Genesis of a short story

 

A couple of days ago I blogged about creativity, writing, and inspiration, and I included how difficult it is for me to write a short story unless I have some sudden creative inspiration. So I thought some of you might like to read this short story, which was inspired by a recipe. It features Kelly O’Connell, the realtor/renovator at the center of my Kelly O’Connell Mysteries. Kelly’s office is in Fairmount, the neighborhood adjacent to mine in Fort Worth and one brimming with authentic Craftsman houses, many of which have been preserved. Long the single mother of two, by the time this story takes place, Kelly is married to police officer Mike Shandy. Keisha who appears in the story is her office assistant.

If you don’t know the seven Kelly O’Connell books, plus a novella, you might start with Skeleton in a Dead Space. The books are all available on Amazon.

A word about the short story: My son, Colin, met his bride, Lisa, when he was managing a dive resort on Grand Cayman, and Lisa came there to do underwater photography. When Colin and Lisa first returned from the Caribbean, they lived with Lisa’s parents in Sugar Land, Texas. Lisa’s mother, Torhild, was born and raised in Norway and came to this country as a soldier’s bride at the age of seventeen. She still cooks some of the dishes she knew as a child, and Colin particularly fell in love with these hamburgers (and I might add, with John and Torhild, as did we all). Torhild calls them Norwegian meat cakes, but we’ve all come to use the term hamburger.

I cannot tell you why those hamburgers inspired a short story, but they did. And it is the only time I’ve ever incorporated the paranormal into my writing. I hope you will be charmed by Annalise Nelsen.

Please note that this is a draft version (I seem to be unable to attach the PDF) so there are some typos. Here’s the story of “The Villlage Gaarden.” If you want the recipe for kjottkaker, I think it will be the recipe of the week in Thursday’s “Gourmet on a Hot Plate” blog. Happy reading.

 

 

 

 

 

The Village Gaarden

 

A short story

 

By Judy Alter

 

The Fairmount Neighborhood was once peppered with storefront businesses, many with residential quarters behind them for the owners. Today most of those picturesque buildings have been demolished, but one or two remain, now renovated into charming homes.

One day, on Travis Avenue between Hawthorne and Lilac streets, I found a storefront new to me—and still open. The day showed North Central Texas winter at its worst—a freezing mix of ice and sleet, wind howling. As Mike told me that morning, “Only a fool would go out on a day like this. Stay home.” I didn’t, and now I was hungry for hot comfort food.

Blue-and-white checkered curtains hung on rods three-quarters from the top of the windows, and the words “The Village Gaarden” were stenciled in black on the window. I wondered about the misspelling and the owners. A hand-lettered sign indicated that the small café would be serving from 12:00-1:00 p.m.

Old-fashioned sleigh bells, hung on a thick leather strap and looped over the inside door handle, sang out as I entered. There were only six tables but they gleamed as if just waxed. Small vases held flowers that looked like lilies of the valley. Blue-and-white china in a variety of patterns and serving dishes rested on a plate rack around the room. Steamy warm air, heavy with the wonderful smell of beef cooking, enveloped me.

A small woman welcomed me. Short and a little wide, she had white hair pulled into a bun at the back of her neck and curls escaping around her face, softening the severity of her hairdo. Her face was anything but severe. Brushing her hands on her apron, she held out both hands in welcome, and I took them gratefully.

“I am so glad to see you,” she bubbled. “I’ve been hoping you would come. I’m Annalise Nelsen. I love to have visitors.”

There were no other customers, but how could she be expecting me? I managed to thank her and then asked, “You’re only open for an hour?”

She nodded. “It’s only me, so I only open when I feel like cooking. Today I made Norwegian hamburgers—Kjøttkaker, we call them. You would like? With mashed potatoes and green peas?”

Of course, I would like. She bustled off, while I settled myself at a table. I tested the flowers—yes, fresh, as I thought—but lilies of the valley were certainly not in season now. In fact, you couldn’t grow them in Texas. Within seconds Annalise appeared with a crockery mug full of fresh, strong black coffee.

I asked about the flowers. “Lilies of the valley aren’t in season now.”

 “I grow,” she said. “We call them liljekonwall.”

Annalise ignored the problem of the flowers, and said, “Now, your dinner. Only one minute. It is all ready,” and she was gone again, reappearing seconds later with a plate of food that looked and smelled way beyond good.

The meat cakes, served with caramelized onion and gravy, were soft and tender rather than chewy like a hamburger. The flavor was pure beef. I tasted the potatoes alone first—rich with butter and whole cream. Then I dabbed a bit of gravy on them—just as good. But the peas—they looked more like a thick green pea soup, with dried peas that hadn’t completely lost their shape. There was no ham taste. Instead, these were slightly sweet and somewhere, deep down, had a butter flavor. I savored a mouthful, while Annalise stood watching me, hands on hips.

“You like?”

“I love,” I said.

“Good. I leave you to enjoy in peace.”

And although I had a thousand questions for her, she disappeared behind the curtains again. I did eat in peace, savoring each mouthful of the hearty, soul-warming food. My feet thawed, and my disposition improved. I took out my cell phone to call Mike and tell him about the wonderful place I’d found. I could imagine bringing the girls here and seeing Annalise hover affectionately over them. But my cell phone said, “No service.” I shrugged and dismissed it as due to the weather.

Annalise came back to ask about dessert. She had made rice pudding she told me, again supplying the Norwegian name—risengryn. I was beyond full but then again, no one else had come in, and I was afraid she’d be stuck with a whole lot of risen-whatever-it-was. I tried to indicate by my hands I wanted a small serving; what I got, of course, was a huge bowl that I could not finish. Rice pudding with hints of nutmeg and vanilla and liberal amounts of currants—another thing one almost never found in Texas, unless you bought them dried.

