievable difficulties. It speaks not just to restauranteurs but to all of us who survived pandemic—and might well have to do so again in the future. Jon Bonnell was determined to come out of pandemic on a positive note—and he did. Go eat his food, read his book. He’s a special kind of chef and person.

In spite of the subjects of deserted malls and pandemic-stressed restaurants, these books made me think once again what a great place to live Fort Worth is. But even if you’re not from my city, you’ll find some nuggets on them.

 

 

#Cook for Ukraine

 

Traditional Borscht

Our country and the entire world—well, most of it—is reeling in horror at pictures coming out of Bucha, the suburb of Kyiv recently retaken by Ukrainian forces and abandoned by would-be Russian conquerors, who left behind a trail of atrocities—a mass grave, bodies lying in the street, many with their hands tied behind their backs and a gunshot to the head. If you have any memories of the Holocaust, the pictures take you back to the end of WWII when Nazi atrocities were revealed.

Americans are quick to support some oppressed (not so much Central Americans at our southern border, but that’s another subject), and so we have been with Ukraine. No, I’m not talking about President Biden’s amazing success at uniting much of the civilized world to sanction Russia while avoiding WWIII. I’m talking about the kind of bandwagon cheering at which we are so good. I’m back in my pajamas by now, but this picture is the shirt I wore all day—I bought it because I love the brightness and the colors. But mostly I bought it because I too want to support Ukraine.

There are so many charities asking for funds to do good work in Ukraine that it can be a bit misleading, and there are scams out there. Several sites profess to protect domestic animals left behind, but one I saw the other day was highly suspicious—all the dogs looked like. One that I trust is the World Central Kitchen which has been feeding Ukrainian refugees who cross the border into Poland. Chef José Andres has now taken his kitchens, under protection, to Bucha to feed survivors. Docs Without Borders is reliable—those people go into the thick of the fighting to provide medical care. Still another charity in  which I have faith is UNICEF, and I read a fascinating article today about two London women—one Ukrainian, one Russian—who have combined their skills to create #Cook for Ukraine to support UNICEF. Here’s the link to an article about them, if you can get beyond the paywall, The Ukrainian and Russian Chefs Cooking for Ukraine | The New Yorker, and here’s their website: Cook For Ukraine is fundraising for Unicef UK (justgiving.com). All proceeds go to the UNICEF Ukraine appeal to support women and children.  

Alissa Timoshkina, originally from Russia, and Olia Hercules, raised in southern Ukraine with her family still there, suggest that those who want to help can host supper clubs or bake sales featuring Ukrainian foods with donations suggested. Share recipes and pictures online with the hashtag, #CookforUkraine. There’s an online form for registering your event and an online link to donate.

Cooking Ukrainian recipes is especially meaningful as we approach Easter, because the country is known for its delicately decorated eggs. There’s a special Easter egg cheese—hrudka—and Easter bread--paska. Search CookforUkraine and you’ll find a wealth of recipes. Maybe the first thing that comes to your mind is borscht--you’ll find several recipes. I have always wanted to make pierogi because I am fascinated with the small hand pies from several cultures. Pierogi are the Ukrainian/Russian version, often stuffed with seasoned cheese but sometimes with meat or mushrooms. Another dish traditionally associated with Ukraine is stuffed cabbage—it’s not as hard as you might think and is delicious. And desserts—oh my, do the Ukrainians know how to cater to a sweet tooth. Cakes of all kinds, napoleons, babka, honey cake. 

Honey cake

If I weren’t cooking for strict traditionalists, I think I’d do a Ukrainian Easter dinner. Pierogi for an appetizer, borscht for a soup course stuffed cabbage as the entrée, accompanied by kapusta (sauerkraut and peas) and a grand dessert of a honey cake built like a napoleon—lots of thin layers. Of course, it would take me a kitchen staff to prepare this.

I’m sure Ukraine offers recipes for Passover too, because there is a substantial Jewish population. And if you’re thinking, wait a minute! Borscht is Russian, you’re right. There is a big cultural overlap between Russia and Ukraine, and it includes food. Of the two cooks sponsoring #CookforUkraine, the Russian one has a Ukrainian grandmother, and the Ukrainian native has a Russian grandmother. So sad to see two countries, who share so much, at war with each other—or really the bigger one bullying the smaller, at a horrible cost of life. Let alone the massive destruction of structures, fields and farms.

Golumpki - stuffed cabbage

We are all going to feel the effects of the destruction in that country—higher prices on grain, for just one example. So cheer for the people of Ukraine and pray for them. And cook for them!

