Lazy Saturday and another cooking experiment

 

My slightly burned tuna puff

Today was just what Saturdays should be—lazy. Sophie and I slept late, had a good afternoon nap, although I dreamt so heavily that something in my dream scared me, and I woke myself up shouting, which alarmed Sophie. She barked and barked, and I had to sit on the bed petting her and telling her it was all right for a long time. Then I turned over and slept for another hour! Sophie’s night hours sometimes leave me really exhausted.

I told myself I should compile the recipe section for Irene Deep in Texas Trouble, but I didn’t do that. I read emails, read the news, and spent a long time reading the novel I’d barely started. I told myself I either had to pay attention to that novel—a romance/mystery so far—or give it up. And of course when I spent some concentrated time reading, I was hooked.

I was also hooked on news about the Chinese surveillance balloon. I had read someone’s prediction that we would be at war with China within a few years, and I fervently hope this didn’t accelerate that. But I am appalled at people like MTG who encouraged ordinary Joe to go out with his rifle and shoot it down. At eleven miles away when the farthest shot on record, by a trained distance shooter, is 4.4 miles—and that’s pretty remarkable. Besides what a lot of these gun-happy folks don’t think about as they shoot into the air, what goes up must come down. So all those bullets that couldn’t possibly hit the balloon would come back to earth and quite possibly kill someone.

MTG wasn’t the only one calling for stupid action. Trump Jr. blasted Biden for not bringing it down. Apparently he didn’t think far enough to think about three busloads of debris landing on communities in America. I truly shudder to think if these people ever again get power to dictate policy. And that goes for Kevin what’s-his-name.

But news and books aside, Saturday was as usual a day to experiment in the kitchen—only I didn’t mean to experiment. I have a recipe for tuna pasties that I’ve liked a lot. It calls for refrigerator biscuits, but sometimes the dough overwhelms the tuna, and I got the bright idea that puff pastry would be better. So I put puff pastry sheets on the grocery list—and didn’t realize until tonight that I had puff pastry shells, not sheets.

Dilemma: the shells are meant to be cooked and then filled. If I had sheets, the filling would bake (and the cheese melt) while the pastry cooked. I sort of fudged—cooked the shells part way, took them out and stuffed them, lowered the oven temperature a lot, and baked them a bit more. Actually I thought they were quite good. My oven runs hot, and even though I never heated it to the 475 recommended on the pastry package, they were a bit too brown, shading over to burnt. I think if I fiddled more with baking temperatures, I may have invented something. I’ll call them tuna puffs.

Meantime I have a whole lot of the tuna filling left!

All’s right with the world—or is it?

 

Oh glorious day!
Six years ago, finally getting read to leave rehab and go home.

Jordan’s home from Hawaii, the sun was shining all day and the ice melting, and Sophie got a good doctor’s report. All’s right with my world.

But we all know all’s not right with the world in general. My usual habit is to start the morning with the news and emails before I get to my own work. And today I barely got to my own work, mostly because so much is out of kilter in the world. I think I am fixated on being aware of what’s going on, particularly with our government in my state, Texas, and in Washing, D.C., because I came late to political awareness. And it was even later that I realized my voice might accomplish something, even that I had not just a wish to speak out but an obligation because I felt so strongly about some things.

I don’t know if the way I speak out—this blog and Facebook and occasionally Twitter—is effective or not. I’ve read statistics that claim you’re not going to change anyone’s mind on social media, and some days I’m really afraid that’s true. On Facebook, I stumble across people whose minds are held captive by conspiracy theories. They truly believe that Biden is out to destroy the country, and it does no good to ask them why he would want to do that. Here's a man who has devoted a lifetime to American politics, who has risen above personal tragedy to put the good of the country first, who generally by those who know him is considered a genuinely good man. Remember what Lindsay Graham said (before he was held in thrall to trump): “God never created a better man than Joe Biden.” And now, Biden has saved us from the brink of recession, created programs to bolster not just the infrastructure and the economy but the lives of ordinary Americans—and created new job numbers that are so good they confound the experts. But yeah, he’s out to destroy the country.