I ate as much as I could and waited tactfully for the bill. It was well past one o’clock, Annalise’s closing hour, and I didn’t want to detain her. Finally, calling her name softly, I headed toward those curtains. After all, she was elderly, and she might have gotten tired and nodded off. I didn’t want to startle her.

When I got no answer I poked my head through the curtains and found a sparkling clean kitchen—cast-iron stove, empty cast-iron skillet sitting on the top and newly oiled, blue-and-white dishes, like those in which my meal was served, draining in the dish rack. But no sign of Annalise and no answer to my calls.

I had no idea what the lunch might have cost. I left a $20 bill on the table and headed back out into the weather, but by now it didn’t seem so bad. The sleet had stopped, the sun was out, and the ice was beginning to melt. No heart for going back to the office and so full I was almost but not quite uncomfortable, I called Keisha in my office and said I wasn’t coming back, headed home, and took a nap before I got the girls from school.

At dinner that night, I picked at the hamburgers Mike had grilled. His burgers were always great, but I was still full, and I was bursting to tell my story. As my account of lunch spilled out, almost without a pause for breath, the girls sat wide-eyed and open-mouthed. When I finished, Maggie said, “Gosh, Mom, what an adventure,” and Em piped up with “I want to go there!”

Mike was not so swayed. “Wait a minute, Kelly. I’ve never heard of this place and neither had you—and we both know every inch of this neighborhood pretty well.” Of course we did—I’m a real estate agent, and Mike, now a detective, was for years the neighborhood patrol officer. “You found a place you’d never seen; it was only open for one hour; there were fresh lilies of the valley on the tables—hey, I’m from Texas. I wouldn’t know them if I saw them. No menu, one dish. Your cell phone wouldn’t work, and the owner disappeared. Are you feeling okay, sweetheart?”

“I know it sounds strange, Mike, but drive over there yourself tomorrow. You’ll see it, and you should go for lunch.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said.

I didn’t say any more about my adventure. Mike’s skepticism put a damper on it, and the girls were clearly puzzled.

****

Mike called before ten o’clock the next morning. “Kelly, I just drove the length of Travis Avenue, and I didn’t see any storefront buildings, let alone The Village Gaarden” His voice dropped. “I don’t know what to tell you, except, sweetheart, have you thought maybe it was a dream when you had that good nap before the girls got out of school?”

“Did you tell any of your buddies at the police station about this?” My question was hostile”

“Swear,” he said. “You tell Keisha?”

“No,” and he knew it was serious, because I tell Keisha, my office assistant, almost everything. Had I imagined that? No, I most definitely had not! How would I have known about kjøttkaker and liljekonwallL?

I muttered, “I’ll be back” and slammed out of the office. But it wasn’t on Travis Avenue.  I drove nearby streets, weaving in and out of some that were only a block or two long. I saw two abandoned store fronts but no Village Gaarden.

Back at the office, I sat in a slump until Keisha whirled around and demanded, “Okay. What’s the problem?” Keisha is young, African American, colorful, and the most amazing person I’ve ever met—maybe beside Mike. Among other things, there’s her sixth sense.

I told her the whole story and waited for the laughter, but it didn’t come.

“Okay,” she repeated. “We got to get to the bottom of this.  I can’t have you in this funk all the time. Worse than when you and Mike have an argument. Who’s the oldest person you know in Fairmount?”

“Mrs. Workman,” I answered without hesitation. “She’s in her nineties, and she’s lived here since she was a young bride. Still lives in the same house on Jessamine.”

“Let’s go see her.”

“You going too?”

“Yep, I am. I gotta get to the bottom of this too. Your mama’s cooking is pretty good, but I could eat some of that Norwegian stuff you’re talking about.” Keisha lived with my mom off and on when there seemed to be a reason.

I called Mrs. Workman and asked if Keisha and I could come for a visit.

“Of course, Kelly, dear. But you know I’m not going to sell my house.” No quaver marked that elderly voice. It was as strong and forthright as mine.

“Oh, I know, Mrs. Workman. I just want to ask about, uh, some neighborhood history.”

“Oh, my dear, I love to talk about that. You and your friend come right over. I’ll put the tea kettle on.”

Thelma Workman used a cane when she came to answer the front door, but her handshake was firm, and she welcomed Keisha as heartily as she did me. Clearly, she had worked quickly, for the tea tray sat on the coffee table complete with teapot, creamer and sugar, three cups, and a plate of sliced homemade banana bread.

Please, Lord, let me be like this when I’m ninety!

We chatted casually about the bad weather, the changing neighborhood, Mrs. Workman’s Persian cat. All the while, Keisha fidgeted.

“Mrs. Workman,” I began hesitantly, “do you remember a small restaurant called The Village Gaarden?”

Her eyes were bright, and she was instantly on the alert. “Over on Travis Avenue? I remember it well, because I enjoyed many good meals there. Annalise Nelsen could cook like no one else I ever met. She surely put me in the shadows.”

I also shot Keisha a look that said, “See? I didn’t make this up.”

Mrs. Workman continued. “That was years ago, though. In the ’40s, if I remember correctly. I was a young bride, and I even went there for help with cooking. She was so generous and loving—like a second mother to me. But then Annalise’s husband died, and she went back to Norway.”

“She went back to Norway?” I echoed. “What happened to her restaurant?”

“Her children sold the building, and it was demolished. Isn’t there a playground on the site now?”