 

Nostalgia all over the place

 

A small blowout

My youngest grandson, Kegan David, broke his leg in a “hard soccer collision” yesterday. It will, we’re told, require surgery, and his soccer season is over—just when it was ending anyway. Kegan is an athlete—lean and tall at fifteen (a birthday in a week), he’s too slight for football but is in demand because he’s a terrific kicker; even when he was tiny for his size, he was asked to play on teams of boys three and four years older than he was; a year or so ago, he decided to take up track as well and was no slouch at the pole vault. This is his second broken bone—if he is to keep up with his father’s early teen record, he has two more to go. At this point, however, he is tied with his Austin cousin, Sawyer, who broke his femur skiing and smashed an elbow doing some kind of trick bike riding. I have suggested that the boys should take up golf or swimming. Actually, Sawyer’s favorite sport is playing his guitar, so he’s less likely to break bones these days.

A much younger Kegan,
but look at that attitude!

But the broken leg made me nostalgic because I began to reflect on how my seven grands have grown—and, in truth, to miss the babies they were. I remember how the two older girls, Maddie and Edie, were always so anxious to nursemaid the little boys. When she was two or three, Edie talked incessantly about “Baby Sawyee.” And Maddie was always ready to play a game, change a diaper, do whatever the little boys wanted—well, almost. Somewhere on my computer are some adorable pictures. It’s true what they say—the time flies. My grands now include one college graduate, one college freshman, two high school rising seniors, a rising junior, and two rising sophomores. How did this happen?

Kegan this year

Then this morning in that banner MSN flashes across my Edge screen there was a feature about a beach-y national park just miles from Chicago. I knew instantly that meant the Indiana dunes. What I didn’t know is that there is now a national park adjacent to the Indiana Dunes State Park. I browsed with longing through pictures of beaches, carved into narrow strips by the encroaching water, and great blowouts—areas where no vegetations holds the sand and the wind has carved out saucer-shaped depressions or hollows, some quite large. Those are the scenes of my summer childhood.

My family had a cottage on a high dune, three long staircases above the beach. Mom used to tell us we were at the very foot of the lake as we watched storms roll in—I loved seeing the lake at its wildest, but for swimming I wanted calm ripples. The back of our cottage sat squarely in the woods, where the outhouse was—scary trip at night. We had no electricity, no running water (a cistern). Mom scalded dishes wit boiling water after she washed them, and our refrigerator was a three-shelf box that was lowered into a deep hole to sit on top of a huge ice block. You knew to always put milk in the bottom shelf where it stayed the coldest. When we finally got bottled gas, we thought we were really uptown.

The blowout pictures took me back to the time Mom made me and a friend hike all the way across a huge blowout, in the hot summer, so we could be dots in her picture—and that’s what we were: little black dots dwarfed by this huge, sandy landscape. And the beach pictures—when I was a kid, there were houses at the first level, kind of the top of the beach, where we got drinking water from a pump (and carried it up all those stairs!). Those houses, including one belonging to a family friend, have all long since washed into the lake. And speaking of drinking water, I will always remember the night we heard a plop—a mouse had fallen into the drinking water. We cried over a whole pail gone to waste, and Mom had to sterilize the pail.

When I was young, the beach was
three times this wide.

Today I was carried back to the past looking at the pictures. They say when you are troubled, you should go, in your mind, to a safe spot. My safe spot is a little knoll on the second level of the dune. Sitting there, with my arm around a wild collie mix female inappropriately named Timmy, I could look to the northeast at evening and see the round orange ball of the sun slowly sinking behind the skyscrapers of Chicago, which look like toothpicks from that distance. It is, for me, a serene spot. Somewhere there is a picture of that. Wish I could find it.

What about you? Is there your version of a comforting dune in your mind?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Believe It Or Not, This Beachy National Park Sits Just Outside Chicago (msn.com)

 

A trivia day

 

Spring is busting out all over

Remember reciting, “April showers bring May flowers”? Thanks to Joanne Guidoccio for these April facts: April is Alcohol Awareness Month, Financial Literacy Month, National Autism Awareness Month, National Parkinson’s Awareness Month, National Volunteer Month, and Stress Awareness Month. Earth Day is celebrated on April 22. Other April observances include National Peanut Butter and Jelly Day (April 2), National No Housework Day (April 7), National Hug Your Dog Day (April 10), National Garlic Day (April 19), and International Jazz Day (April 30).

In my household, however, the most important dates are April 22—birthday of Colin David, my oldest child; by coincidence that was also the birthday of my baby sister who died in infancy; April 12, birthday of Colin’s son and my grandson, Kegan David; April 20, birthday of son-in-law Brandon Hudgeons; April 11, birthday of my late mother.