Today as in many days I was captivated, not happily, by the antics of House Republicans: Jim Jordan claiming that Biden is intentionally flooding the country with dangerous immigrants; MTG defining CRT as a theory that teaches grade school kids that their white skin is not as good as another kid’s black skin; Texas representative Chip Roy announcing that the armed forces should be out with lethality killing people and blowing things up (yeah, that’s for sure what I want our country known for). Don’t even ask about the debt ceiling which they are deliberately conflating with the budget. I wish more Americans would educate themselves about the way our government works.

Mondays and Fridays are also busy days on two writing listservs I follow—on Mondays in one group, we commit to our work plans for the week and on Fridays, in both, we brag about our accomplishments and praise others on what they’ve done. If you read everybody’s posts, as I feel I should, it takes a lot of time. But if I want people to comment on what I post, I must return the courtesy.

As you can see, it was a busy day, and I barely got to Irene and her Texas adventure. But yesterday I sent the manuscript off to the mystery editor I use and to the man who has been my mentor (he hates the term) for fifty years. I am still left with putting together front matter, a recipe section, and a blurb. Didn’t get to it today, because in addition to keeping up with our out-of-kilter world, I cooked a big dinner to welcome Jordan home—an herb-stuffed sheet pan chicken on a bed of onion, potato and carrot, with a lettuce wedge dressed in a blue cheese sauce.

And that brings me to recipes, which also take up a bunch of my time. I subscribe to the New York Times cooking column and America’s Test Kitchen and perhaps my favorite, the online “Kitchn.” Sometimes I find recipes that really speak to me; other days, not so much. Today what I found included a recipe for creamed kale pizza—uh, no thank you. And in the Times, a recipe for white soondubu jjigae, which is described as a tofu stew.

I’m out of here on that note. Need chocolate and wine.

 

Snowbound mentality

 

Another photo from Hawaii,
just to reassure us that there is sunshine and warmth somewhere.

There’s a definite psychology to being snowbound. The first day it’s kind of fun. You are home all day and can do whatever—all those little chores you’ve neglected, read a book and nap, cook something wonderful. Christian spent yesterday teaching himself how to make sushi. Jacob spent the day in a poker game with friends (with, I was glad to learn, fake money).

But ah, that second day. The snow isn’t quite as bright a white, and the luster of a day at home is dimming. People post on Facebook about boredom and cabin fever. In a new twist I only learned about today, they start looking for Uber drivers with four-wheel vehicles. With that trick, Christian has gone to the rodeo tonight. It is realtors' night, and though the formal event was cancelled, he knows there will be a lot of realtors there.

Me? I’m just as glad to stay home and inside. Spending the first twenty years of my life in Chicago gave me as much snow and cold as I wanted. When the wind came off Lake Michigan, it was bone chilling. I remember cold mornings when my dad would get up early to go to the basement and stoke the coal furnace so that the house would be warmer (never really warm) when the rest of us got up. And I remember leggings—no, not the fashionable, tight-legged leggings of today but heavy wool pants, often lined—we wore them under our skirts to school. I remember shoveling sidewalks, and snow piled in the street almost high as my head.

At twenty, I moved to northeastern Missouri, sometimes called the “icebox” of Missouri. I remember thinking if I could just wake up one morning and not look out on dirty snow, I would be happy. A lot of people in the small town where I first went to graduate school still heated with coal, and the snow got dirty quickly. And the roads solidified into icy ruts—I drove a VW Bug which didn’t fit the ruts at all, so I bounced all over the place. Nope, I’ve had all the winter I want. I sympathize with the neighbor who posted on the neighborhood listserv that she was grateful garbage collection for tomorrow is cancelled, because she really dreaded taking the carts down an icy driveway.

Jacob came out to the cottage for supper, and we ate poor boy sandwiches together. He was elated that there will be another snow day tomorrow—that makes three this year, and as he pointed out, three years in a row where snow has cancelled school. My comment that it was a bad sign, a result of climate change, fell on deaf ears. When you are sixteen, you often don’t think beyond the moment. Climate change doesn’t really mean much. But I am grateful that he’s home tonight—I know he’s safe. It made me nervous that he rode with friends, even if they had four-wheel drive, but he assured me they drive carefully. I asked if he would tell me if they didn’t—he thought about it and said, “Probably not. But they really do.” I am also grateful that he’s home if that foolish Sophie stays out too long. I can call and ask him to go get her—she’s out as I write, long than it takes her to pee.