I had seen a playground when I went back looking for the restaurant. I turned to Keisha, helplessly, but she didn’t laugh nor did she frown. She just reached out for my hand and held it comfortingly.

Mrs. Workman persisted. “How did you even hear about that tiny restaurant, Kelly?”

“Oh, I was examining some old maps, and it was listed on one.” I was surprised that I could lie so easily and quickly.

We chatted a bit more, thanked that lovely lady for tea and delicious banana bread, and left. In the car, Keisha sighed. “I sure wish that hadn’t been a dream, Kelly. Those Norwegian hamburgers, whatever you call them, sound wonderful.”

“They were,” I said. “I have the recipe in my purse. Annalise gave it to me. Want to copy it?”

I wasn’t telling Mike about that. Someday I’d make kjottkaker for him and claim I’d found the recipe on line, after that dream I’d had. But Annalise was real.

 

A topsy turvy day

 

My UCLA granddaughter many years ago.

Truly we have had an upside-down day today. I thought I would report that Cricket, the Burtons fifteen-year-old Cavalier Spaniel, had been helped over the rainbow bridge. Jordan and Christian went to the vet for what sounded like a final decision and last visit, but Jordan insisted she wanted to see Cricket out of the oxygen tent and in an exam room. So they spent an hour watching Cricket walk in circles (she does that all the time), asking to be loved, not coughing, seeming fine. The vet shrugged and said, “Take her home.” So she’s home tonight, and the Burtons are keeping vigil over her. Jordan is exhausted, and even I am tired after being keyed up for the inevitable which turned out not to be after all.

There was sad news today though. I got word that an author who befriended me early in my career, became a good friend as well as a mentor, has died in Arizona. Jeanne Williams, prolific author of over eighty books under a variety of names, was a prominent and active member of Western Writers of America when I joined in the 1970s. Although I knew her principally as the author of historicals set in the American West, she also wrote fiction set in the United Kingdom. As for westerns, she was a pioneer in making women center in western fiction. She served as president of WWA, was an activist for animal rights, and a member of the survival team in her Chiricahua Mountain town of Portal, Arizona. Jeanne stopped actively publishing some ten or fifteen years ago but her books remain on sale from Amazon and other outlets. In a sad way, her passing reminds me how fleeting literary fame can be. She deserved more recognition than she got. I had not been much in touch with her in recent years—her letters had become infrequent and sometimes confusing. A widow, she had lost both her grown children tragically, and I was glad to hear that she was surrounded by love when she passed peacefully. Perhaps her best known title is Harvest of Fury, part of her post-Civil War trilogy set in Arizona.

For me, today was also an upside-down day in the world of taking care of business. For some time, I have been trying to figure out dental insurance. Until two years ago, TCU provided such for retirees; when that stopped, I took out a totally inadequate policy from a company I was told was respectable. I suffered through the first year when policies often pay little, but in the second year I expected better: they paid $73 on a $521 bill. Combine that with what I paid in monthly fees, and I was clearly upside down. But the world of insurance is a bewildering place for the lay person, and I was lost. Colin sent me a list of policies recommended for seniors. First on the list was a company underwritten by the very company I’d had trouble with—no, thanks. But second was Humana, and I have had Humana Medicare since I retired, so I called them. Turns out I have had dental insurance under my general health policy for years. Problem solved so easily I can hardly believe it! Then in an ironic PS I read today in the retirees' newsletter that TCU is about to offer a policy for retirees. When it rains, it pours.

But there’s a downside to my financial day: turns out that when I paid for the tree trimming, I only paid part of the bill, and I still owe a goodly amount for tree removal.

And in puzzling news, someone has twice charged Door Dash deliveries of shakes to my debit card. So I had to cancel the card, and the bank will credit my account and issue a new card. But how in the world did someone get my card number, especially since I rarely use it. I guess I’m lucky whoever used it wasn’t more extravagant.

I’m ready for an early bedtime after the “excitements” of today. Another bonus: It was a beautiful, sunny day in Texas, although a bit chilly. And my granddaughter at UCLA reports she is safe and dry. I’m feeling blessed.

 

Getting back into my groove

 

Creativity is a funny thing. Some think it’s some sort of spontaneous will o’ the wisp kind of thing, and I’m inclined to agree, at least in part. I certainly don’t believe creativity is always “turned on” at the same level in an individual. Take short stories for instance—I cannot write one to save my life unless inspiration hits, Once when asked to contribute a short story to an anthology about World War II, I dithered forever about what to write. And then, an idea came out of the blue—I clearly heard an old woman’s voice lamenting her children lost to war. I wrote the first draft in about two hours and called it, “A widow’s lament.” The same is sort of true for novels—an idea has to “hit” me. I’m sure what really happens is that an idea simmers in the back of my brain and then bursts forth in my consciousness.

I thought for instance that I was through writing about my diva faux French chef, Irene Foxglove. But then an idea struck me—as I’ve been telling it, Irene tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Ahem, we’re not through with my story yet. I have to tell about the family I’ve left behind.” My fried Fred, who advises me, says if I ever am really through with Irene, I’ll have to drive a spike through her heart. Meantime, she’s given me the idea for a new story. That doesn’t mean writing it has gone smoothly. There’s that thing called writer’s block.

Writer’s block is an even funnier thing than creativity, though not in an amusing way. The dictionary tells us writer’s block is a state of being unable to think of what to write or how to proceed with writing. It happens to me, predictably, somewhere between 20K and 40K words. I write short—I know writers whose first draft of a mystery runs up to 90K to 100K but mine are often 55K at best. A good traditional or cozy mystery should be about 70K.

