Sunday, March 17, 2024

Peace and quiet

 

Sophie at the veterinaray clinic. Note the IV tube.
Ready to come home tomorrow.

I think it was Maya Angelou who said we all need to take an occasional day out. The world, she reminded us, won’t fall apart without you. That’s what I did today—a day out. The Burtons were out all day, celebrating Jordan’s birthday at the Roadhouse, which is supposed to have great burgers. They were up, bright and bushy-tailed early this morning, Jordan is a bright green top with shamrocks dangling from her ears. My bow to St. Patrick tonight is a pale green T-shirt (with a VW bus on the front) and bright green footlets. By rights I should wear orange because my ancestry is Protestant Irish. I’m fairly sure my forebearers, three generations back or more, left Scotland for Northern Ireland. They were Protestant Irish, but I like the myth and legend of the larger Irish culture, the green of St. Patrick if you will. Perhaps W. B. Yeats best summer up Irish culture: Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.

Since I would be cooking only for myself, there’s no Irish menu in the cottage tonight. But tomorrow my family will get corned beef, champ (a mashed potato dish with lots of butter and green onions), and Brussel sprouts. Coming up with a green vegetable that’s Irish and my family will eat is hard because everything is cabbage, and they won’t touch it. When Christian asked why the Irish eat so much cabbage, I suggested it is plentiful, cheap, and nutritious. I refrained from adding something to the effect that you can make some wonderful dishes with it. Colcannon is also out—no cooked spinach. I also didn’t tell him that Brussel sprouts, which he likes, could be considered tiny cabbages. Tonight I have made myself a huge batch of pea salad and will eat with it, I think, the sardines in preserved lemon that I would have served to Jean the other night.

I was sad that my happy hour guests cancelled tonight—particularly sad because friend Jaimie burned her hand badly. But that cancellation added to my day of peace and quiet. I had planned to make a couple of appetizers to entertain Greg and Jaimie, but I’ll save them for a reschedule when Jaimie is in a better place.

So this was my day out: I slept really late, with no Sophie to wake me and demand food. I barely had time to read emails before church, which I attended via Zoom in my pajamas. A bit of cottage cheese for brunch, and I applied myself to the last words of Irene in a Ghost Kitchen. I finished it—at least the first draft—and I breathed a huge sigh. Seems like I’ve been writing this mystery forever. It came out at close to 58K words, so if I can pick up another two thousand on editing, it will be a respectable length for a cozy. Tonight I’ll start some notes for a show about Helen Corbitt that Mary and I are to collaborate on. Mary regularly teaches cooking classes for the Silver Frogs, the senior noncredit program at TCU. So she roped me in to provide commentary and background on Corbitt’s life while she demonstrates the recipes. Should be fun, though I am a bit confused on which one of us will say what. I’m sure it will work out, and it’s one of those things I vow not to overthink. Oh yes, I did have a nap in the late afternoon but only dozed—think I satisfied my need for sleep this morning.

The Sophie report is good again. She’s eating, albeit with appetite-stimulating medicine. Today the clinic will take her off her IVs and see how she does on her own, with the goal of bringing her home tomorrow. I have a list of questions for our vet when we see him.

After a week fraught with tension and worry and distractions, I’ve enjoyed my peace and quiet. Talking with a friend recently, I said one reason I didn’t want to move into a retirement community was that I like my privacy. From friends who live in Trinity Terrace I get the sense that even though you can get privacy in your own apartment, it’s easy to be drawn into the constant round of activities. No such temptation in my cottage, and I was completely happy today. But I wouldn’t want to spend every day this way.

 

Saturday, March 16, 2024

Back to real life

 

 

Jordan and Sophie
Twelve years ago, plus

Sophie seems to be on the mend, so it’s back to real life at our compound. Tomorrow is Jordan’s birthday—my St. Patrick’s baby. I won’t say what birthday it is, but here’s a hint: next year is a biggie. She has an all-day come-and-go party planned for tomorrow at a local hamburger joint/sports bar (I’m sort of guessing what it is, because it’s not on my circuit). None of my friends have been included—as she said tonight, “No adults.” I reminded her that she and her friends are adults now, many of them in their fifties. But I get that mindset and it’s okay, Anyway I will not be at this all-day celebration (and miss my nap? No way). As she pointed out, it will be everything I don’t like—loud, noisy, crowded. So tonight, we had her birthday dinner, the same dinner she’s requested since she was old enough to request: tacos.