Tomorrow is iffy—some reports say we’ll get ice tonight, which is a bit worrisome because it could load the power lines down and cause power failures. Jacob said tonight though that it is to snow all night. So far, at nine o’clock, no sign of anything. And the high tomorrow will be anywhere from low thirties to forty, depending on who you listen to. There it is again, that uncertainty that winter storms bring. We just never know who or what to believe.

Jordan flies home on a redeye tomorrow night. I asked Christian earlier tonight if he though her flight would be delayed, and he said not. But there again, I worry. I like to have all my chicks safe at home in weather like this. My Austin family is, I hope, staying home because their weather is as bad as ours. And I heard from the Frisco contingent that their drive is sheer ice—it’s such a steep long driveway that to me it’s perilous in July, let alone in an ice storm. The Tomball folk must be okay, because I saw that Colin was in Houston again today for work. Of course, last week, a tornado hit square on his office building in Deer Park—and he forgot to tell me. Thankfully, the building held, though those nearby sustained damage, and he said driving away from there was chaotic. I once dated a man who said to me, “Once a mother, always a mother” and I find it’s sure true in iffy weather.

Wherever you are, stay warm and safe. This too shall pass, and spring will come again.

Ah, to be in Hawaii

 

Jordan on the ferry from Maui to Lanai

Ah, to be in Hawaii

Not much to blog about tonight. All day in the cottage alone—even Sophie deserted me and spient most of the day in the main house with Christian.  She’s a fickle beast. I worked, not much to report there, and I read about what’s going on in our country. From MTG to the Supreme Court and its corruption to Speaker Kevin McCarthy and his fatuous self-satisfaction, my indignation is high. But I’ll spare you the diatribe.

The trouble with ice and snow warnings in Texas is that they so often vanish into nothing that we have gotten complacent, sure that the storm will pass us by, die out, amount to nothing. So we're unprepared and surprised when a forecast turns real. Christian said tonight if he'd know how bad it was going to be, he'd have gone out and gotten dog food. Hindsight.

Tonight I fixed a queso chicken casserole—fudged with the recipe a bit, but it was still awfully good. Lots of leftovers for the rest of the week. Sometimes I’m wonder if I’m losing it—at least the cooking part of “it,” whatever that is. I try to plan so carefully so that I have all the ingredients needed for whatever I’m making, but tonight I realized I had no Velveeta, not something I keep on hand but needed for the recipe. I substituted leftover cheese from our recent dinner at Joe T’s and some of our good Tillamook sharp cheddar. Taste was still good, but the consistency was different.

The only thing I really want to share is some pictures from Hawaii where Jordan is enjoying sunshine and ferry rides and great good times while we struggle through ice and cold. She didn’t exactly pick the date—it’s a work-related trip—but it turned out to be so timely. We have sent her pictures of the snow and ice, just to keep her grounded.

View from Jordan's room at the
Four Seasons, Maui

Stock Show weather

 

It’s a given in For Worth that when the annual Southwestern Exposition and Livestock Show hits town, late January to early February, we have “stock show weather.” A few years lately, with the weather so crazy, we have missed it, but today it rolled in, with one more week to go of the show. It may be a livestock show, crucial to ranchers, FFA kids who show their livestock in hopes of winning lucrative prizes and scholarships, and a lot of others from all over the Southwest, but to Fort Worth residents, the show means “Rodeo!” Two performances a day, and some of the best rodeo you’ll ever see.

But stock show weather brings the city to a halt, including audiences at the rodeo. And the weather hit today, though as usual we are in suspense as to what directions it will take. So far it’s been really cold for us—27 all day—and we’ve had spitting sleet and freezing rain, just enough to have fender bender accidents all over the Metroplex. In Fort Worth, I have heard of two cars that ended upside down. Schools in a wide area will be closed tomorrow as everyone buckles down.

But the news reports I heard tonight said it won’t get much colder, and we will have only occasional precip during the night. But what will it do tomorrow? A dense band of moisture is supposed to come through, but it’s one of those situations—will it or won’t it? Christian and Jacob both have rodeo plans tomorrow, and I had cancelled any plans to cook for them. Now Christian says he thinks (notice that qualifier) that he will be home but suspects Jacob will move hell and high water to get to the rodeo.