When I get to that middle point, my sticking point, my instinctive thought is “There’s so much more to go! How will I ever fill those pages? I’m ready to wrap this up now.” Hank Phillippi Ryan, an author much more talented and prolific than I am, calls that point, “The muddle in the middle.” I have been known to shelve a manuscript at 20K words, go back months later, and think, “Hey, this isn’t so bad!” That has happened with at least two books in the Irene series. And it happened with the current one which I’m calling, Irene in a Ghost Kitchen.

We are told in writers’ groups that persistence is the basis for success as a writer. Classic advice: put your butt in the chair and keep it there. I guess that’s where I failed. I put this manuscript aside at 32K words and focused on my cookbook. Then a friend, whose literary knowledge I respect, commented on what a good character Irene is, and I thought, “Hmmm. Maybe I should go back and re-read that.” I did, and suddenly my head is teeming with ideas. Whereas before I had no idea how it would work out, now I can see the ending. I’m just impatient to get it all down on paper.

Last night, Sophie and I didn’t sleep well, partly because one or the other of us had to pee. But I also lay awake for great bunches of time writing in my mind. I’m not one of those who gets up in the middle of the night to make notes, so I am trusting that some—most?—of that night-time activity is tucked away in my subconscious and will surface when needed.

Excuse me. I’ve got to go now, because I left Irene in a precarious situation. But PS I am delighted that people find Irene funny, interesting, complex, all those things. I call her outrageous. But I hope the narrative voice, which belongs to a much younger chef Henny James, is as riveting with her wry sense of humor and her clear understanding of Irene—well, almost.

Want to start the series? Try Saving Irene. Amazon.com: Saving Irene: A Culinary Mystery (An Irene in Chicago Culinary Mystery) eBook : Alter, Judy: Kindle Store

A food craving satisfied and memories of rodeo days

 

Eating fried chicken in the cottage

For some time, I’ve been craving fried chicken, so tonight we ordered dinner for four from Bonnell’s Curbside meals. During quarantine, when restaurants saw their business diminish and disappear, Fort Worth’s Jon Bonnell found a way to keep his Bonnell’s Fine Cuisine active. He packaged curbside meals for four, priced them reasonably, and sold them literally on the curb by his restaurant each afternoon, Tuesday through Saturday. They were so successful, he has continued the tradition to this day. We have had them a few times—mostly the Beef Stroganoff. Several of the entrees are pasta which isn’t popular here, usually one is shrimp which I can’t eat, and one is smoked chicken and pulled brisket which doesn’t appeal. The Stroganoff though is delicious, and I still want to try the meat loaf. Tonight’s chicken came with mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, salad, and brownies. And the amount is generous. So craving satisfied.

Jacob almost never ever eats Saturday night dinner with us. This afternoon when I asked if he was joining us, he said, “Probably not. It’s Saturday night, you know.” I replied, “Sometimes in life you have to make choices. We’re having fried chicken.” He said with a grin he’d have to think about that. Somewhat to my surprise, he showed up for supper.

So now I’m full and happy—and waiting until I’m hungry enough to eat the remaining brownie.

We never had fried chicken in my home when I was growing up, which may account for my fascination with it now. I honestly don’t know if my mom ever tried to fry a chicken. (She did teach me early on how to cut up a chicken, something the girls in my family refuse to do—Jordan in particular won’t touch raw poultry, and for some years my function at Thanksgiving and Christmas was to prepare the turkey for roasting. They’ve gotten better now about it.) Not only did Mom not want to fry in all that oil, Dad, the proper Englishman, did not tolerate picking up food in our hands. A sandwich at lunch at the kitchen table was okay but never at the dinner table (we ate with linen tablecloth and napkins every night and no passed food—Dad served the plates as the head of the household; no, we were not rich, just shaped by his Canadian/British background). I have never myself tried to fry chicken, and I find “oven fried” a poor substitute. But tonight I was thinking that what attracts me as much as anything is the slightly peppery seasoning of the coating. I think that’s a southern thing.

Tonight may have been fried chicken night at the cottage, but it is the last night of the Southwestern Exposition and Stock Show, lovingly known in Fort Worth as the stock show and in the past as the “Fat Stock Show.” The powers that be dropped the “Fat” some years ago. Tonight, the owner of the champion steer, a high school girl, is $340,000 richer—I’m no judge but her snow-white steer is one of the most beautiful steers I’ve ever seen. I think a conglomerate usually buys the winner, so it is spared from the slaughterhouse, and the owner is spared that dilemma between emotion and profit.

Rodeo always makes me nostalgic. When my children were little, going to the rodeo was a rite of passage. Each had to wait until they were judged old enough, and then it was one of the highlights of the year. We routinely went with another family for several years and dined on the ribs and sausage offered by Coburn’s Catering, a longtime culinary institution. That family moved away, but then we developed a tradition of all the Alters coming for rodeo—the performance on Friday night, prowling the grounds, especially the Midway Saturday afternoon, and dinner at Joe T.’s Saturday night. It was an annual reunion that I truly looked forward to. Gradually the tradition fell apart—with kids in school, it was hard for families ot get away and parents had other demands. Now, some years Megan comes with a friend, but she didn’t even do that this year. Jordan and Christian have gone several times, with friends, and Jacob has gone at least once. My rodeo days are long over, not just because the arena is not accessible for me but because I’ve joined the ranks of those who don’t want to see the brutality of rodeo, especially the bull riding. Having written a bit about rodeo, I know they take every precaution for man and beast, but it can still be brutal. I don’t want to see anyone or any animal hurt. But it sure does provide some great memories.