News from the book front: Texas Senator Ted Cruz is not content with ranting about Judge Ketanji Brown Jackson and books that should be banned—He attacked Judge Jackson over the curriculum at a private school where she serves as a trustee. Cruz waved a children’s picture book, Antiracist Baby, which he offered as an example of the CRT that pervades the school. No one asked Cruz to define CRT—a missed opportunity—but the book immediately leapt to the top of the Amazon bestseller list in its category. I think that’s called karma.

Now Cruz is attacking diaries, journals, and blank books, claiming they should not be sold to minors. Heaven knows what he thinks those CRT teens are going to write. Maybe he has renewed the once common practice of teenage girls keeping private diaries. Keep it up, Ted. You’re great for the book business.

In a development not so great, I read where a venture capital company, Elliott Advisors, is buying up or trying to buy up bookstore chains. Founder Paul Singer says the goal is to “create efficiencies unseen in the book business and engage in a little world domination, which is the most thrilling thing a hedge fund guy can do.” Sort of venture capital doublespeak to me, but the possibilities are both hopeful and frightening. The book trade is the only one I know of where unsold products may be returned to the publisher for credit. A publisher friend of mine was married to a toy manufacturer’s sales rep who ranted, “You can’t return toys if you don’t sell them. Why books?” IF the Elliott people change that, so much to the good for publishers (still my point of view) but devastating for booksellers. It could set the whole system on its ear. And the phrase “world domination” scares me in this current climate of censorship and book banning.

Some nice things happened today: my free-lance editor is dropping clients but said she would keep me because she wants to see what happens to Irene next. And I was asked to be part of a food-writing project from an organization I’m part of—looking forward to that.

On my own I successfully paired my phone with my hearing aids—who knew they came “unpaired”? I no longer will yell “Can you hear me?” at my kids who could hear me only too well, but I couldn’t hear them. And I navigated a change in insurance policies with only a minimum of frustration—after being on indefinite hold and had a futile online chat, I found a phone number where I was connected immediately with a knowledgeable person. Nice when things go right. Now if I can only figure out why I have such profile problems with the three major credit bureaus. Can’t do everything at once!

It's a beautiful night. I’m going to take a glass of wine out to the patio and enjoy the lovely evening.

 

Jordan and her crazy-angle photos
Honest, we weren't tipsy--just the camera

 

 

The goal, as stated by Paul Singer, founder of Elliott Management, is to "leverage the unleverageable, create efficiencies unseen in the book business, and engage in a little world domination, which is about the most thrilling thing a hedge fund guy can do!"

 

Whine, whine, whine

 

Our redbud tree
with a youpon getting in the way.

This has not been a good day. In fact, it’s been the kind of day when I feel I ought to make a list of everything that went wrong. Little of it had a silver lining.

Sophie has been under the weather—perhaps literally because of last night’s storms. She did not eat at all yesterday, although she did take her two treats. Even turned down a bit of Velveeta—okay I had wrapped a Benadryl in it, and maybe she sensed that. What she did eat was grass—always a bad sign in a dog. If it made her throw up, she fortunately did it outside, because I never saw it. Of course last night’s thunder terrified her, and she wandered about the cottage in the night. She slept most of the morning, perhaps recovering, but did eat this afternoon.

Electronic woes beset me. It took me at least forty-five minutes to make a payment, due no later than tomorrow, on my new dental insurance. Since I have a dental appointment next week, I wanted to make sure it was paid. The site would not take my credit card and I finally had to give my bank information, which I do not like to do. Then I once again attacked the Credit Karma site that my Colin recommends. I couldn’t do it, gave up, and emailed him. Colin ended hosting a Teams meeting so I could watch what he did. After almost an hour, he decided the problem was that a freeze was on my credit records with the three main bureaus. My assignment was to lift the freeze. One bureau had no record of me, my birthdate, my social security number, my address, etc. According to them, I don't exist. A second one immediately flashed a screen that said it couldn’t process my request and to call them. At the third I went through the process of opening a new account, required because I hadn’t used the site in too long. I got all the way to verifying my identity and was stymied. Decided I failed the test. The ball is in Colin's court, though he doesn't know it yet.

I’ve been having hearing aid problems. Thought I had them solved, but today my aids would not let me hear on my phone. Resulted in some funny calls, like me singing, “Colin, can you hear me? Colin, can  you hear me?” Finally in exasperation he texted, “I can hear you, Ma.” I couldn’t hear him at all. I have an appointment with my audiologist Monday, but that’s a long time to go without talking on the phone. I already had a difficult time trying to talk to a doctor’s office today.