Today I was grateful to stay inside all day, but I was definitely aware that the cottage has hot spots and cold spots—and my desk is in a cold spot, probably because of the big window next to it and the French doors just two or three feet away. You think? I have kicked those heaters in the living area and bedroom (are they perhaps called mini-splits?) up to farther than I should and have also increased the fan speed. Plus put an extra insulating blanket on my bed—I had a really cozy nap today, until Sophie barked at me.

Soph doesn’t seem to mind the cold. She has been in and out all day (as Jacob would say, “So annoying!”). That would be okay but if she comes in by herself, she bangs the door open and does not, unsurprisingly, know enough to close it. If I have to go open the door, she often stands and looks at me, as if to say, “You want me to come in? I’ll take it under consideration.” Meantime, I’m freezing, so I break down and say, “Treat.” She comes right in. But then the rest of the family accuses me of spoiling her.

A couple of things stop me from enjoying this enforced stay-at-home period, not that I go out that much anyway, but with the weather like this, I am always a bit cold. And I worry about friends and family on the roads, even the back streets. This is Jacob’s first year with a driver’s license, and his car is an SUV, top heavy and no four-wheel drive. A perfect candidate for skidding, sliding, even flipping, and I don’t think he’s experienced enough to handle that. Are Texas kids taught what to do when the car starts to fishtail? I fear not. (Oh, how he would hate to hear me say these things!)

Mondays are always tough. Why is there so much news? Why do so many people send emails on Mondays? I spent most of the day catching up and only proofed two chapter of my novel. Got to do better tomorrow, and that makes me grateful for an enforced day at home.

So stay warm and safe at home, if you possibly can, and thank the gods for a roof over your head, a warm bed, food in your pantry. If you know of someone who doesn’t have those things, please reach out. And pray the damn grid holds!

My “Megan weekend”

 

I

Me, having just unwrapped the painting of my children.

I have long maintained that when you have four children, having them all together is pure bliss, but also when you have time with one of them alone, it’s very special. I had that with Megan this weekend and enjoyed it thoroughly. When she visits, she’s always alert to taking care of me—probably more than I need, but it’s a nice, safe feeling. She’s cheerful, great company, and willing to indulge in odd requests.

After a semi-family dinner at Joe T. Garcia’s Friday night, Megan slept in at the hotel in the Stockyards where she and a friend stayed. And I spent Saturday morning working, which was fine, even good. But about noon, Megan moved here for Saturday night. She brought my belated Christmas present—a painting made from a photo of my four children. The artist is a friend of Megan and Brandon. I have met her several times and seen her work more often, including a Christmas card she did of Megan’s family. I had asked Megan to inquire about commissioning a painting of my four, but she never said much, and I sort of put it aside. So the gift was a wonderful surprise. It now hangs in my combination living area/office for everybody who comes to the cottage to see. I am beyond delighted with it and catch myself frequently turning to look at it.

Megan and me at Central Market
Thanks to a kind passerby
for taking the picture.

I got an early nap and then we went to Central Market for my weekly shopping. That’s a real treat for me, because my shopping is usually curbside pickup—Jordan doesn’t have time for my lingering shopping, and she hates the parking at either Central Market or Trader Joe’s. Megan had no deadline, so we shopped and browsed and took pictures and laughed a lot.

Jordan had left for a work trip to Hawaii (poor dear!) but we had happy hour with Christian and then had dinner at Don Artemio’s. We’d been there before and really toyed with the idea of one of the other interesting restaurants where we’ve not been, but we decided to go back to Don Artemio’s. Dinner was terrific—tongue tacos for me and tuna tartare for Meg, preceded by the guacamole with bits of roast beef. The staff was courteous and kind about my transport chair and our waiter friendly, chatting about wine. He introduced me to a wine from the oldest winery in North America—from Mexico, of course. A bit too acidic for me, so I settled for a chenin blanc/chardonnay blend. Back home, a late-night visit with Christian, and we all stayed up too late.