Grands at the rodeo, back in the day

 

Waiting for a storm, a dog crisis, and a nice restaurant dinner

 

Jacob with June Bug and Cricket the day they brought them home.

There is something strange about the period before a storm. In Texas we get frequent forecasts of severe thunderstorms, possible hail or tornadoes, flooding, etc. Half the time, it doesn’t happen. But you never now, and so there’s that period of anticipation. Not nail-biting, nervous anticipation but a wary caution. I can always tell a storm is coming when Sophie turns into a Velcro dog and won’t leave my side. Tonight she is staying nearby but right on top of me. She does not, however, want to go outside. So I do think there’s a storm coming.

We’re in a dog crisis at our little compound. The Burton’s King Charles Cavalier Spaniel, Cricket, is in doggie ICU. Cricket is fifteen years old and has been frail for quite a while. She even went with us to Santa Fe because Jordan felt better—and thought Cricket would—being with us than being home alone between pet sitter visits. Jordan, Christian, and Jacob got Cricket and her younger sister, June Bug, ten or eleven years ago. June Bug, who was two years younger, had a heart attack several years ago. At the time, they were told she might live anywhere from six to eighteen months. She outlasted that by a long time, but by the time she died she was deaf, blind, and incontinent.. Now we’re in limbo about Cricket. Hope for a vet recommendation tomorrow.

I ache for Jordan who is taking this hard, because I know how I felt a year ago when I thought Sophie was dying. She however, younger than Cricket and perhaps hardier, has bounced back in a remarkable way. The vet sees her regularly to check on her diabetic status, and says she’s being effectively maintained on insulin. I don’t think she sees much, perhaps shapes but no detail. She does need her teeth cleaned, and I am always more than a bit terrified by that prospect.

On a more cheerful note, Christian and I had a good dinner with Subie and Phil last night at a new and very popular Chinese restaurant (Jordan was too upset about Cricket to join us). I am always reminded of the time, when my Jamie was an infant, that my ex- and late-mother-in-law said to us over the phone from New York, “Wo we ate at the chink’s.” I asked her son if he could please teach her a better word since she now had a grandson who is half Chinese. I don’t think the lesson ever took. The restaurant where we went last night has made a big splash for its dumplings. I don’t think I had ever had Chinese dumplings, so I was particularly interested in them. I had the combo—pork, chicken, and vegetable, and liked them a lot. In fact, they would probably have been almost enough for me for dinner, but everyone else ordered an entrée, so I asked for beef and broccoli. Everyone loved their meal—but I honestly think Christian does beef and broccoli better at home. The meat was tender but not as flavorful.

Tonight, a lovely happy hour with close friends who will move to South Carolina at the end of this month. They are excited, but there’s a tinge of sadness. She calls herself my Canadian daughter because her mom is in Ottawa, Canada, and when she moved next door to me, almost twenty years ago, she was a young divorcee wth two young kids. Now those kids are grown and gone, and she’s remarried to a really terrific guy. I’ll miss them, but tonight we had a lively discussion about the wonders of the Carolinas. They will be less than twenty miles from where my parents retired, a part of the country where I enjoyed many vacations and thought I was in God’s country.

No storm yet. About bedtime, they say. Meantime, Sophie is calm enough to lie on the patio with her bare stomach on that hard, cold, wet cement. Sure doesn’t look comfortable to me. Batten down the hatches, just in case.

 

A new friend and two words of wisdom

 

A truly worthwhile book by my friend, Stephanie

Sometimes serendipity can lead to the nicest things. Several months ago, the neighborhood newsletter that I edit did an article about Ann Darr, the neighborhood representative to the Fort Worth ISD board. I stressed to the writer that it had to be apolitical, following the guidelines for the newsletter, and it came back raving about what a good school board member she is. I sent it back, explained again about no politics, and got an article Ii thought usable (yes, I got some criticism, but not much). A few weeks later, Ann Darr contacted me and asked if we could meet. We had confusion finding a date, and I had to explain I could not easily meet her someplace for a happy hour drink but I would welcome her to the cottage.

Tonight, finally, was our happy hour meeting. I made a tuna spread—not very original, but it was good and she seemed to like it. We chattered like magpies for over an hour and a half. Found out we go to the same church, one of her children is in Jacob’s class at the high school, and one of her sons is at U of Arkansas where Jacob will go next year. We are politically in sync, though her position, like my newsletter, is apolitical. We chattered about education today—charter schools, home schooling, book bans, intrusive parents (she says that has peaked and died down), the necessity of trade school programs, financing, Abbott’s sitting on funds allocated for teachers because he didn’t get his way on vouchers, and on and on.

I have friends I see often and simply adore but familiarity sometimes results in fairly stagnant conversations (I can hear them now—“Does she mean me? Surely she doesn’t mean me!”). I think we tend to know what our close friends think and not dive deep in conversation. But when you meet someone new, in the process of getting to know them, you go deeper—at least that’s what I found tonight. I hope Ann Darr will come back to the cottage, and we can develop a friendship. PS She’s a dog person, so what’s not to love. After welcoming her with frantic barking, Sophie was as good as gold all evening, pretty much stayed on the patio.

Two words of wisdom for the day: resilience and gratitude. My friend, Stephanie Raffelock, posted in her Substack column this morning about her goals to reach by the age of eighty. I misread and thought she was referring to her seventies as her last decade, so I hastened to send a rebuttal from my advanced age of eighty-five. She called to say I had misread and her goals are to prepare herself to live into her eighties and nineties. We talked about aging, and she mentioned a book that is meaningful to her: Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning. A Jewish psychiatrist, Frankl spent four years in various Nazi concentration camps, and he came to believe that the will for meaning was the single most important factor in survival. He got so he could look at fellow prisoners and almost predict who would survive and who wouldn’t. I probably won’t read it simply because I refuse to read about Nazi cruelty. I find it too upsetting to realize such evil exists in the world. But I like the theory.

