Judy Alter's Blog

For days now, my first thoughtin the morning has been that today is the day that I must pick up the droppedthreads of my blog. After all, I’ve been blogging since 2006. I checked just now,and my last blog post was June 08, just shy of a month ago. But where to begin?I think I’ll go wash my hair.

Truly, that’s been sort of myattitude. A Scarlett O’Hara-type tendency to put off what I’m not sure about dealingwith. When this attack on my physical well-being began, I was woefully ignorantof how severe the impact would be. Just a minor problem while I went merrilyabout my family, writing, and social life. In the hospital I wrote, in my mind,great blogs and even roughed out a new Irene adventure (she told me she was notthrough yet, but where she got this hare-brained idea, I’ll never know). I hadno idea how hard everything would be. For goodness sake, walking from my bed tomy desk this morning with the four-wheeled walker was a major challenge. Writeanother Irene novel? Maybe on down the road, but not this week, thank you.

My blog started as a mix ofwriting, cooking, and grand-mothering. Pretty much all of that is changed now(yes, I sometimes want to howl, “I want my old life back!”) The grands aremostly grown—youngest is now sixteen (maybe seventeen—I lose track). Because Ihave had a tracheostomy, my meals are liquid and bypass my mouth and taste budscompletely—so boring. I guess I have always measured out my life not withPrufrock’s coffee spoons but with meals—they were like punctuation for eachday. Without that incentive, there goes maybe half my blog. Writing remains,but I am not sure even avid readers want to read about writers and their doingsall the time.

Originally the blog was a stewof those three elements, but eight years ago when I downsized to my cottage, Imade a half-hearted attempt to change it to “View from the Cottage.” It seemedto me that my view of the world then was limited to what I could see from thecottage—like the tiny sliver of the street in front of the house and the glimpseof children walking to elementary school. But that wasn’t really true then—to acertain extent I was out and about in the world. Now my view really is limitedto what I see—and hear and read—from the cottage. So what do I write about?

I am loathe to give up theblog. I’ve made so many good friends, met so many interesting people. For me,the blog is like Emily Dickinson’s letter to the world. My blog links me to awide, wide world, and I like that a lot.

So bear with me. I’m not extraordinarilyprivate, but I do promise not to share daily medical updates. I am known forstrong political opinions, and I’ll likely share more of that. I’ll watch forother topics, and maybe you’ll have some ideas to share.

Can we start View from theCottage, Part II together? I’d be so grateful if you’d take this new journeywith me.

 

An AI generated image of America's first long table--
or so they would have us believe.
Not much diversity or inclusivity1
Whoa! Did I get in bigtimetrouble for my blog post last night. I who am wallowing in the care and loveand support of my family, apparently offended them because they interpreted mypost about no dinners in the cottage as whining that they—specifically Jordanand Christian—don’t come to see me anymore since I’m not serving dinner. Thatwasn’t at all what I meant—and I did say that Jordan is out here several timesa day checking on me. My point, if I had one, was sort of sociology, a commenton the fact that food draws us together—as families, as neighbors, as communitygroups. We are closest to others when we gather around the table. I justhappened to use my family’s current circumstances to illustrate.

That does not at all mean thatmy cooking, sometimes wonderful and other times appalling, was the only thingthat drew the Burtons out here for supper. If they didn’t care about me, evenJulia Child couldn’t have gotten them here for dinner—and mostly on time. Iknow that well, and I thought they did. They came so we could gathertogether—and food, specifically dinner, provided the reason for the gathering.No that there’s no food—well, I do offer yogurt, etc.—there is no gathering, noset time and reason. And everybody’s busy.

I hope it’s clear that no onecould ever do more for me than my children, with Jordan as the captain of thearmy. She keeps track of my medical appointments—time, place, dietspecifications, etc., if there are any. Because I don’t hear well on the phone,she has most calls directed to her and asked me the other day just to tellpeople to call her. She has a separate folder for each specialist we’ve seen,with notes on the visit. She has, in effect, become my personal assistant, andI don’t see how anybody goes through a medical crisis like this without her.Christian, too, spent many days going with us to various appointments, untilJamie arrived and took over his duties. Jordan is doing this while dealing withher own luxury travel clients—and tonight they are both worried because theyhave decided they will have to put their remaining old dog down next week.Their lives go on, but they have put them on the second burner for the timebeing to take care of me. It’s ten o’clock at night and Jamie is sitting in hiscar right outside my door, taking a business call from Hong Kong. He’ll likelybe there until two in the morning.

