The adventures of Irene, the diva chef

Balancing this week of sad news and heavy worries, I have good news—at least from my point of view. I spent the week proofreading Finding Florence, the third Irene in Chicago Culinary Mystery. And I’m glad to report that Irene will be back in Chicago July 5^th, providing Chance’s jet brings her as planned. I may be delighted to report this, but Henny is frantic. Here’s a taste of what Irene’s up to this time:

Irene is obsessed. And Henny’s life is a mess.

Irene has flown to Chicago from France in high style – the private jet owned by her longtime, on again-off again-on again amour, the handsome but mysterious billionaire Chance Charpentier. Her infamous “voices” have told her that something is horribly amiss with a person dear to her.  When she arrives, she learns that a death notice for Florence Sherman, her sometime friend, previous neighbor, and member of an historic Chicago family, has been published in the Sun-Times. Once Irene discovers her friend’s body is missing, the diva chef refuses to leave Chicago until she solves the mysterious disappearance. But, with Irene in Chicago, Henny’s successful “From My Mother’s Kitchen” TV cooking show and her precious time with Patrick, husband of her dreams, are seriously compromised by Irene’s insistence that finding Florence trumps any other concerns. So Henny struggles to balance Irene’s demands with the rest of her life and to find Florence, dead or alive, so Irene will go back to France.

Irene’s certainty that the past holds the key to Florence’s disappearance brings in a bit of Chicago history, and food references season the text. An appendix of recipes from both Irene and Henny’s mom is attached.

 I’ve had a lot of fun with Irene, Henny, and their friends and lovers. In these difficult times, they provide a real contrast, letting me escape to an easier world. In fact, they let me escape to the neighborhood of my childhood—Hyde Park on Chicago’s South Side, where everything is different from my days there but in many way still the same. Henny’s world is contemporary but pre-pandemic and politics just isn’t a subject.

Food is a big subject, ranging from Irene’s faux French (she does cook French dishes, but she just doesn’t have the Cordon Bleu background she claims) to Henny’s recipes from her mom’s Texas kitchen. With the latest book, you can cook anything from Coq au Vin to King Ranch Casserole.

Love is a big subject too. After two installments, this third book finds Henny deliriously happily married to the man of her dreams. Patrick not only loves her, he curbs what are sometimes her wildest instincts and her even wilder tongue. And Irene? The domineering diva is a woman in love—just look at her on the cover. The object of her affections is Chance Charpentier, the billionaire with whom she had a daughter twenty years earlier. Like Patrick, Chance is a balance for Irene. You’ll fall in love with him, as I have.

Cooking as a career is front and center in Irene’s stories, as told by Henny. Irene now runs a small café in a small French town near Aix-en-Provence. It is the kind of place where the old men go to drink wine, eat a hearty gibbolet with duck, and tell tales—until Irene calls their wives to come get them. Henny, on the other hand, has a TV show with a national network, “Recipes from my mom’s kitchen.” She works hard and sees her star rising—until Irene comes into town and demands her attention.

The Irene/Henny adventures, which Henny tells in her own, slightly snarky, slightly insecure voice, began in Saving Irene, when Henny was gofer for Irene’s cooking show—and ended, with Patrick, saving Irene’s spoiled daughter, Gabrielle, from a kidnapper. Irene subsequently decamped for France, but in Irene in Danger, she came back to Chicago for Henny and Patrick’s wedding—and nearly caused the cancellation of the wedding by getting involved with some unsavory characters.

I had so much fun with these stories that I already know the fourth one—Irene simply has to go to Texas. Can’t you see the clash of cultures? And the cover art? Irene in a Stetson! That’s another thing—I love the cover art of these books. For the first one, I knew what I wanted—Irene front and center, in a toque, with a background of typical apartment dwellings in Hyde Park. Having Irene as a central figure worked so well that we put her against the gilt of the Palmer House Hotel in the second book. And now for the third—don’t you think she looks like a woman in love? And of course that’s the wonderful skyline of Chicago’s North Shore. Thanks to designer Amy Balamut for the covers and the formatting.

Watch for Finding Florence July 5^th on Amazon!