Stephanie had written that it was a goal to be pain-free, and I told her that was a pipe dream—as we age we all suffer minor aches and pains. The goal is not to let them grow so big in your mind that they become major. I mentioned that as a doctor’s child, I was taught to be brave about health problems and pain. Doctors, my mom told me, laugh at those who magnify problems or pain. I took it so far that my brother once said he thought I was taking Mom’s advice too seriously. But once when I was in the hospital with a fairly serous health problem, I said to a resident physician that I guessed this would change my life, and she replied, “Oh, I don’t know. You seem to be fairly resilient.” So that, for me, is why resilience is important—bouncing back from major or minor upsets.

Stephanie had just been reading about gratitude, and she proposed that as a factor in aging well. Gratitude takes us beyond ourselves. If you can give up moaning and whining about your present state—or about the state of our country or the world—and look for the positive, your whole attitude toward life will change, and you will be healthier and happier. I try, every night, to thank the Lord for the blessings of my day and those of my life in general. I find I have lots to talk about.

Resilience and gratitude: Try them for a week

Life’s trivia—Christmas is finally over, a forgotten artist, and conspiracy theories abound

 

This is the image of Andrew Taylor Still I copied in paint--or tried to.
Okay, confess: I could not find a free image of Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce.

Life sure is interesting. Today, Jordan took down Christmas decorations in the cottage. That tells you a bit about how hectic life has been around here. But after all, it’s rodeo season. I had truthfully gotten used to the Christmas lights, and now that they’re down, the living area looks a bit bare. Jordan kept the multi-colored lights on pussy willows (sounds a bit garish—you have to see it!) and put my antique lamp on the timer, so I can turn it on and off remotely.

Biggest bonus: she unearthed from the high-up spaces of my closet a wonderful portrait by the late Fort Worth artist Emily Guthrie Smith. It is small, maybe 12 x 15, of a winsome looking young girl—Smith was noted for portraits, particularly those of children. This is not a happy picture, but neither is it sad—more thoughtful. I have no recollection of buying it but I must have felt flush at one time, and I was as I am now intrigued by this face. I vaguely remember that I wanted to use it for a book cover but couldn’t find it.

And therein is the story: I thought I lost this painting for some time and since it’s the only original painting I own, I was disturbed. The kids seemed to have no memory of it, and that collection of things in the closet was far beyond my reach. So I was delighted when she got it down tonight. Along with this one, she got down a charcoal drawing of me done when I was about twelve. It is by an artist, Kurt Frankenstein, who boarded in a girlfriend’s home. Kurt was a survivor of the Holocaust, and his work was tinged with that sadness. My mom didn’t like this charcoal because she said it made me look too old and sad. Jordan has taken into the house to hang in her hallway gallery. The other thing she took in was a primitive painting of a log cabin in a snowy scene. She was surprised when I told her I painted it. The log cabin is the birthplace of Andrew Taylor Still, founder of osteopathic medicine. I painted that and one other, taken from a portrait of Still holding a fibula and studying it, while in Kirksville and exploring what I wanted to do. IN my salad days, I was a great class goer and took classes in painting, sculpture, macrame, and writing. The painting of Still already hangs in the living room in the house, and I’m a bit embarrassed. I hope it’s fair to say I’m a much better writer than a visual artist.

Changing topics, I am alternately amused and disgusted by the buzz over Taylor Swift and Travs Kelce. Seems like those folks who delight in conspiracies can’t recognize outlandish when they see it, and now they are claiming Swift is a psych-op—slang for psychological operations. She is, they claim, an undercover operative for the Biden administration. The thing is that Swift has endorsed some Democratic candidates (including Biden in 2020), she is philanthropically generous, she pays her troupe well and takes care of them—and, she’s a success. Of course, that means she’s an undercover agent.

A Dallas area minister, musician, and writer, Eric Folkerth, published a Facebook column with a whole different take. The problem, he says, isn’t Swift—she’s been a target for conservatives at least since 2020—the problem is Swift and Kelce. Travis Kelce, billed as the best tight end in football, represents the repressed dreams of most middle-aged American men who wanted to be sports superstars and musicians in their youth. Conforming to society, they’ve put away the high school trophies and hung up the guitar, gone to work in a steady job, raised a family, joined a church, become a good citizen. And here’s Kelce, living out his best dream.

I found Mr. Folkerth’s column thought-provoking (look it up on Facebook) but I believe, as someone suggested, he writes from the masculine point of view. The same could be said for women and jealousy—yes, that’s the word—of Swift’s success. Most of us dream of stardom of one kind or another—for me, it was the New York Times bestseller list. The closest I ever came was when they reviewed one of my books favorably. And a friend, older enough to be a mother figure, said to me, “Have you ever considered that you’ve had more success than most who want to be writers?” No I hadn’t, because we always want that spotlight, that stardom. And Taylor Swift is one of the few women, at least in our day, who’ve made that dream come true, especially in show business.

And now she and Kelce are, from all appearances, wildly, madly in love. That once-in-a-lifetime, if you’re lucky, kind of love that just like stardom and sports fame, eludes too many of us. What’s not to envy? For me, they are so ecstatically happy, at least onscreen, and it does appear genuine, that I am delighted for them. And I’m sorry for the slings and arrows of the bitter that have been thrown at them. I wish them, individually and as a couple, nothing but continued success and happiness. If they can hold on to what they have now, they will be fortunate.