No, they were not the subjectof the blog. In fact, they were no more than illustrations of an idea. A storythat seems to fit here: in one office recently, I introduced Jordan and Jamieas my daughter and son. A few minutes later, the tech, filling out one of thoseendless forms, asked me how many pregnancies I’d had. When I said, “none,” shewhipped her head around and stared at the three of us. What I think happened inthat minute was that she felt the love between us and couldn’t believe me.Jordan explained that they are adopted, and she seemed to accept it. It made methink of when I had a hip revision—my kids were all four gathered in thesurgical waiting room when my brother walked in. Later, he said, “You couldfeel the love in that room. It was tangible.” That’s what family is about.Gathering for dinner is an entirely different thing.

All myadult life, I have loved cooking for a crowd. In a hunting cabin in Missouri,where the bedroom was a check coop that had been cleaned (thank goodness) andattached to the house, I had dinner parties for my friends and mythen-husband’s fellow medical students. One night I fixed those good Jewishboys stuffed cabbage and, following the recipe, topped the dish withgingersnaps. One by one they walked through the kitchen, lifted the lid, andsniffed, “That’s not how my mom did it.” That may have been the beginning of mycooking for others. In subsequent years I cooked in big houses and smallhouses, fixing holiday dinners for twenty, Sunday supper for at least fifteen,dinner parties for eight and Christmas parties for sixty or seventy. It all hadto do with bringing people together to eat.

Inrecent years there as been much talk of the long table. Perhaps you’ve seen thememe that urges “Don’t build a high wall—build a longer table.” In other words,don’t wall people out. Invite more to dine with you. There is today acharitable organization called The Longer Table. This is from their literature:“Something magical happens when we sit to share a meal—strangers become friends,and neighbors become family.” That’s what ‘s been missing from my cottagelately, due to circumstances beyond our control. I think when I get throughthis rought patch, I need a longer table so more can enjoy what Jordan, Christian,and I have. That when we sit together to share a meal—strangers become friends +neighbors become family.

 

Something magical happenswhen we sit together to share a meal—strangers become friends + neighborsbecome family.

 

 

 

Jamie and  his guitar
I have always believed thatmuch as it nourishes our bodies, good food nourishes our souls, especially ifeaten with congenial company. And I have consciously been a nurturer all myadult life. When pandemic hit, I welcomed Jordan, Christian, and Jacob to thecottage for supper almost every night. We had a few friends who we knew werequarantining as consciously as we were, and they came for happy hour on thepatio, our logic being that open-air visits were safer. As a family, we atewell but not lavishly—no lobster and few steaks, but meatloaf and burgers thatChristian grilled and casseroles I made and sometimes invented. Jordan and Imade weekly menu plans and grocery lists, and one of my greatest joys was toscan the internet and a few magazines, principally Southern Living, fornew ideas. By this Spring, of course, all that had changed. The Burtons hadsocial and business obligations, Jacob was off being a high school senior, andI occasionally went to dinner with friends but was more likely to have friendsto the cottage for a light supper.

Almost three weeks ago, allthat changed again, all at once. I was told I should stick to soft food(anything I can cut with the edge of a fork—yogurt, applesauce, oatmeal,potatoes, etc.); I was told I can never have another glass of wine (If I wishto survive); I pretty much lost interest in food (nausea seemed to linger closeto the surface). To my surprise I still enjoyed finding new recipes and alreadyhave a bulging fold labeled “Recipes to try.” Someday, someday.

Meanwhile the Burtons prettymuch stopped showing up. I’m not sure what or how they and Jaie are eating, butI don’t hear dinner plans,etc. Jordan comes many times a day to ask, “How’s itging?” or to discuss medical appointments, of which I have many. Christianrarely comes, and I think Jacob has been out here twice (we did have thatlovely dinner at Pacific Table). Jamies is here now, for moral support andcompany to doctors’ visits, but he has the most irregular eating habits I’veever seen—he brought a jar of peanut butter and cans of ravioli with him—andhis working hours are just as irregular. He works remotely but hasn’t found theperfect place yet—yesterday and today he’s at one of those rent an office bythe day places at Clearfork, and he came in at 1:30 this morning.