An off week, to say the least

 

Jacob and my brother
Looking for jackrabbits
at the ranch

It’s not been a week for blogging. I have started several times, even wrote a longish blog about what I feel is ludicrous objections to any sort of gun control. But then I thought who am I to preach on a subject so well covered in the media? Or is it?

It seems to me this country bounces from one crisis to another. Right now, there are three huge balls in the air, and we cannot afford to drop any of them. Public furor was high over the carnage at Uvalde—until Thursday night, when the first public hearing of the January 6 committee captured everyone’s attention. Well, not everyone, but some twenty million of us plus who knows how many who watched it after the fact or livestreamed it, as I did. And, of course, the third big ball in the air is women’s reproductive rights, which sort ol leads to a fourth ball—how in heaven’s name did we end up with such a mess in the Supreme Court as the Constitution seems to be being overridden in favor of personal beliefs.

I guess at my age it’s good to feel passionate about anything, but I feel passionate—and helpless—about those three problems. I cannot weigh one more heavily than the other, and I have done what I criticize in others: I’ve become an extremist, thinking the claims of the far right are ludicrous (that seems to be a favorite word of mine recently).

At any rate, with our country beset by such complex problems, it seemed a bit lighthearted to write anything like, “Guess what I cooked for supper tonight?” or “Know how many words I wrote today?” The one constant I hold to is that I am an optimist. My mom used to say to me, “All things work to some good.” I wish she were here now to say that, because sometimes it’s hard to see. Yet, maybe it’s my faith that tells me fascism and authoritarianism won’t win, that we will have effective gun control laws, that trump and company will be not only exposed but appropriately punished, that women will always have access to good reproductive health care.

When I expressed outrage on a Facebook post (yes, I’m out there and vocal—I can’t walk the block, host campaign parties, etc., but I can sure speak out), someone who basically agreed with me wrote that she avoided outrage because she thought it put bad stuff into her system. It probably does, but in this case, I think it’s necessary. If we aren’t outraged enough to fight for our way of life, we’ll lose it. And the absurdity of some on the right causes my outrage—charging a woman with murder because she miscarried (what the medical profession calls a spontaneous abortion and what, to my mind, indicates that God and our biological systems know best), the congressman who said banally that he was sorry Uvalde happened but it didn’t change his mind (how could it not?), the cultists who deny the facts presented by the January 6 committee and call it partisan even though the co-chair is a Republican (isn’t she tough?)—it all outrages me, makes me fighting mad, and maybe that’s been what’s stifled me. I have no place to go with my anger, but I don’t want to foist it on others.

There have been pleasant moments this week. One morning I watched Mama Cardinal hopping around on the deck. To my disappointment, Papa didn’t join her this time. I guess I was looking for the comfort of thinking two from the other side are sending me messages. Another day the most magnificent blue jay hopped among the pentas, which are just now blooming. I watched him in fascination for a long time. Yeah, it was not a week when I got a lot of writing done, but I did start proofreading Finding Florence.

Posting two pictures with this because they are pictures that make me feel good. Maybe they will you too. They reflect, to me, the fact that our peaceful world of home, families, and friends goes on despite those who would destroy our way of life.

The most spectacular orchid
in its second bloom

A lovely memory and lazy leftovers

 

Would you believe I wrote this blog, went to save it, and lost it? The post was mostly inspired by this picture that popped up on my computer this morning. Now I consider it a challenge to see how much I can recover from memory. Here goes: fifteen years ago, my grands were dedicated at my home church, University Christian in Fort Worth. We had the ceremony in the chapel, not before the congregation, because not all of my children belong to this church. The picture was taken right afterward. Maddie the oldest, is holding Kegan, the youngest. Kegan was then all of three weeks old. Jacob, to my left, was intrigued by this thing called a baby and desperate to get at it. I had my arm firmly around him. To Maddie’s left, Sawyer and Eden seem oblivious to whatever was going on. In my lap is Ford, who was about eight months old and had a dump in his diaper—I handed him to his mom as soon as the picture was done. To my right is Morgan who kept creeping away as though she wanted to pretend she had never seen any of us. They are all now grown or well on the way there. Maddie is twenty-three, Kegan fifteen, and they are all still wonderful. After this ceremony, we had a porch party, of course—a brunch buffet. Such good memories.