But there are those conspiracy theories. You know what, if she were a Biden psych-op (what a strange term), I say more power to her. We need good, successful people on our side.

What I ate today—or how boring is that?

Sauerkraut skillet supper tasted a lot better than it looked.
Besides, I forgot the picture until I'd eaten half the sausage.
But it's here for the algorithms

Sometimes I feel, especially on dull days of which there are a lot, that this blog deteriorates into “and then I did this …. And then I did that … and then I ate that.” Especially the “what I ate” part because so much of my focus seems to be on food. But tonight I have to say I nailed it with a dish that I cooked off the top of my head, with suggestions from an anonymous friend who apparently wrote me a note about it.

When I was a child, my mom made a skillet supper of ground sausage and apples. I remember liking it a lot. But when I tried to duplicate it recently, it didn’t work. The dish had no cohesion, nothing held it together. It was just two separate things cooked in the same skillet. Along the same line, my brother’s ex-wife used to caramelize sauerkraut—I can see her yet with a sugar bowl in her hand, patiently shaking a bit at a time into the skillet, while turning the kraut endlessly—it was wonderful to us, two kids whose German mother despised sauerkraut and never ever served it. I didn’t taste it until I was grown and out of the house. But we could never duplicate what John’s ex did.

Recently I came across a recipe for a sausage, apple, and sauerkraut skillet supper. I must have mentioned it to someone because I have some notes about how someone else did it. Meantime, Mary V. who comes for supper occasionally and is a willing subject for my experiments—she told Jordan tonight that she really enjoys dinners of all the things my kids won’t eat—was scheduled for supper. I wrote and asked if she eats sauerkraut (sometimes it is best to ask these things ahead of time rather than have an unpleasant surprise). She wrote back that she loves sauerkraut. But then weather interfered—the night she was to come was one of those when it got down to ten degrees, and she didn’t want to venture out. I was left with a lb. container (a plastic tub, not a glass jar) of kraut in the fridge, and four lovely plump veal and pork sausages in the freezer.

Our schedules didn’t mesh, and tonight, almost three weeks later, we had the skillet supper. Here’s what I did: I browned two sausages in plenty of butter in the skillet and then added thinly sliced onion, peeled apple slices (I think they were McIntosh), and several forkfuls of drained (but not squeezed) sauerkraut. I poured white wine over all and stirred in about two Tbsp. dark browns sugar. I started to simmer this with the lid on but realized all that liquid needed to cook off if things were to caramelize, so I set the lid aside. And that’s exactly what happened—after about half an hour on a 220^o burner (knowing the temperature is an advantage of an induction hot plate), the liquid was gone and the kraut, apples, and onions nicely caramelized. I turned it off, put the lid on, and let it sit.

Mary arrived, Jordan came out to drink a glass of wine, and we visited. Finally I turned the burner on for about ten minutes and served supper. (Jordan left at this point lest the kraut jumped out of the pan at her.) The caramelized things were terrific, the sausage mild and good with a bit of Dijon. I think maybe Mary liked it better than any supper I’ve given her, and I liked it a lot myself. When I was heaping apples and onions and kraut into the skillet, I thought I was making enough for Coxie’s Army and would have leftovers no one wanted, but they do cook down dramatically, and between the two of us we ate it all. So that’s what I ate.

A word about gratitude—and groceries. Every week I place a fairly lengthy order to be delivered from Central Market (you have no idea how I long to be able to shop there in person). This Saturday, as I was unpacking five paper sacks and thinking what a boring, exasperating chore it was, I suddenly realized how many people in this world would feel so blessed to have so many groceries. My attitude changed immediately. And so tonight, I am grateful for the good food we ate, the company of friends with whom I often dine, and the comfort of my cottage.

May you all enjoy good meals and the bounty of God’s blessings.

A happy foodie weekend—and a cuckoo clock

 

My new birdsong cuckoo clock

I have a new cuckoo clock! Forestalling any comments on the appropriateness of such a clock in my cottage, I hasten to tell you this one is different. It could say “Cuckoo!” but instead Christian set it to a bird song. On the hour, a little blue bird emerges and trills it song—I am not knowledgeable enough about birds to tell you what bird it is, but it is cheerful and, to my delight, not too loud (it doesn’t wake me at night). It has a repertoire of twelve birds’ songs, but the instructions are in German, so we may not change it often. Thanks to son Jamie for this cheerful addition to the cottage. I’m really enjoying it.

As my weekends often are, this one was devoted to food—but rather to writing about it almost more than preparing it. I keep finding recipes that fit into my cookbook featuring my mom’s cooking or my updates on it. I have now, I think, gone through most of the old files I have, but I also keep remembering things she fixed. Like salmon croquettes—I had written that she rarely cooked fish, claimed she didn’t know how. And then I remembered the croquettes, only because Jordan and I had my version (salmon patties) for supper Friday night. And today I remembered but haven’t written up that in that era of jellied foods, Mom had a fish-shaped mold and made a jellied salmon appetizer. Not sure I have—or want—the recipe, but it deserves a mention.

Jordan and I have seen a lot of each other this weekend and enjoyed it, at least I did. Friday nights Christan often has a late happy hour with a good friend, so it was just the two of us. I made extra patties in case he showed up hungry, but I’m not sure he would have eaten the salmon at all. He once told me his mom made them and described them as like hockey pucks (she liked all meats very well done). I do remember once he said he’d try mine, and he liked them, but he hasn’t seemed anxious to try again.