This morning, I’m ashamed to say, it came down to biscuits and gravy or church. Megan and I went to Hot Box Biscuits to pick up and came back to the cottage to attend church online. She had been pleased when our minister, Dr Russ Peterman, gave the invocation at the rodeo Friday afternoon and wanted to hear more. As for the biscuits, it was fun to drive downtown with Megan, because it’s almost like she never lived here—she is totally lost and has no sense of direction. So we drove down South Main so she could see the development, the restaurants and other small businesses. She said she really needs to come home and drive around the city, and I told her I’d love to do that. I am so settled in my cottage, that when I get out it’s sometimes a foreign world—when did they build that? And who tore down the house that was there?

Finished sandwich

Building a sandwich

Tonight I cooked for Christian and Jacob—Dagwood sandwiches. Who remembers Dagwood
and his famous sandwiches? He was a character in the long-running comic strip, “Blondie,” and he was noted for his multi-layered sandwiches with a variety of meats and condiments Tonight mine had turkey, ham, bacon, provolone, cheddar, onion, pickle, mayo, honey mustard dressing, and horseradish sauce. Delicious, and fun to build. If it looks a little lopsided in the picture, that’s because my cottage slants ever so slightly to the north, and the sandwich shifted in the oven as the cheeses melted. Tasted great nonetheless, rich, but great.

I’m pleased to report Sophie is back in almost full steam—we decided the proof came when she stole a biscuit and gravy off Megan’s plate on the coffee table this morning! But there are other signs—she’s very demanding about what she wants, and she’s been barking at squirrels. She is ravenous all the time, and we can tell she’s gained weight. Her personality has returned, and although she can be a pain, we are all delighted. She’s our favorite pain!

All is well in the cottage tonight, and I will have sweet dreams, putting aside for the time all the troubles that beset our world. My current peeve is that I am weary of people who say things will never change—guns everywhere, police brutality, etc. It will change if we make it—and we must.

I hope you have sweet dreams too.

Quintessential Fort Worth

 

Today was rodeo day for my daughters. Megan came in from Austin and brought a friend with her. They are staying tonight at the new Drover Hotel on Mule Alley in the Stockyards, and this afternoon Jordan and neighbor Amy Russell met them for the matinee performance at the rodeo. Then Christian, Jacob, and I joined them for supper at Joe T. Garcia’s.

We ate outdoors by the swimming pool, kept comfortable for the most part by giant heaters closely spaced on the patio. It really wasn’t that cool—probably sixty when we got there—but there was a breeze, and the heaters were welcome. Later the wind picked up, and I was glad I had followed Jordan’s rather unusual advice to bring a blanket. I took a thermal blanket that stuffs easily into a small casing—Megan gave it to me during pandemic when all my entertaining was on the patio, sometimes in quite chilly evenings. Tonight that blanket proved its worth.

With seven of us at the table, we had all the usual Joe T.’s things—fajitas, “the dinner” with enchiladas, tacos, beans, rice and guacamole. I had the small dinner, which meant I dug into everyone else’s guacamole—one of the things, along with beans, that I think they do a really good job of. And of course, we came home laden with containers of leftovers and chips and who knows what? Christian and Jacob will eat them, and I won’t miss them.

Because it’s rodeo time in Fort Worth or better, Fort Worth Exposition and Livestock Show (shhh—don’t you dare use the old name of Fat Stock Show)—you see more “western” dress than usual at Joe T.’s. I watched parades of men and women in cowboy hats and fur vests (both my daughters) and western wear. Many came to eat early so as to make the eight o’clock rodeo show.

But as I sat there in that garden setting, slightly cool but mostly warmed but heaters so oversized that they were almost outrageous, and as I watched that parade of western wear and ate Tex-Mex food, it dawned on me that this Chicago girl was having the ultimate Fort Worth experience. A smooth blend of cultures and styles that resulted in something you don’t find even anywhere else in Texas. It’s uniquely Fort Worth. Cowtown earns its name.

My reaction may have been sparked by Megan’s description of the Drover Hotel, which she said was thoroughly Fort Worth—cowboy culture, but well done.  Barn doors in the lobby, massive stonework, leather furniture, wood everywhere. And, of course, plenty of people in cowboy hats, jeans and boots. But also, impeccable service, courtesy at every turn, and good food.