There’s a bit of a story behind that menu choice. For the first forty-seven years of her life, Jordan thought she was half Hispanic. That’s what we’d been told by the Edna Gladney Home, and we dutifully set about keeping her informed of her heritage, just as we did for Jamie with his half-Chinese background. For years, Jordan resisted any kind of genetic testing, but a few years ago she broke down and did 23andMe. The results showed that she is almost a hundred per cent northern European. She admitted it came as quite a shock after thinking of herself as Hispanic all these years. So while she might have asked for bangers and mash or shepherd’s pie for her birthday, she stuck with tacos.

Christian was out of town all day and late to our taco party. He had stopped, per my request, at the store to get things needed for the tacos but by the time he arrived we had eaten, so now I have two heads of leaf lettuce, a bag of Fritos, and I don’t know what else that I won’t use. The sharp cheddar I will always use. I thought the meat was dry, but Christian pointed out that sour cream, cheese, and guac hide a multitude of faults.

No cake. Jordan didn’t want one, so I had chocolate bonbons after they went inside.

In the spirit of getting back to reality, I wrote a thousand words on my Irene novel last night—so close to the end and yet so far; it is tantalizing to have it in sight. Except that just when I thought I could wrap things up, the mystery solved, the bad person caught, a new plot twist plopped into my mind and won’t go away. I only have one sentence in my mind, and I have no idea where it will lead me. Also, last night, I blogged and finished the novel I was being slow about reading. So I feel all caught up and a bit righteous.

Last night’s dinner guest, my good friend Jean, cancelled because she had a cold. I didn’t open the can of sardines in preserved lemon that I intended to serve, but I did make myself a good-sized panzanella (Italian bread salad)—so good. Tomorrow night, when the kids are celebrating all day (a concept I struggle to understand) neighbors are to come for happy hour, but now that is uncertain because the wife injured her hand badly enough for an hours-long, middle-of-the-night ER visit. I’m just letting that be on hold.

And the day’s Sophie report: she was responsive this morning and obviously happy to have Jordan pet her, but I thought just a bit more lethargic. The tech explained there had been a problem with a catheter and fixing it had probably worn her out, plus she had just been for a walk an hour earlier. So maybe she was tired, which her panting would indicate. When we were ready to leave, she obviously wanted to go with us and stood before the door to the lobby. When the tech urged her out the door leading to the kennel, she braced her feet and resisted for a moment, but then went docilely along. She is a good girl, but I think she is ready to go home. My heart and my pocketbook are ready to have her home. Apparently, they don’t welcome visitors nor ever discharge patients on Sunday, so we are on hold. Our vet, who I like a whole lot, will be back on Monday, and I am hoping we can move this along.

Meantime, I leave you with a quote. There is a Tyler Farr folksong chorus that goes:

I wish love wasn't so hard.
I wish people could stay together.
I wish girls couldn't break hearts.
And dogs could live forever.

But I have seen another version, and I can’t quote the early lines, but the end is: “I wish dogs lived forever and chocolate cake wasn’t fattening.” I love that, and if I ever come across it again, I’ll share.

Meantime, sweet dreams, happy days, and thanks for being my friends.

 

 

 

Friday, March 15, 2024

Sophie Update

Sophie listening to a lecture.



Tonight I really am going to post yesterday’s food blog, so look for it in a bit. But first I wanted to post an update on Sophie: she is better. Her kidney numbers, while not perfect, are much improved over yesterday, and her blood sugar levels are better. Tonight, I’m told she ate part of a can of dog food. And when we visited this morning, I thought she was more alert—head up, looking around with interest to see what and who was around her. She definitely is on the mend.