I decided today that the day after a party is meant for slow moving. It didn’t help my focus or ambition that Zenaida was here cleaning the cottage, and I could be easily distracted by talking to her. I kept up with emails, read some political articles online, wrote just a bit, and piddled, this afternoon spending a lot of time looking for a recipe I’ve lost and never did find.

It was also a leftover day. Yesterday, despite the party looming in the evening, I had a lunch of leftover salmon, marinated cucumber, guacamole, and some squash and sweet onion I’d sauteed—the squash/onion combination is my new summer favorite. I consider it a blessing when I open my fridge and see leftovers. My neighbor, one of seven children , refuses to eat leftovers because he had too many as a child. I think that's sad.

Today my lunch was a sandwich with the salmon spread I made for last night’s party—it is the best stuff, surely one of my favorite recipes, equally good on crackers or in a sandwich. Tonight, while the family ate brats I had more salmon, this time with lemon and mayonnaise, and Jordan’s good blue cheese salad. I figure tomorrow I’ll have salmon for lunch and serve the spread at happy hour. And then the salmon will have seen its day. But Wednesday, when I’m home alone for supper, I’ll probably put some canned salmon with pasta for a one-dish meal. Thank goodness, it’s good for you.

Christian is a genius at saving orchids to rebloom, and this picture shows one once given to me. When it had seen its day, I turned it over to Christian. He recently sent it back to the cottage, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen one with so many full, large blooms that lasted so long. The dog in front is Shea, done by my pal Jean’s late husband, Jim Clark. It’s a treasure.

This promises to be an interesting week of news, what with the national furor over guns and the televised sessions of the House of Representatives Special Committee to investigate the January 6 insurrection. I am geared up to follow all of it. I have strong feelings, as you may have suspected, and I’ll probably rant in this space before the week is over.

Meantime, tonight I plan to go to bed early and wake in the morning full of energy and rarin’ to go. Maybe you should too.

The house birthday party

 

Lovely house party tonight with about forty guests. They fell into two basic categories—friends Jordan grew up with who have wholeheartedly made Christian part of their circle, and the old folks—my friends. The mingling was great, and as one guest said to me, “The energy of this group is really wonderful.” It was fun, for me, to visit with people I’ve know forty or fifty years—and one guy I probably hadn’t seen in twenty-five (a longtime friend brought him)—but also to visit with friends who’ve become part of my close circle in the last few years. And to watch the interaction of kids—okay, they’re not kids any more but that’s how I think of them, because most go back to their high school days. They may not want to think this, but they are now all middle-aged (shhh! Don’t tell Jordan). Several of them—including one of my sons, two sons-in-law, and the boy I always call my extra child—turn fifty this year. The one thing all those here tonight have in common is memories of good times at this house.

Jordan and Julia
accidentally wore the same dresses

Christian gave a lovely toast to the house, stressing how it had sheltered me in the main house and now in the cottage. He talked about how the cottage has sheltered others, including my sons, one of whom was here tonight, and a couple of newly divorced women—one of them was here too, in fact the one who gave my current home the name, “The Cottage.” Then he said he thought he came late to porch parties, but he was so glad he was part of them. Everyone raised a toast—a lovely moment.

One girl brought up the engagement party that Christian arranged when he proposed to Jordan—perhaps the porch party to outdo all others. He arranged for Jordan to be shopping in Dallas and spent the day cooking a huge pot of meatballs, writing notes so she had to go on a hunt, and finally enticing her out to the then-empty cottage. She crossed a path strewn with rose petals only to find him waiting in a tux. He got down on his knee and formally proposed. What neither of them knew was the Jordan’s siblings were hidden in the house—and bunches of her friends were at a house down the street, just waiting to come. We had sixty people—including a lot of kids—and we ended sitting on the lawn and singing old familiar songs. Yes, this house holds good memories.

I had two of my four tonight
Jordan and Jamie

I spent the evening on the patio, and at one point looked up to see Melanie, my Frisco daughter-in-law come out the door. Such great joy! She and Jamie are busy professionals, and I hadn’t dared hope they would come.