Fresh salmon was on sale at Central Market, so I ordered—what turned out to be a huge piece for Saturday supper for the three of us (Jacob never has weekend meals at home—ah, to be seventeen again!). At the last minute, Christan was invited to the rodeo. Saturday morning he was most apologetic about the last-minute change and then began to tell me how it was really good for his business, etc. I told him he didn’t have to rationalize, and he laughed. Jordan still wanted salmon but we discovered the pound and a half was big enough we could cut off portions for ourselves and still freeze the rest for a meal another time. Christian has promised to grill it. Last night I roasted it with a garlic/anchovy/butter sauce. Good, but one of those recipes I can’t follow exactly because it calls for starting the dish in a skillet and finishing it by putting the skillet in the oven. When you only have a toaster oven, that’s not possible. Still, it was good, and I enjoyed the tiny bit I saved for lunch today.

Tonight though was the big deal. Christan a couple of weeks ago requested carnitas, one of his favorite meals. I can’t tell you where I got the recipe, although some years ago I had an editor who taught me to cube a pork butt and cook it in simmering water until the water is all evaporated and the cubed meat crisps and browns in the fat. Then I found a recipe which adds spice to the water—orange peel, chopped onion and garlic, salt, bay leaves, oregano, cloves, and a cinnamon stick. The trouble is the water rarely evaporates in the time the recipe suggests, and I always worry that we’ll be sitting around until ten waiting for dinner. My prep time was lengthened because the boneless, cubed meat I ordered—wasn’t. I’d say at least ten percent was on the bone and hard to deal with, and instead of the one-inch cubes I requested, I got three- and four-inch pieces. I am honestly not a complainer, but I feel a call to Central Market coming on tomorrow.

Tonight I calculated two hours for it to cook—forty-five minutes longer than the recipe said. We ate at 7:30 which was only half an hour past my target time. We serve the meat with guacamole, sour cream, shredded Monterrey Jack, chopped cilantro, diced red onion and, of course, tortillas. For all my worry, it was really good tonight—full of flavor and very tender. It’s a lot of work and worry but worth it. I promised to do it again in six months.

So here we go into another week. Zenaida, who cleans the cottage, hasn’t been here since before Christmas, her schedule upset by holidays and weather, so Sophie and I are grateful she will be here in the morning, even though she’s coming at the awful hour of seven-thirty. And I have company coming for supper—I’ll need my nap.

May each of you have a blessed week. In Fort Worth, it will be sunny and in the sixties. We will be lulled into thinking winter is gone, but I am sure it is not. At least we can enjoy the good weather.

 

 

A delightful gathering

 

Women in Texas Publishing
(l to r), Fran Vick; UNT Press; Kathie Lang, SMU Press;
Gayla Christiansen, Texas A&M University Press;
Shannon Davies, UT and Texas A&M University presses,
and me, TCU Press, seated

It’s been a dull, rainy week in North Texas, and for me, personally, a week filled mostly with a medical appointment, untangling insurance mix-ups, and that kind of busy work. Not much time for writing, so you can perhaps imagine how delighted I was yesterday afternoon to host a brief reunion of women I’ve worked with in publishing. The annual meeting of the Texas Philosophical Society made this reunion possible. The society is meeting in Fort Worth this year, and most of my gathered colleagues were headed to a reception that marked the beginning of a  weekend of study devoted, far as I can tell, to the life and work of the late Larry McMurtry. Their list of assigned reading included the relatively new Larry McMurtry: A Live, by Tracy Daughterty. I expect them to be most knowledgeable about McMurtry, his puzzling life, and his many and different books.

Meantime we gathered at the cottage, and I served them wine and a caviar dip (figured I had to do something to measure up against the reception they were going to). We talked about writers we’d worked with, from McMurtry to Larry L. King, about what is going on with various university presses today, and what we would do differently were we still running the show; we caught up on news of some folks we hadn’t seen in a while. We talked a lot about food and cookbooks, though I honestly tried to steer the conversation in other directions because I didn’t want it to be all about the book I’m working on.

But a difference of opinion that came up interested me: some thought in working with vintage recipes (strange to think of the Fifties as vintage, but that was seventy years ago, so its historical) you should never change a thing, not one  comma or period of quarter teaspoon of salt. Others  (including me) think it’s okay to adjust  the recipes for today’s palate. It struck me later that the conversation was like the division on the Supreme Court—originalists vs. moderates—or like religious differences, principally among Protestant churches: is the Bible the literal word of God or the work of men, to be taken as a guide rather than carved in stone. I won’t check in on that one, but I am not a constitutional originalist (mostly because I don’t think the second amendment is at all relevant in an age of assault rifles). So I’ve decided I’m not a recipe originalist either.

I also got nice words on what an original and interesting character my diva chef Irene is—those comments may spur me to go back to look at the half-written fifth book in the series.

And we caught up on families and children and grandchildren and, yes, Gayla and I exchanged dog news. Because these women are family to me. But the big takeaway of the afternoon to me was that I enjoyed book talk with women who are knowledgeable about books—the kind of talk I long for and don’t get often enough. I had a long career in Texas publishing and loved every minute of it. When I said yesterday that I still sometimes dream that I’m working again, hosting an Autograph Extravaganza or going to Texas Book Festival, someone asked, “Really? After all this time?” (I’ve been retired twelve years). “Really,” I replied. “I’m sometimes very busy about books in the night.”

So for a bit yesterday I was back in that world, and there was a touch of magic about it.

The philosophical folks are dining at the Drover Hotel tonight and were told to wear “Texas chic,” whatever that is—lots of turquoise, boots and jeans for the men I imagine. Seems perfectly fitting to me for a society that puts two disparate terms—Texas and philosophy—together. I’m anxious to hear a report.