I want to praise the techs at the VSNT clinic. I get a real sense of caring from everyone I talk to, and I’ve noticed, before this episode, that if I say I’m calling about Sophie, they are right away on top of it. The whole clinic knows Sophie and considers her sort of a miracle dog—that’s certainly what Dr. Burney says about her. Yesterday, Rachel was so helpful; today we had a lovely lady whose name I unfortunately did not get, but she told us she had cared for Sophie every time she’s been in the clinic, and she was “invested” (the word she used) in her well-being. She told us the common sense advice she was giving Sophie, what she thought she’d try about food, how she was cheering for her. And the most encouraging thing she said to me was, “I think she’s trying. She’s really trying.” As long as Sophie is trying, we will too. Not at all ready to give it up, though I really would like to have her at home. She did look a little hangdog when the tech led her back to the clinic, and that made me sad. I think she’d like to be home too.

Now if I can only convince myself that today is Friday, not Saturday … we will visit in the morning and see where things are.

As always, I’m grateful for your support. I told Sophie today that she had a whole world of people cheering and praying for her.

Thursday, March 14, 2024

There’s good news in Mudville tonight

 



Sophie loves Jordan!
Sophies doctor, Derek Burney, is a miracle worker,
but so much credit for her care goes to Jordan and Christian.

Today, Thursday, is my regular day for my food blog, “Gourmet on a Hot Plate.” But I have been so overwhelmed by and grateful for your prayers and hugs and good thoughts for Sophie that I decided to bring you up to date. The recipe I had in mind will keep. Meantime, there’s good news tonight, but first here’s how the day went.

The vet called about 7:30 this morning. Miniscule was his favorite word. She might, he said, be a bit better but it was miniscule, and her chances for surviving this episode were miniscule. She refused to eat and had developed a bloody discharge from her nose. Her kidney numbers were only slightly better. It was time for us to come see her and talk. So I alerted Jordan and Christian. We were all convinced we were going to let her go. I packed up the insulin needles and some other things that we wouldn’t be needing but someone else could use. We were glum as we drove to the vet, though I did my usual when nervous and talked too much.

We were in the waiting room when Rachel, the tech, came leading Sophie on a leash. That was the first surprise: Sophie had not been walking when the Burtons took her to the vet. Rachel said that was new this morning—she’d been carrying her out to potty. And she said her demeanor was better this morning. We were shown into an exam room and left to visit with Soph. A year ago when she was so sick, Dr. Burney warned me that she would be mad at me, because she thought whatever was happening to her was all my fault. Sure enough, she was less than ecstatic to see me, but she sat still for Jordan to pet her—and when Jordan stopped for a minute, Sophie turned her head as if to say, “Keep doing that.” For Christian, she rolled over so he could give her tummy rubs. One factor: the two of them could get down on the floor with her; I can’t. They did pick her up a few times so I could whisper sweet nothings and promise to give her Velveeta if she’d eat enough to come hope. When the doctor came in, he said he was as surprised as we were.

I wouldn’t want you to think Soph is back “at herself.” She was on pain medication which made her even more lethargic, and she panted quite a bit, but she was enough better that I said I couldn’t think of letting her go, and Dr. Burney agreed. We are all comfortable with seeing what tomorrow brings. Christian is more worried about my bank account than I am—he says I can’t let this go on too long, and I understand that. But I just can’t say, “I’m glad you seem better, but I can’t afford to pay any more bills.” Life is too precious, and the burden of holding it in your hands is heavy.

I remember once running into a friend outside my neighborhood vet’s office. He said, matter-of-factly, “He needs a $2000 surgery, and I can’t afford that, so we’re going to put him to sleep this morning.” I was horrified, though I’m sure my friend, once a colleague, really couldn’t afford it. I’d have arranged monthly payments or something. As I struggle with the Sophie dilemma I think of the hundreds of people dying in Ukraine and Gaza, and I have concluded death at a distance and in mass, anonymous numbers is easier for many to tolerate. Up close and specific, it appalls.

Dr. Burney called this evening to report that Sophie ate a piece of lunch meat this afternoon and then, after a bit, ate another. That’s a really good sign. He says he can’t see her coming home tomorrow but he’s hoping for Saturday! I feel like shouting this news from the rooftop!

My good friend and neighbor, Jaimie Smith, sent me this quote from Joe Biden. It is so true, it made me teary, but I also think it speaks volumes to what kind of a good man our president is: “Dogs’ lives are short, too short, but you know that going in. You know the pain is coming, you’re going to lose a dog, and there’s going to be great anguish, so you live fully in the moment with him. You can’t support the illusion that a dog can be your lifelong companion. There’s such beauty in the hard honesty of that, in accepting and giving love while always being aware it comes with an unbearable price. Maybe loving dogs is a way we do penance for all the mistakes we make in life.”