So tonight I am filled with gratitude for all the blessings of my life. One neighbor said I was “Queen Juju” holding court. It wasn’t like that, but I did stay on the patio and guests came to greet me—even mobility problems have their good sides. But to think that as I age, I am so surrounded by people that I love and who I love in return—such a blessing. I hope I can be worthy of all the attention I get.

All the credit for tonight's party goes to Jordan. People raved about how great the house looked, how wonderful the food. And it was all Jordan's planning and doing. I like to think she learned from her mother.

PS: Sophie had a grand time going from one to the other for love. Many of those here tonight were people she, like me, knows and adores. She is now tapped out in her favorite spot, tired but happy. I’ll follow her soon.

My house is having a birthday

My house was built in 1922, so this is its centennial year, and we really felt we should celebrate. I bought the house in 1992, partly because of its big, partly roofed porch.

Many years ago, when Jordan was living at home with me, we had porch parties. Big potluck affairs where fifteen or twenty of her friends would come, bring their own beverage, and a favorite dish—the menu, I remember, tended heavily toward Mexican. Many romances flourished on that porch—some lasted, some didn’t. Jordan and Christian had their second or third date on the porch, and one of her friends recently confided in me that she was a little uncertain when they boy she had just started dating brought her here. Now they’ve been married for who knows how many years! I was always part of the fun, and I loved those evenings. Those stories of romances that lasted are treasures.

Things are different now. We’ve remodeled the garage/guest house into a wonderful one-bedroom cottage for me, with a bathroom that’s bigger than my kitchen (something is out of whack with that!). It’s my cozy, comfortable spot, and I love it. My desk is by a window and French doors that are always open to the patio when the weather is fine. My entertaining has moved from porch to patio. Jordan and Christian and Jacob live in the main house and still use the porch, sometimes to grill and frequently to sit out with a late-night glass of wine. I do miss one aspect of the porch—talking to neighbors who walk by. But my patio is as welcoming as the front porch and sees almost as much traffic.

Tomorrow we’re having a house birthday party and inviting those porch-party people back, along with a few neighbors who’ve been frequent guests at the house. I’m hoping Christian will raise a toast at some appropriate moment. Jordan has been cleaning and planning—she’s a terrific organizer and could be an events coordinator if she weren’t a travel consultant. My contribution is to make dips and the like, some of the foods I used to serve at Tree Trimming parties.

That’s a whole ‘nother story. I used to give an annual Tree Trimming party where the price of admission was a Christmas tree ornament. Some sixty or more people would crowd the house, eat the food I’d been preparing for at least a month, and decorate the tree. Inevitably it was fully decorated by the end of the evening, though there was the notable evening it fell over—caught in time by a friend. Those glory days of entertaining at big parties are over, and I miss them. But, as with many other things, I tell myself I have the memories. Meantime, tomorrow, it will feel good to have a mini-version of my old, big parties.

It's a perfect time, too, for a patio party. Come spring, the front porch is Christian’s domain. He’s a pot gardener, and he fills the porch with wonderful flowering plants. It truly is a sight to behold. But Jordan and I are responsible for the back yard, and it is just now coming into its own. The pentas that line the deck are still small but have their first blooms the bougainvillea in a pot on the deck railing is finally putting out some blooms; the zoysia grass, always so slow I fear the worst, is filling in the empty spots; and the grape hyacinth on the fence has its first blooms. The oak leaf hydrangea that is in my direct line of vision from my desk has not yet offered blooms, but it is growing daily. It’s a wonderful time of year.

A lot of has happened in the thirty years since I bought this house. My children have married, my grands came along one by one, some quite close to one another, I’ve retired and built a whole new career writing both mysteries and the western stories that are dear to my heart. It’s been a good time, even if somehow age has crept up on me.

So here we are, celebrating a hundred years. And no, I haven’t lived in this house that long.