To top the day off I had a stomach problem—will spare you the details, but I won’t be eating dairy for a while. So much for the pecorino I will put on baked chicken pesto tonight for the others in my family. I love cheese and live on it, probably the problem.

So I’m looking for silver linings: Sophie is back “at herself,” I got to see Colin and talk with him today (no, I don’t invent computer problems just so I can call him, but it works well), and it’s a beautiful spring day. The trees that two days ago had little tiny bits of green now have that light green fluff of two or three inches that indicates leaves are on their way. I see a bit of green in the zoysia grass, which is always late to green up, and the redbud tree is in glorious bloom. And the sun is shining brightly—surely tomorrow will be a better day!

And here’s a day brightener for all of us. Gabe Fleisher of Wake Up to Politics reports that people became kinder in 2021, according to research from the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School. The World Happiness Report released earlier this month found that “global rates of helping strangers, volunteering, and giving to charity are nearly twenty-five percent above pre-pandemic levels.” So much for William Barr’s belief that mankind is inherently evil! If you don’t know Fleisher’s daily column, check it out at Wake Up To Politics It’s fair, accurate reporting from a college sophomore with a national news reputation. Good stuff.

 

 

 

Fiction as disguised memoir

 

Georgia Arbuckle Fix (and Mattie) did not consider herself attractive.

“Write what you know” is classic advice to beginning writers. Sometimes it’s true. I probably shouldn’t write about traveling to Antarctica because I’ve never done it, and no amount of research will make me warm to the subject (okay, bad pun). The flip side of that advice though is the general belief that creative writers pour some of themselves into everything they write. I’ve had a strong lesson in both these truths this week.

I’ve been reading proof of Mattie, my 1988 novel that will be reprinted by Two Dot in coming months. First published by Doubleday in 1988, it tells of the life, career, and loves of Mattie Armstrong, pioneer woman physician on the vast and bare prairies of western Nebraska in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The novel is loosely based on the life of Dr. Georgia Arbuckle Fix, who was the first woman physician in Nebraska and who really did leave Omaha to heal the widely scattered settlers in sod huts on the prairie. But don’t attribute everything in the novel to Dr. Fix. That the novel won a Spur Award from Western Writers of America as the best novel of the year, was high praise, especially in a category one man angrily declared was for the men’s action adventure novel.  The funny news about the original Doubleday hardback is that it was in their Double D Western line, which sold mostly, I’m told, by subscription to prison libraries. The digital edition, indie published by me at something like ninety-nine cents, sold well for years, making it the bestseller of any book I’ve written. Now it will be in a hardback again.

If you can’t attribute the fictional story to the real Dr. Arbuckle, you can attribute a lot of Mattie’s story to the real Judy Alter. Re-reading it, after all these years, I realized that in some ways I had written the memoir that I was always reluctant to attempt. When she was first settles on the prairie, Mattie meets a charming, charismatic man with a sad story about being disowned by his wealthy family back in St. Louis. Against the advice of her brother and stepfather, Mattie marries Em Jones, who turns out to be, as we would say in Texas, all hat and no cattle. In 1964, against the advice of my family, I married a medical student and followed him to Texas (the Texas part worked out well). The two stories are variations on a theme, but it’s all there—the sweep-you-off-your-feet joy, the domesticity, the quarrels over money and child-raising (I had a few more children than Mattie’s lone daughter), the growing estrangement, and the final betrayal. My ex and I divorced in 1982; the book was published in 1988. I had had time to process, but I don’t think at the time that I realized that I was writing my own experiences into Mattie’s life.

In her forties, Mattie Armstrong developed an unlikely relationship with the uneducated but skilled workman who single-handedly built her a two-story sanitarium on the prairie. Here’s a spoiler: the relationship was never meant to last, and he rides away, both of them filled with regret for what could not have worked on a permanent basis. As I was writing the last pages of this book, I was in the midst of the one serious relationship I had after my divorce. I clearly remember sitting at my desk and pecking out the scene where he leaves—and the realization came like a load of bricks that the man I thought loved me—and who I thought I loved—was going to leave. As it was for Mattie, so it was for me—decisions turned out to be right, and a more than satisfactory life followed.

I have talked before about my reluctance to write a memoir. Oh, I wrote Cooking My Way Through Life with Kids and Books, but it was a surface memoir, hung on a peg of cooking. I don’t think in it I came to grips with the emotions involved on my journey. And I have since shied away from memoir.  With minor variations, this novel is the memoir of two significant periods in my life. I’m still processing that realization.