 

Wednesday, March 13, 2024

A day in limbo

 

Sophie waiting for company on the patio.
We had our first patio gathering tonight.

This morning before I was even out of bed, the vet called with not-so-good news. Sophie’s kidneys were failing. He didn’t sound hopeful, but he said we would give her the morning and see how she did. He’d call back mid-day. So I piddled—read emails, read Facebook, answered a bit of correspondence, but all thoughts of creative work fled. I was watching the clock and wondering what his idea of mid-day was. I think I was a case study in suspended animation.

My kids rallied around, as they always do when I need them. Colin, skiing with his family in Wolf Creek, Colorado, has called three times and been very supportive. I guess the best thing he said to me was, “You’re always tough about the big things.” And this, I agreed, was a big thing. Megan, packing up her family in Tahoe to head home, called, and Jamie called from Denver and tried to cheer me with made-up Biblical quotes. I love them for trying, but talking to them made me teary. I was better off when I didn’t talk about Sophie.

Dr. Burney called around two o’clock. No change. She was still lethargic, not interested in food, not interested in peeing, kind of mentally sluggish as well as physically. But he didn’t sound ready to give up. When I said, “She was my miracle baby,” he said, “Oh, I know. Mine two.” So we decided to give her the afternoon. He called about five-thirty, and we agreed to give her until morning. Are we postponing the inevitable? Maybe. One thought I had was that whether or not Soph took advantage of the day, it had been a help to me, allowed me a chance to collect myself and face what lies ahead. I sent her a telepathic message this morning, told her it was up to her—she either had to turn it around or shut it down, but she had to save me from making the decision. Dr. Burney said he was sure she got the message, but he would repeat it to her. I love that man.

So we are still in limbo. I think tomorrow morning, no matter which way it goes, Jordan and I will go to the veterinary clinic and see her. When she was so sick a year ago, Dr. Burney warned me that she would be mad at me, because she thought whatever happened to her was my doing. And boy, was he right. She wouldn’t come near me. So that worries me a bit about going to see her. Jordan thinks seeing us will give her a boost. I am not sure.

And to pile complication on complication: Jacob has tested positive for Covid. He’s just home from a three-day fishing/swimming/hanging out trip to Oklahoma with three buddies. Called his mom at lunch and said he couldn’t taste his Chick Filet. (In my opinion that’s a good thing—I boycott Chick Filet, but he loves it and I can’t appeal to his teenage hunger on moral grounds). So when he got home, he tested positive. So now he’s bummed, because he can’t hang out with his buddies during his senior year spring break, and he can’t work to earn money.

But there is family good news. My brother, who is pretty much bedridden, has been in the hospital for two or three weeks, but it looks like he can go home tomorrow. I’m so grateful for small slivers of hope.

Tonight Subie and Phil came for a drink. She said she watched all day for a message telling them not to come, but I would have wanted them here no matter which way things went with Sophie. They are longtime friends, the kind who are a comfort, and they were tonight. It was the first time Subie drove over our new, nicely flat driveway, and she was full of raves about it.

I am deeply grateful to all of you who have sent hugs and prayers and good wishes. You help me as I wait in limbo, and I’m sure. If she knew, Sophie would be grateful too. She always did love to be the center of attention.

Tuesday, March 12, 2024

Sophie’s story part II


Sophie, 12 weeks old
The day we brought her home.

Tonight, the cottage is quiet and a bit lonely. Sophie is spending the night in the hospital. She had taken lately, with the warmer weather, to lying on the patio until late at night when I enticed her inside with a bit of cheese so I could go to bed. During the evening, she’d come in from time to time to get a drink of water and, I hope, to see that I was where she thought I ought to be, but it was not as though we spent the evening chatting. Still, I miss knowing she out there, and I may even miss her demand for breakfast at seven in the morning.