Somehow all this mixed in my mind. When I was a kid in Chicago, Texas and cowboys were the farthest things from my mind. Once when my parents traveled to Texas to visit my brother, who was stationed with the Navy at Corpus Christi, I thought they might as well have visited a foreign country, and I was amazed at their report of palm trees and balmy weather. Then my ex traveled to the Panhandle and reported on a barren, born land. What kind of place was this, I wondered, with palm trees and barren land.

Now, all these years later, I have a literary career built around Texas, it’s myths and legends and its reality. I still have to pinch myself sometimes to understand my transition from northerner to Texan. I don’t wear a cowboy hat, I don’t wear boots, and I don’t ride horses, but I am thoroughly a Texan, consumed with the state’s history and mystique (not so much for its present political stance). I can talk much more intelligently about the past than the present, and as I sat there in that garden tonight, eating refried beans (what Chicago girl ever ate such a thing?) it seemed to me that past and present, for me, came together. It was a sweet, nostalgic moment.

 

Living in a fictional world

 

The Old Neighborhood Grill
a very real place in Kelly O'Connell's 
fictional world

“Life is real, life is earnest/Dust thou art, to dust returnest.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow sometimes had a dour outlook on life, but his words too often ring true. Real life is sometimes earnest and complicated and difficult—and you want to find an escape a place to hide. Readers and authors have such a place—the alternate worlds created in fiction.

On the listserv of Guppies, (stands for Going to be Published, the international electronic chapter of Sisters in Crime), a well-published author recently lamented that she was writing the last book in a series, and it made her sad because she hated to leave the people and the world she had created. Others chimed in, some saying they worried about the future of characters they’d come to love. Someone else assured that it's okay if you leave the characters in a good place with positive outcomes ahead for their lives. Even if you have to write it only for yourself, you may want to have those characters find the job they have yearned for, marry, have children, take a cruise. Whatever would make their lives happy.

I can testify to that. In my Kelly O’Connell Mysteries (my very first mystery and first series), I created a world built around the neighborhoods I know—Berkeley and Fairmount in Fort Worth—with landmarks such as Lily B. Clayton Elementary, The Old Neighborhood Grill, Lili’s Bistro, and lots of the Craftsman houses that dot Fairmount. And I peopled it with characters I could like—Kelly, whose a single mom (one of my daughters said it was a  highly autobiographical novel), Mike Shandy, her policeman love interest, Keisha, her girl Friday who has the sixth sense and is irrepressible.

Perhaps the greatest compliment I ever had as a writer is that those people were someone you would meet in your local grocery store. And one reader wrote that she thought she saw Kelly going into the Old Neighborhood Grill. Those comments meant, to me, that I had succeeded in creating a believable world.

The Kelly O’Connell series ended a few years ago. I had felt it winding down, partly because I let Kelly’s daughters, who were essential to many of the stories, age out. But still today, sometimes my mind wanders back to Kelly and I think of a plot hook that might work. The woman who “saw” Kelly going into the local restaurant still occasionally posts, “I miss Kelly.”

I’ve moved on to other series, other characters, and perhaps that part of the writing life—learning to let go when it’s time. Somehow, there are lessons there for us in daily life, though I’m not sure how to put them together—but having fictional worlds, if only in your daydreams, is not a bad thing. But there’s also a point at which you have to let them go and face reality. Maybe all of that is where the label “escape reading” came from. I admit tht a lot of time I think my mysteries are escape reading.

One of the things I keep reading about is what kind of footprint we each want to leave on the earth—not just our environmental footprint, but for what do we want to be known? I’ve long felt it important to contribute to the world in some way, but I am not a firefighter rushing into burning buildings (guess what’s on the TV in the background as I write) or a physician, saving lives, or even a teacher, helping to spread knowledge. I write for people’s amusement.

I have a friend, a much better and more popular novelist than I am, who tells me to banish such thoughts. By providing escape and entertainment and maybe a bit of enlightenment, I am improving the quality of some lives. I hope it’s true. I hope the fictional worlds of Kelly O’Connell or Kate Chamber in the Blue Plate Murders series or even wacky Irene in my current series carry readers away from the earnestness of their daily lives into a fictional world where, for some time, however short, they are free and happy and safe.