Frivolous Friday

 

Sometimes I keep track of random odd notes and things that catch my eye. So, today being a frivolous Friday, I thought I’d share some of these notes with you. Such as did you know there’s a hippopotamus crisis in Venezuela? I know, I hear you saying, “Wait a minute. Hippos live in Africa, not South America.” You’d be right—and wrong. In the eighties, a drug lord important four females and one male for his private zoo. As hippos will do, they mated and proliferated. Today the estimate is over a hundred of the beasts are roaming the countryside in a certain area, and they are a problem. There have been a few instances of them attacking humans, at least once doing serious damage. But beyond that, they ruin crops and their waste is polluting land and water.

Officials have tried sterilizing them—not an easy task—and there is talk of killing them. But here’s the funny part—locals have grown fond of the animals and a bit protective of them. They vociferously reject any eradication program. So I guess the hippos are happily wandering, extending their territory. And officials are wringing their hands in uncertainty. I think officials do that a lot.

Rye bread may seem like a petty thing to complain about, but I have a message for the Orowheat people: fix your seedless Jewish rye or else. I’m a big fan of not just any rye (though I like the deli rye at Carshon’s best of all) but from the grocery I want the Orowheat product. Only there’s been a flaw with the last several loaves—the top crust doesn’t stay attached to the whole slice, though it sometimes takes a bit of the upper slices of the bread with it. It’s as though there’s a faultline running through the loaf. Makes for a mess in the toaster and is impossible for a tuna salad sandwich.

Speaking of food, I saw a notice online recently for a class in writing the food memoir. Apparently that’s a hot new hybrid literary genre. Which means I was years ahead when I wrote Cooking My Way through Life with Kids and Books, almost fifteen years ago. The cover features Jacob in a toque and chef’s jacket that his pre-school put him in for pictures. You should have heard my other children howl. They photoshopped the cover in weird ways and bragged that their own children were just as cute. “They weren’t wearing toques,” was my response. The book was fun because each of the kids contributed. A standard line was, “Remember when you fixed ….green noodles, beef and bean, Doris casserole.” All their favorites.

Are you a Jessica Fletcher fan? Murder, She Wrote and Cabot Cove? You can now access a website called Exploring Jessica Fletcher’s Closet. It seems Jessica—or Angela Lansbury—was a pretty conservative dresser but with a fondness for scarves. You can also visit her house and, of course, the town of Cabot Cove. A writer/colleague of mine is the new co-author of that series, and I’m a bit jealous. I think that would be lots of fun to write. I bet she knows all those websites by heart.

Did you read about the Army that descended on the White House this week? That’s what the fans of BTS are called—Armies—and there are a lot of them, most teenage girls of color. I confess that I am so out of it I never heard of BTS, the boy septet from South Korea. Apparently they are a worldwide hit, have won awards, given endorsements, and are a strong influence for good causes. They were at the White House to talk to the president about preventing hate crimes that target Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders.

And speaking of President Biden, I watched his gun speech last night and was tremendously impressed with his sincerity, honesty, compassion. I wonder if others were. I know he does not have a strong reputation as a public speaker—between the gaffes and impulses he’s prone to and the stuttering problem he fights—but I think his aides are wrong to keep him from speaking to the country. Seems to me if we saw him like that more often, his ratings might go up—as he deserves. I’m thinking of FDR’s Fireside Chats and how influential they were. Hmmm, Biden even has the requisite dog. ….

 

 

 

 

The devil amongst us

 

Several years ago, I wrote a young-adult mystery set at Arlington Downs Rracetrack during the Depression. Callie Shaw, a young girl, disguised herself as a boy to get a job as a stableboy, but the aunt with whom she lived cautioned, “The devil will be amongst us if racing comes to North Texas.” I loved the history behind the story and thought the aunt’s words made a perfect title. The publisher balked at “devil” and the book was published as Callie Shaw, Stableboy. Unimaginative.

While I don’t believe in the devil, I have to say some kind of demon occasionally gets into Sophie. It happened this morning. Our routine is that she wakes me when starvation is about to overcome her. If it’s 5:30 I gently tell her to go back to bed; if it’s 6:30, I let her out, feed her, and go back to bed—I’ve got it down so I can do all that in six minutes. We both go to sleep.