She is in a specialty clinic, not your neighborhood vet (think big dollars), but the doctor who saved her life is one of my favorite people. She needs his spot-on knowledge. He called tonight to say that she’s still pretty rough. This morning he reported that her diabetes was out of control, her blood sugar ridiculously high, and she had opened the old wound (once a bed sore) on her front elbow. (I’d caught her licking that now and again but she stopped when I told her to.) Tonight he says the sugar numbers are much better, so I will wait for a morning report.

I like to say this all happened so fast—the first clear sign was yesterday morning when she didn’t eat her breakfast. But in retrospect, I know there were small signs—another time I’ll be more alert to them. She, who is always ravenous, turned down her dry kibble though she kept eating the canned food. And if I poured broth over the kibble, she’d eat it. But that quit yesterday. We caught her chewing nonedible things. And both last night and this morning she disappeared into the far reaches of the back yard where I cannot see her and cannot follow with my walker. I’ve had experience before with a dog who went off to die, so that freaked me out. In fact yesterday in the wee morning hours I called Christian but just then she poked her head around into the door, and I hit disconnect quickly. But last night and this morning Jordan and Christian had to go get her and carry her back to the cottage.

So tonight I am feeling sorry for myself. Jordan and Christian have gone to a friend’s b’day dinner at Don Artemio’s, the relatively new, upscale restaurant featuring the food of northeastern Mexico—think Saltillo and San Miguel, also think nopales, cabrito, tacos de Lengua (tongue tacos and my favorite on the menu). Don Artemio’s was a finalist for the best new restaurant in the James Beard Awards for 2023. I suggested jokingly Jordan order the cabrito, because that’s what I want the next time I dine there. I knew she’d frown, and I bet she orders a steak because that’s what she likes and what she is comfortable with. Me? I want to try new things, as long as they are not too spicy.

But more than feeling sorry for myself, I am feeling sorry for Sophie. I know she thinks we’ve abandoned her. She hates the clinic, and we all know when you feel bad, you want to be home, not in some sterile place. Fingers crossed, prayers said that she can come home tomorrow.

Tonight Mary came for happy hour. She is to do a two-part cooking class on Helen Corbitt for the Silver Frogs (non-credit, community classes from TCU for an older audience, a truly vital program.) Mary cooks from her kitchen via a Zoom-like arrangement, and for the Corbitt program she plans to have me chime in with my research into Corbitt’s career. So she showed us the treasures she’d bought for the demonstration—a Hollandaise sauce mix, chutney, flower pots for the cakes Corbitt made for LadyBird, etc., and the Power Point presentation she’d put together. I declined to do that because I have no idea about Power Point. It was fun to talk about Corbitt, and I enjoyed the hour. Then Mary and Jordan rushed off and I ate leftover meat loaf and a small green salad.

But I’ve got great cooking plans coming up—only to be told Jordan wants a b’day dinner of tacos Saturday night. I have a recipe for chicken tacos I might try to talk her into, but I am not hopeful.

Pray for Soph, please. I hope tomorrow I can report she’s safely home.

Monday, March 11, 2024

Worrying about Sophie

 


Sophie is having what I guess you’d call a diabetic crisis—so I am having an emotional crisis. Over the weekend, we caught her eating some odd things—like my rattail comb, a baseball card picture of one grandson, and so on. Jordan said, “She’s hungry”; Christian said, “She’s bored.” Turns out Jordan was right.

Last night I had to get up twice to refill her water, which is unusual. When she went out at five in the morning, she was gone twenty minutes or more, and I couldn’t find her. Was about to call Christian when she stuck her head in the door. She has breakfast in two servings—a complicated story because of her insulin shot. But this morning, she did not lick the bowl clean as usual with her first breakfast and did not eat her second at all. Christian was taking Cricket to the vet, so he described the symptoms, and the vet said her blood sugar is high. She needs to eat and have insulin.

This evening we tried everything to get her to eat—pouring broth over her dog food, grating cheese and dropping it on the floor with an “Oh, oh” (which is what we do when we’re working with cheese—it usually delights her), and, finally, putting dog food and broth in a blender and using a syringe to force feed. Worked pretty well—until she went outside and threw it all up. Per vet instruction, we gave her a half dose of insulin. Both Sophie and I would be lost without Jordan and Christian to manage all this.