Speaking of making a contribution to the world—and of neighborhood institutions, I can’t help loudly cheering for the surgical team at Fort Worth’s Cook Children’s Hospital who today, in a first for the hospital, successfully separated cojoined twins. The baby girls are only a few months old and are tonight doing well. What a wonderful milestone. I’m in awe, but I also couldn’t help wondering if this provided a moral dilemma for the pro-lifers. If every life is God’s creation and sacrosanct, then perhaps God meant those babies to be forever joined, and surgeons were going against God’s will by separating them. I don’t for a moment believe any of that, but I can’t help wondering what the extremists among us think.[

Meantime, blessings on those babies and their parents who tonight must be enormously relieved. And thanks be to God for skilled surgeons—and fictional worlds.

Living with fear

 

Growing up in Chicago’s Hyde Park/Kenwood neighborhood, I lived in what was euphemistically called a “changing neighborhood (it has since changed for the better).” That meant there was a lot of crime close to us and it infiltrated into our bastion of safety. I was not allowed outside alone after dark, even to go to the neighbors house. Our neighbor was mugged in front of her house—we laughed, but nervously, that the attacker got her Bible and not her purse. I went to a high school with about 5,000 other students, and fights were common. One of the first cautions I heard was never to stop to watch  fight between two black girls because they would turn on a white girl. But there were no guns in those fights—occasionally a knife, but to my knowledge, no one died. I was close to twenty before I stayed home alone at night.

For years, Texas has been a relief. My safe place. I have always locked my doors when leaving the house untended or at night. But recently, after Jordan expressed worry about our “night walkers,” I started setting the alarm system. And more recently, I started locking the doors when I nap. (This has resulted in occasionally locking Jordan out, much to her frustration!) I am a little bit edgy all the time.

A fatal shooting near the local high school, witnessed by a friend and almost by my grandson, brings crime home to my neighborhood and larger community. While I am deeply saddened by the death of the young man—he sounds like a good kid from reports I’ve read—I am appalled by what the tragedy has revealed about gun culture in teens. And I know the local school is not an exception. (I am also upset about what it has revealed about teen pregnancy, but that’s another story.) When I said we’d be amazed to know the number of backpacks at Paschal that hid guns every day, my grandson just said, “Yeah.”

Take it beyond our local community. When I read the daily news briefs that our local paper chooses for my information, there are always two or three shootings, many domestic. And then there are mass shooting--in the twenty-four days of 2023, there have been thirty-nine mass shootings, many more than one a day and three in one recent day. We are killing our children, our families, our neighbors. And too many of us seem unable to transfer the horrifying statistics into compassion for the victims and their families, whose lives are forever disrupted.

Why and how this situation developed has been studied and studied. Seems to me there are two factors behind it: misinterpretation of the second amendment which pairs with that illogical, defensive flap about our “Freehdoms” that conservatives (read “the base”) like to rave about. The second root cause is greed—on the part of weapons manufacturers, the NRA, and federal and state legislators who take “campaign contributions.” Have you ever checked how much your senator or representative accepted from the NRA? But identifying causes is not going to fix the problem. What to do?

I doubt giving grammar lessons to most gun owners is going to be effective, no matter that a grammatically correct (and logical) reading of the second amendment as written clearly does not authorize personal possession of firearms. Yes, education helps—about proper use and storage of guns, but effective gun control has to come from our government—federal and state. Strict law that are strictly enforced—it’s a big challenge, but it could be done. Look at gun death statistics in the US and compare to those in other “civilized” countries. We need to stop throwing up our hands in despair, saying, “It will never work in the United States,” and sending our kids off to school where they might well be slaughtered. We can make it happen, but each of us must press our representatives on the state and national level.

To start with, instead of banning books and robbing women of control over their own bodies, at risk to their health and very lives, Greg Abbott might well address the problem of gun violence in his state. He seems to ignore it’s a problem, even after Uvalde. We, his constituents, know better. It comes home to our communities.

Gun control doesn't mean taking everyone's guns away. Sport hunters can relax. But it means getting guns out of the wrong hands--and there are many of those, from teens with uncontrollable tempers to the mentally disturbed who kill for who knows why? It’s simplistic, but as a friend of mine said, “If you don’t have a gun, you find another way to solve a disagreement.”