This morning, she didn’t want to sleep. Once fed, she barked and danced to go outside. Thinking it was a bathroom emergency I let her out and watched a blue/black streak across the yard to the hidden area between our house and the neighbors. Sophie was in full squirrel-hunting frenzy, racing around the yard, barking frantically. Not wanting to leave her unsupervised, I busied myself with morning chores—putting away last night’s dishes, checking emails, and so on. I sat at my desk with a piece of cheese handy and an eye out for when she came close. It took half an hour, but I got her in. Went back to bed.

Sophie has this usually cute thing she does when her metal water bowl is empty. She knocks it off the shelf onto the floor, it clatters, and I know to refill. It wasn’t cute this morning—the bowl still had water in it. She created a small lake in my tiny kitchen and proceeded to walk in it, so that she made muddy footprints everywhere. I mopped it up with a towel, refilled the water, and went back to bed.

Sophie was not content. I could hear her wandering around the bedroom. Then she decided it was time to go out, and she pawed at the bed. When that didn’t work, she began to throw herself at the bed, barking wildly. This went on for slightly over ten minutes. I want to tell you it takes self-discipline—or a lack of brains—to lie still during all this. I finally sat up and, in my sternest low voice, explained to her that she was being very naughty. She knew exactly what was going on—looked away but stole a glance at me every once in a while, wagged her tail hopefully. I had to repeat the performance once, and then, blessedly, peace came to the cottage. By then, it really was time for me to get up. I kept her in for a long while to be sure the exorcism had worked.

I remind myself that I often say I could not live without a dog. And now, excuse me. I need a nap.

Calm Sophie

Some thoughts on cooking and writing

 

Cooking and writing take up much of my day, and I enjoy both, am grateful to be able to fill my days as I do. But lately I’ve thought of some similarities between the two. If you follow my food blog, “Gourmet on a Hot Plate,” you know that I’m an old-fashioned cook, what is sometimes called a “scratch cook.” I cook on a hot plate and with a toaster oven because zoning regulations and space limitations don’t permit me to have a stovetop or an oven. But beyond those, the only gadgets in my kitchen are an electric can opener, an electric teakettle, and an electric corkscrew—all three invaluable. I do not have an instant pot, an air fryer (actually my toaster oven does, but I don’t use it), even a crockpot.

My neighbor, Mary, likes to tell me she can fix chicken soup in her instant pot in an hour or less, and it tastes as though it’s simmered all day. My reply is that I am home all day and can let a pot of soup simmer while I enjoy the aroma. And the learning curve of an instant pot intimidates me. My cooking is just never in that much of a hurry. I’m not unbearably righteous about this—I bless the Campbell^® Company because their soups make delicious casseroles and, if I baked cakes, I’d probably use a mix (but I don’t bake). Basically, I cook like my mom taught me some seventy years ago.

It occurs to me that I’m an old-fashioned storyteller too. Recently in a discussion of plotting, I read of a theory that suggested you write the first act or part of the mystery and then the fourth or last. Years ago, a friend advised that if I wanted to write mystery, I should write the end first. Both appalled me. I’m a linear storyteller—I begin at the beginning and write until I come to the end. At least once, I got two-thirds through a novel and wasn’t sure who the bad guy was. How could I have written the end?

Most readers know about plotters and pantsers. Plotters make detailed outlines, some as long as twenty pages or more, and then when they write, they fill in the spaces. It’s like having a detailed and accurate road map. Pantsers, however, write by the seat of their pants. I’m a pantser. When I start a new project, I have some idea—and some rough notes—about where it’s going. But I know even those rough notes will change as I go along and my characters surprise me. There’s a lot of intuitive writing in being a pantser. American novelist E. L. Doctorow famously said, “Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights.”

Today, there are all kinds of computer programs to aid writers. One that many swear by is Scrivener which allows you to write scenes out of order and store them. If your imagination conjures up a great scene, you write it, store it, and figure out where it goes later. Or Grammarly which corrects and critiques your writing as you go. Or Plotter which helps you arrange scenes and plots and promises to get you to the end of your manuscript quickly—almost sounds as though you can let these programs write the book for you. And I guess that’s what makes me nervous about them. That, and, as with the instant pot, the intimidating learning curve.