So tonight, lethargic is a mild description of her condition. Poor thing apparently feels awful, so first thing in the morning I’ll call the vet. I anticipate we’ll take her in, they’ll feed her through an IV (there goes the fur on one leg), and give her insulin. I pray they can do it without keeping her overnight.

Christian put our feelings into words tonight when he said, “I didn’t realize how fragile her health is.” Now that I look back, I should have seen more warning signs—whereas she usually ate anything you gave her, she scorned her dry kibble for several days. One day I put broth on it and she ate it heartily, but now she won’t even do that. And canned food? She was ravenous. It’s such a sudden change.

Being a pet parent has a lot in common with parenting a child—that feeling of helplessness when you want so desperately to make them feel better, can’t make them understand how to help, and don’t know what else to do.

Nothing else on my mind tonight. Tomorrow, I hope, a more cheery report.

Sunday, March 10, 2024

 Were the Little House on the Prairie books anti-feminist? What a question!

 

  


 

President Biden warns us repeatedly that the November election is the most significant in American history. We will choose between democracy and fascism. Recently I’ve noticed another threat—to women. It’s not just abortion or our rights over our own bodies; it’s our place in society, in the world in which we live. The presumptive Republican candidate for the governorship of Norh Carolina, a man named Mark Robinson who is endorsed by trump, has said he’d like to go back to a time when women didn’t have the vote. A politician (I think it was Montana, and I apologize I didn’t get his name) said that America ought to be ruled by men of God—strong, white men. In Texas and in my home county of Tarrant, incumbent women lost a significant number of offices, everything from state representative to tax collector and the state school board. Nationally, there’s the quixotic campaign of Nikki Haley, now ended, or the well-publicized shootout in California between Katie Porter and Adam Schiff. Porter s now being criticized for being a sore leader, akin to trump, but I think she was doing what she does best: exposing politics and corruption. Could her being a woman have added to her current dilemma? After years of fighting the glass ceiling, women are once again gradually being edged out of power, influence, etc.  

Senator Katie Britt’s response to the State of the Union has been mocked, critiqued, disputed all over the internet, and I won’t repeat the comments here, though some are hysterically funny, especially the cold open of SNL. But beneath all the laughter, there’s serious concern. Right-wing extremists give every indication of wanting to send women back to the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant. The dismissive attitude is summed up by a recent incident in Arizona: when Gov. Katie Hobbs called for reproductive freedom in her State of the State speech, a male legislator who must have thought he was clever said there’s already aspirin. He advised women to hold an aspirin between their knees, a suggestion so demeaning and insulting I hardly know what to say.

In her March 8 column, Letter from an American, historian Heather Cox Richardson traces the demonization of women back to the Sixties and cites protests over the 1968 Miss America contest. She doesn’t say it, but the early 1960s saw publication of Betty Freidan’s The Feminine Mystique, the book many credit with starting the late-twentieth-century feminist movement. Richardson traces the status of women through those years: Nixon’s turn against abortion in an effort to win the Catholic vote, Phyllis Schafly’s screeching attacks on the Equal Rights Amendment, the 1973 Roe v Wade, which did so much to free women from traditional, pre-WWII roles, the Laura Ingalls Wilder Little House on the Prairie books which Richardson suggests reinforced the idea of women needing men to take care of them. In 1984, Walter Mondale chose Geraldine Ferraro as his running mate, and they were soundly defeated. And then there was Rush Limbaugh with his “feminazis” and right on up to Hillary Clinton’s battle with donald trump. I urge you to read the entire column: March 8, 2024 - by Heather Cox Richardson (substack.com)

Of course, the battle began at least a century earlier than the Sixties. It was 1848 when women met in Seneca Falls, NY to plan their fight for rights. There followed years of protest, jailings, beatings, and unbelievable courage until in 1920 the 19th Amendment gave women the right to vote. The fight is different today but nonetheless intense. Anger and indignation are not good motivation for action, but in this case, I think they are appropriate. I hope women across America will see the insidious nature of this campaign against us and rise up en masse to tell right-wing extremists we are no handmaidens. Will you join me? I am tempted to say “Vote Blue!” but much as I personally want to see Joe Biden in office for another four years, that’s not the point here. I think every woman should evaluate each candidate on his or her stance not only on abortion but on women’s rights and the rights of minorities, because the two go hand in hand.