My children may say this is TMI, as they put it, but it’s something I felt I needed to say. And one other thing: Mattie’s husband was Em, short for Emory; the builder was Eli (okay I hadn’t yet learned the lesson not to give two characters names starting with the same letter). The original dedication to the book was “For Em and Eli/They know who they are.” Em is dead now, and I suspect Eli maybe too. But I have asked the editors to restore the original dedication, replacing the one now that says it is for my daughters. They have enough books dedicated to them. I want them to know how close this story hits to home.

 

 

 

 

 

Glorious weather means gardening and guests

 

Sophie, waiting for happy hour company
on the patio

North Texas has had glorious weather for several days in a row now, and we are enjoying it—highs in the eighties, yet too early for mosquitoes and the humidity that blankets and smothers us in summer. The zoysia is still brown and dead-looking, but it’s always late to come back. I can see the first few buds on trees, and the bougainvillea is ready to burst. Jordan has new plants in many of the pots, and the patio is once again inviting. It has been a busy, cheerful place this past weekend, much to Sophie’s delight—and mine.

Saturday night, Jean came for supper. Talk about making someone sing for their supper, she had to go by curbside pickup at Central Market for hers. Then when she got it here, Jordan froze it. I went to get lamb chops out of the fridge and couldn’t find them. Fortunately, they hadn’t had time to get very frozen. I was on a nostalgia kick, so I paired lamb chops, which I think of as a somewhat sophisticated entrée choice, with down-home old-fashioned pea salad and carrots cooked in chicken broth. The latter are, of course, two things my family won’t eat. I need to make a list of dinners to fix when they are out, since they once again have busy schedules. But back to Saturday, Jordan joined us on the patio for happy hour before she and Christian went to a dinner party.

Sunday afternoon all three Burtons worked in the yard. At one point I saw Jacob come up the driveway, wearing dirty garden gloves, head down, and I wished I had gotten a picture. I would have labeled it, “The Reluctant Gardener.” He was not amused when I told him that. Christian planted the lettuce seeds I’ve been trying to get planted for several weeks—some in my moveable garden, some in a big planter. I’m looking forward to wilted lettuce. When I mentioned I want another pot of chives, Christian pointed to my green onions which are flourishing, so I gave him a lesson in the difference. I had the same pot of chives for years—it came back every spring—but snowmageddon killed it. I saw an apropos book today, titled The $64 Tomato. Like everything else, gardening is expensive and when you do it on a small scale, like we are, you have to do it for freshness and taste, not to save money.

Sunday night the Burtons went to PF Chang’s in Grapevine to meet Christian’s family. I was almost tempted to go along, because I haven’t been to a PF Chang’s in forever, but I had invited the Greens and the Springfields for happy hour. I made Margaret Johnson’s crab canapes—easy, absolutely delicious, and showy. Watch for the recipe in Thursday’s Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog. Margaret is our across-the-street neighbor and a good friend of Jordan’s, and I am indebted to her for a happy hour where I learned just how good those little bites are. But I have also seen the recipe online, so I don’t think it’s an exclusive. It was fun to get those four people together last night. Just before they left, Phil said to me, “A beautiful evening, Judy” and made it sound as though I had invented the perfect weather, including the slight breeze.

Sophie loves having a crowd on the patio. She goes from person to person, making sure there’s always a human hand idly stroking her head. When people arrive on the patio, she’ll race inside and bark at me, as if to say, “Come on! What is taking you so long?” Eventually, she settles down next to whoever she picks, a perfectly content dog.

This morning I wasn’t through with the patio. We had scheduled a meeting of four neighborhood women about a shift in responsibilities for the Poobah, the newsletter I edit. Amy, our association president, was held up at the last minute, but Subie, Debra Million, and I met on the patio. Jordan had provided an extensive coffee service, but Subie was the only coffee drinker. I did serve banana muffins—that is, I served them with Subie doing all the work. Inside the cottage, I can serve guests, but it’s impossible for me to go over the raised lintel from cottage to patio with anything that will spill, drop, break—you name it. If I can set it safely in the small pouch on my walker, I’m good to go—but few things meet that criterion.

So tonight, Jordan is off staying at a friend’s house much closer to where Jacob has a tournament today and tomorrow, and Christian is at work. I am at my desk with bright sunshine and lovely fresh air pouring in the open French door. I’m enjoying the weather while we have it, because storms are predicted for tomorrow night. If they bring rain, that will be a blessing. Texas in in a drought, wildfires are racing across the central part of the state, and every green growing thing needs moisture.