The writer’s bookshelf is often full of how-to books that suggest best-seller status if you follow their theories. One I hear a lot about lately is Save the Cat Writes a Novel, which prescribes fifteen plot points needed in a mystery. Or you could read Jane Cleland’s Mastering Plot Twists, Plot Pefect by Paula Munier, Mastering Suspense, Structure, and Plot by Jane Cleland and Hallie Ephron. The list is endless, and there is no one perfect formula. Seems to me the new writer needs to learn the basics, but it’s too easy to get lost studying the genre and never get around to writing the book.

So, just for me, the old-fashioned way works. Best advice for writers: “Putt your butt in the chair and write.” I try to write a thousand words at a time and, ideally, do that every day. Some days it works, some days it doesn’t.

Cooking and writing, both difficult arts to master, and I don’t put myself forward as having mastered either one. But I bumble along in my old-fashioned, simplistic way, seeing only what the headlights show me. It’s a nice way to spend the day. And now? I need to look at some recipes!

Golf, A moving moment, a buffet, and a sort of lazy Sunday

 

Jordan and Jacob at the golf tournament

This weekend has been the Charles Schwab International PGA Golf Tournament at Colonial Country Club, as I mentioned before, and my family have been missing in action all weekend. Tonight, it’s over, the winner declared—a name I’ve never heard, but hey! I’m not much of a golf fan except to cheer for my Jacob. So congratulations to Sam Burns, whoever he may be. Good job well done.

One of Jordan's crazy angled
pictures at the 
tournament

I meantime stayed home, went to church remotely, and entertained friends for supper. I doubt many in the audience were moved to tears at the NRA convention when trump read off the names of the victims of the Uvalde shooting—and then ended his talk with a totally inappropriate dance. But I was teary this morning when one of the ministers at my church read the names of those children just before the ministerial prayer. Made me think that context matters a whole lot. Senior minister Russ Peterman has been preaching on women of the Bible, and today his text was the story of the Canaanite woman who begged Jesus to heal her daughter who was possessed by a demon. It was a good segue into the events of the past week and the mothers who stood outside Robb Elementary begging law enforcement to go in and save their children. The law enforcement mistakes made that day are appalling and heart-wrenching. Russ ended the sermon with a plea that no mother ever again has to beg for her child’s life.

There was a thread on Facebook this week about a topic that comes up every so often: if churches get into politics, they should be taxed. I have long said it would be hard to draw the line between political churches and those that are apolitic. This week I went beyond that to suggest that some topics are too easily labeled political when, in truth, they are moral issues. And gun control, to me, is a moral issue. I sense that Russ will take a hard line on moral issues in the Sundays to come, and I am grateful.

Switching gears: for years, Betty Boles and I went to dinner every Wednesday night. In recent years, we included Jean Walbridge. But the custom had begun to fall apart when pandemic delivered the coup de gras. Jean and I were virtually quarantined in our own homes, but we felt safe because we had little exposure; she was one of the few people I saw during the height of pandemic. Betty and her husband, on the other hand, continued to go to the restaurant they owned—where none of the staff were vaccinated or wore masks. Since the threat has eased, I’ve seen Betty a few times, but our lives have changed, and it’s not always easy to pick up an old relationship.

Tonight I cooked supper for Betty and Jean, a sort of tribute to old times. Remembering that Betty liked smoked salmon, I fixed Jamie Oliver’s smoked salmon and potato salad—a showy dish if I do say so. I served it with salt and vinegar cucumbers—an experiment I undertook because I like to keep marinated cucumbers in the fridge in summer. And a tossed green salad and baguette slices. Served buffet style. It made a lovely display, and thanks to Jean for a good photo. We had a good time playing catch-up, but as soon as she finished her supper, Betty was up and on her way home to check on her husband.

My  buffet tonight

Other than that, it was a nice lazy day—reading a book for an online discussion that begins tomorrow, a few household chores (I don’t do many of those these days), a nice nap. Last night my neighbor Greg talked about how good it is not to have any obligations. He said we’re not rich, but we’re not poor, we can pay our bills and live comfortably—how lucky are we! And it’s true. I feel truly blessed, but as some have said this week, I also feel some survivor’s guilt.  Thoughts and prayers are not enough—that’s become almost a hackneyed joke—but I work daily to think what I can do besides donating when and where I can and voicing my opinions on social media. As Oprah said in a recent essay, “Doing nothing is not an option.”