In peace.


Saturday, March 09, 2024

Cooking up a storm


It looks a bit sparse on that big plate, 
and the bok choy looks a bit pitiful,
but the chicken was really good.
Perhaps I need to improve my food stylist skills.

It’s the weekend, and as usual I’ve spent much of it cooking. Along the way I’ve learned a couple of things. Besides, I’ve enjoyed it.

Friday night, I fixed cottage pie—the English version of shepherd’s pie. If you make it with lamb, it’s shepherd’s pie; with beef, cottage pie. We had cottage, though as I made it I regretted that I hadn’t thought to get lamb. It’s about time for some more lamb in our diet, perhaps Julia Child’s recipe for spring lamb stew. But until I get to that, cottage pie makes a good, one-dish meal. It’s one of Christian’s favorites, and I always cook with at last one thought of him in mind. Jordan sweetly mashed the potatoes for me, though I cooked and peeled them. Somehow having her do that made the meal less of a chore.

Tonight I was more ambitious and followed recipes for sauteed baby bok choy and bourbon chicken—it turns out Christian had several bottles of bourbon stashed in my closet. I refrained from using the good stuff, though it was only a quarter cup. That recipe had a little bit of everything in it—ketchup, apple cider (I used white wine). Honey, soy, bourbon, chicken broth—no wonder it was flavorful. There was part though that was an ordeal: cubing the chicken thighs, even though they were boneless and skinless. I put them out to defrost, hoping to catch them in a semi-frozen state when they would be easier to cut up. First time I tried, they were still frozen too hard; then I let them go too long, and they were defrosted. And the lesson of the day: my knives really needed sharpening. I’ve known that for some time, hated to add one more thing to the list I ask the kids to do for me. You ask why I don’t do it myself—I have an electric knife sharpener but  simply cannot bear the sound. So tonight, after dinner, Christian left with the sharpener and several of my knives.

Other than that, the bourbon chicken was fairly easy to do if you remember mise en place—prepping all ingredients and equipment before you begin. The list of ingredients in the sauce for the chicken was fairly daunting—unless you took it item by item and had it ready before you cooked the chicken. Similarly the bok choy recipe called for two separate mixtures. So I did all that and carefully considered what pans I would use. As it turned out I used a pan for the bok choy, transferred that to a slightly smaller pan, washed the first one, and did the chicken in it. But the real saving grace was having all those little dishes of oil and garlic and complex sauce ready before I began.

None of us were too enthusiastic about bok choy even before I served it. Although it was billed as baby bok choy, I suspect it was larger than that. Christian doesn’t like cooked greens, though the stems were crisp and good, and he remarked he liked the taste. Jordan and I were lukewarm. So the recipe went into the round file, and the remains into the compost.

The chicken was another matter—it was not only hard to cut up but hard to cook. You tossed it with cornstarch, but that turned it into one gluey mess making it hard to follow directions that said cook in a single layer. I persevered but none of it browned like the recipe promised, and I ended up deglazing the pan with a bit of uncalled for white wine to get up all those good, browned bits. Perhaps my pan is not as non-stick as I like to think. But I removed the chicken, heated the sauce and cooked it until thickened, added back the chicken, It was to be served over rice, but neither Jordan nor I care for the rice, so Christian brought his own. We garnished it with green onions and declared it a semi-Asian success.

So what I learned was the importance of mise en place. But the other thing was a certain pride in myself. It’s hard to admit, but I live in a semi-assisted living arrangement. There are things I can no longer do for myself and have to ask for help with. But when I do one of those little things, I feel so triumphant. Tonight, it was figuring out how to get lids off two resistant things—the chicken bouillon where I used my mom’s hot water trick, and the bourbon where I used a rubber jar “thing” to twist the top off the bourbon. Somewhere in my not-so-colorful life, I have torn both my rotator cuffs and, of course, never had the surgery because I know it is brutal. So both my reach and my grasp are compromised, But tonight I figured hacks to get me by things that normally would have required help and that made me inordinately proud. I will add that the mechanical jar opener I recently ordered was worthless.