 

Hiding in the kitchen

Sophie as a lap dog
She is doing so much better, but with
occasional worrisome moments.
Still, I am grateful.

A writer’s group I belong to has been tossing out ideas about spirituality and following your path and reaching toward the divine—and it all leaves me feeling sort of lost in the wilderness. To aspire to closeness to the divine would be, to me, audacious. Yes, I talk to the Lord every night about what’s gone on in my day, what’s going on in the world, and so forth. That is an entirely different subject, though I’ve talked a lot about the recent fatal shooting near our high school. As the story comes out, it grows more distressing. But that’s not my subject for tonight.

One woman wrote recently that she found calm, strength, whatever from dabbling with watercolors—and that triggered something in my mind. I may not meditate—I  have never been able to quiet my busy mind enough. And sometimes, at four in the morning, I find myself obsessively concerned with one thing or another. One night recently it was a puzzling communication from the IRS (any communication from them is at the least puzzling, at the worst frightening). Last night my thoughts kept circling back to my cardiologist’s office over the matter of a $45 reimbursement—sure I want the $45 back, but in the larger scheme of things it’s not that much money. But still, try as I might, I could not divert my thoughts to something else and surely not to sleep. But in all this it has dawned on me that when I find calm, when I come the closest to meditating, is in my tiny kitchen when I’m cooking. You knew I’d get around to cooking, didn’t you?

I’ve been doing some creative cooking recently. Saturday night Jean came for supper. I’d had such a week with Sophie that I wasn’t sure I could dredge up the energy or imagination for an experimental dinner, though Jean is always open to my experiments. I intended to make tuna pasties, but it was mid-day Saturday before I got puff pastry from my family-run grocery delivery service. So I opted for something easy. I know Jean loves lamb as much as I do, and I had a pound of ground lamb in the freezer. We would have burgers with a three-bean salad. Turned out great, and I have had lamb burgers for lunch for two days. Each time I thought I’d only eat half but that proved untrue.

Last night, Christian and I collaborated on a roast chicken with chimichurri sauce. Our deal was I’d make the sauce—chopping all those herbs—and he’d spatchcock the chicken and roast it. So in the morning I measured out two packed cups of cilantro and two more of parsley (do you know how much that is? A lot!). What made it less of a chore was that I got out the food processor (I usually use the hand mini version) and used it. And I followed directions, doing things a step at a time (as opposed to my usual method of thinking I know a shortcut). Not only was it easy, but minced herbs didn’t fly all over the kitchen. I coated the chicken with chimichurri, and we let it marinate for several hours, and then served the extra sauce with it. Delicious!

Later in the evening I discovered that in their zeal to get Sophie to eat, Jordan and Christian had hand fed her a whole lot of that chicken. Thank goodness they scraped the chimichurri off first—garlic is hard on dog’s stomachs, and it was just spicy enough she didn’t need it. I now have some chicken in my fridge, but I am uncertain if it is for me or the dog. She has been ravenously eating dog food all day, so I am hoping for chicken and bean salad for lunch tomorrow.

I seem to have mostly single women as friends, no surprise at my age and single status. But, blessedly, several of them are open to eating anything. So Mary (not my Tuesday night Mary but another) came for supper tonight. When she walked in the door I asked, “Do you eat sardines?” and she said of course. So we had a hodgepodge plate: baguette slices, toasted, rubbed with garlic and buttered, layered with sliced tomato, chopped sardines, sweet onion, and drizzled with olive oil and lemon. This was accompanied by an egg mayo each (known internationally as ouefs mayo—there’s even a society devoted to preservation of the dish). It’s a hard-boiled egg, sliced in half, set cut side down on the plate, and coated with mayonnaise (in this case thinned with a bit of buttermilk and garnished with minced basil). Finally I split an avocado, sliced it, and put half on each plate. 

The sardine/egg/avocado plate
for tonight's supper

Can you tell I have fun in the kitchen? In a week or so, Jordan is going to be gone for several days on a work trip, and I will feed Christian and Jacob—mostly Jacob, because Christian has some evening work responsibilities. Watch for a dramatic change in the menus. Pigs in a blanket, anyone?