So this week, try to think of one thing you can do to save our democracy from religious zealots who have transformed the Christian message into something sinister, one thing beyond thoughts and prayers and donations. There’s a challenge for you. Have a great week.

A strange weekend

A spatch-cocked chicken with vegetables
The vegetables cook in chicken grease and are delectable

North Texas was at its absolute best tonight. A lovely evening, with just enough breeze to keep the mosquitoes away and make you forget the temperature was in the high ‘80s. The breeze ruffled the trees, the garden is beginning to grow, the pentas are showing first blooms. Neighbors Greg and Jaimie Smith came for happy hour, and we all forgot about itme—spent two hours having such a good visit.

Greg once was my lawn and garden guru, and he gave me hints tonight—like deadhead the coleus and mow those ornamental grasses that aren’t at all ornamental. We talked of kids and grandkids and college and fear, of schoolrooms (Jaimie is a retired teacher and was consulting in a small-town district this week—a hard week, she said). We talked of aging, though they are almost a generation younger than me, and we talked of dogs and cats because we are all animal lovers. I relish evenings like this. I gave them crab canapes from the freezer.

Usually I cook a lot on weekends, but this has been a strange weekend. The Charles Schwab Invitational PGA tournament is in town at Colonial Country Club—our end of town. Jordan and Christian and Jacob have been there all day for three or four days, so I filled my social calendar with others. Jordan was home Thursday, and on Friday Jean came to eat chicken salad and fresh green beans with me.

I had cooked a terrific sheet pan chicken for the family Thursday night. I am in love with this recipe. I thought I had written about it on my Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog, but tonight I couldn’t find it, so it will be up online Thursday this coming week. But let me just say that I am a huge fan of sweet onion sauteed—in butter, in chicken drippings, in whatever. I’d probably love them cooked in water. Watch for that recipe because it’s too good to miss.

Last night I made chicken salad out of what was left of the spatch-cocked chicken. It was traditional, simple chicken salad—chicken, green onions, celery, salt and pepper, lemon juice, and mayonnaise. Jean enjoyed it, and I have to say it was delicious. I am not a fan of grapes and nuts in chicken salad. And there’s just enough left for me to have some tonight.

I am trying hard to blog about something other than the Uvalde massacre—and that last word fits what it is. That tragedy has occupied my thoughts this past week, and it’s hard for me to think beyond all the things I want to say. I am both grieved and furious, but I figure I can’t wear readers out with that. I know my own anger—at the needless loss of life, the law enforcement failure, the doublespeak of Governor Abbott will not go away soon, nor do I want it to. I want to keep my anger up—and yours—and that of all reasonable people of voting age, because I desperately want the Democratic Party to score a lot of victories in the mid-terms. Conventional wisdom is that Republicans will triumph—in light of the abortion wars and the Uvalde school shooting, it’s time to throw conventional wisdom to the winds.

Meantime, here are a couple of literary diversions. I guess this is still political, but it’s such a delicious story. In a collaboration between author Margaret Atwood and Penguin Randon House publishers, there is now a flameproof copy of The Handmaid’s Tale. A wonderful picture shows Atwood aiming a flame thrower at the book which remains untouched. So much for the rabid book banners and book burners who infest our culture. The Handmaid’s Tale is set in a dystopian future where the seventeenth-century Puritanical restrictions on society pale in comparison. It is where we are headed with abortion bans, likely to be followed by bans on contraception, interracial marriage, trans marriage, etc. All those personal freedoms, gone.

On a somewhat lighter note, although murder is never a lighthearted subject: a romance novelist has been convicted of murdering her husband. The kicker? She wrote a column several years ago on “How to Murder Your Husband.” It’s a case of fiction becoming reality, but in her case, the dry run didn’t work out. Will the wacky world never cease to provide us with bizarre humor?

Peace to all. This is a difficult time, but I am still sure we will get through it, and democracy will triumph.