Tomorrow the Burtons will go to have dinner with Christian’s father. Sunday nights are always a bit hard for me, because for so many years that was family night, and I fed anywhere from fifteen to twenty. I always think Sunday dinner should be something special, so now when I’m alone I splurge. Tomorrow it will be baked scallops in lemon butter and probably a few spears of asparagus with cheese sauce. And, oh yes, a glass of wine!

One of the wonderful things about my retirement/reclusive/golden years life is that I eat very well. I hope you do too.

Friday, March 08, 2024

Random thoughts on a chilly night



I was about to start this post with the unoriginal observation that Texas is at it again—unpredictable weather. Yesterday and apparently overnight we enjoyed some much-needed rain of the moderately gentle variety rather than the heavy downpours that run off before they can soak into the ground. I was especially pleased because I thought the newly exposed roots for my two huge trees must be grateful. But then the phrase “Texas is at it again” struck me in a whole different way.

This week showed us Texas, Greg Abbott, at the behest of his oil-rich billionaire sponsors, shoving Texas ever farther to the right. What kind of a governor indulges in revenge politics, deliberately challenging state politicians who opposed him, in this case on the infernal question of school vouchers? Unfortunately, money talks and Abbott’s challengers beat out several of the more moderate Republicans on the down-ballot. It looks like we are doomed to have school vouchers, which will further weaken our already pitiful public school system. Texas needs to put that money into teacher raises, classroom equipment, etc. In short, it needs to strengthen public education, not siphon off possible funding. The irony is that the voucher amount is not enough for many low-income families to send their kids to private school so who benefits? The rich who are already sending their kids to private schools and now get some money for doing so. It’s a rotten system.

Ken Paxton was not quite as successful in avenging himself against those who voted to impeach him, and there’s now a glimmer of hope because he is finally going to go to trial later this spring on fraud charges he’s delayed for years. But right now he’s busy suing everyone in sight—an El Paso faith-based organization that helps immigrant (of course Paxton hates them), several school districts for electioneering (but has he looked at private schools who push petitions for vouchers on their parents). Today it was announced he is suing several entertainment and/or food venues for not allowing police officers on their premises if they carry guns. Ah yes, Texas is the state where guns are more important than human life. His targets include the State Fair of Texas of all things. Also the popular Meow Wolf in Grapevine, a restaurant in Deep Ellum, a theatre in Grand Prairie, and a bar/restaurant in San Antonio. Must keep the poor guy busy finding his targets. But it costs money to mount these lawsuits, taxpayer money, and we never hear about the outcome. Except today I did hear that a judge quashed the suit against the El Paso immigration charity.

But if you look at it, Abbott and Paxton are spending Texas taxpayer money without our consent for extravagant, cruel and illegal means at the border (a judge gave Biden a big victory on that today) and to sue business which are adding to the Texas economy and quality of life. For this, Abbott and Paxton get big bucks from those oil men who think they can run Texas, and what do we, the taxpayers get? An inferior education system that consistently ranks in the middle to lower grouping nationally. Good going guys.

On the national scene, it is redundant to say that President Joe Biden hit it out of the ballpark last night with an energetic, challenging, comprehensive State of the Union message that exposed all of the Republican lies and sent the orange former guy to tweeting out no less than seventy-five angry posts. I had thought with the primaries behind us, the volume of emails and texts would diminish but no such luck. My email was a mess this morning with politicians from all states wanting to ride Biden’s coattails. Many of them are candidates I would support were I a wealthy woman, but I’m not. All this deluge of messages does is a) make me feel guilty, and b) make me want to explain my support but straightened circumstances. I am tempted to say I’ll vote for the candidate—oops, specify progressive candidate (I’m not ruling out a Republican, though I don’t think I’ll find a progressive one) who sends me the fewest emails. But then again, who’s counting.

Here we go again into a frenetic cycle of fund-raising. I’d love to turn off my computer, but I won’t because I think we each have a civic duty to be well informed and because, politics aside, I enjoy my online life. November seems a long time away. Also it really bothers me, and has for years, that money determines election outcomes. I realize it’s true, but I resent it. I want us to elect politicians because they will run the country with knowledge and wisdom, they will try to protect America, keep it strong, protect democracy, and improve life for the average American, not because they have the biggest war chest (Abbott wins that one in Texas and looks what it gets us—a fiefdom). 

Just call me Pollyanna, the idealist.