But the result of all this isthat I am alone, with Benji (and today Jamie’s dog) much more than I am usedto—at a time when it is perhaps not the best thing for introspective me to bealone. But what this new schedule tells me most of all is that I was right—we gatherat the table for more than physical nourishment. Eating together feeds our soulsas well as our bodies.  I will be glad toget past this physical problem of mine and start cooking again. I will say thatmusic also feeds our souls—last night, about eight o’clock, Jamie brought outhis guitar. With memories of another pleasant evening when his guitar hadhealing properties, I crawled into my bed, and he played softly for me forabout an hour. I was probably more relaxed than I have been in weeks.

Another Jamie adventure today:on our way home from today’s doctor’s appointment, we passed a car apparentlystranded on the side of a high overpass. As we drove by Jame said, “Looks likean old lady.” Next thing I knew we were in the totally wrong lane for goinghome, and almost peevishly I asked, “Where are you going?” “Back to check onthat old lady,” he said. And so we made the whole circle around the highway exchangeand pulled up behind the stranded car. This scared me some, because you alwayshear about good Samaritans being hit by passing cars, but Jamie was careful.From the passenger seat, I watched him laughing and smiling. When he came back,he said, “She’s got a tow truck on the way. I told her I’d be glad to changethe tire”—I looked at his white jeans—“but she said it was all taken care of.” Doyou wonder that I’m proud of the kids I raised?

 

On our way to dinner
It’s wonderful to have familyand friends share the high points in your life, as we did Friday nightcelebrating Jacob and three other Paschal High School graduates. But sometimes,a quiet family night is nice too. The four of us went to dinner at Pacific Tablelast night. Jacob got to choose the restaurant. It was a gorgeous eveningagain, and we sat on the patio. Yes, the wait for service was long, but we weretalking and reminiscing. Jacob ordered, as he usually does, Caesar salad. This nightit came in long, uncut leaves, and as he attacked it with a fork, I gently(well I tried) pointed out that the salad, invented in Mexico, was originally fingerfood. You were to pick up each leaf, with a dollop of dressing on the far end,and eat it. Jacob’s response? “I’m kind of liking the fork.” So much for foodhistory. We lingered until dark—a thoroughly pleasant evening. We don’t oftenhave Jacob’s company in the evening, which made this special.

My cone flowers in the frontyard have really spread this year with all the rain we’ve had. I askedChristian if when the flowers go to seed, he could capture some seeds and spreadamong the wildflowers in the back yard to introduce a new color or at least anew shade of pink. He explained that the plants all have runners and that’s howthey spread. But we reasoned they must also have seeds, so if anyone has anyhints about sharing the wealth from front to back, please let me know.

Son Jamie just blew into town,literally blown in before what promises to be a storm. Thunder was rolling afew minutes ago and the sky was dark—briefly it was silent, the air very still,and then came the rain. A good medium rain, hard enough to soak in but not towash away things. Jame will stay the week, helping with my doctor appointments,errands, etc. He brought his Pomeranian, Cosmo, and we had the greatintroduction of Benji and Cosmo. Benji was of course excited out of his mind,while Cosmo tried to pretend nothing was happening. Given one chance, he boltedout the patio door to the yard, but of course Benji followed him. After onlyone half-hearted scuffle, they settled down to the butt-sniffing stage. ButBenji is very jealous of any attention Jamie pays to Cosmo.

Benji learned a new trick todaybut I’m quite sure he will unlearn it quickly. The walker was next to me at mydesk when suddenly I was aware that Benji’s face was in mine. He had crawled upon the walker, which promptly began to move under him, leaving him scramblingto get his feet on the floor again. Then just now Jamie left, with Cosmo, toget Mama’s Pizza (high school memories die hard) and Benji got so excited he jumpedon the credenza next to me where I keep racks of file folders. Two jars of dogtreats went down, but I caught the file folders in time. Pray for me—it’s goingto be a long week.

 

 

 

Jacob Burton, Lexi Nader, Caroline Russell,  and Colin Russell

Friends and family gathered atJoe T. Garcia’s late this afternoon to celebrate four high school graduates.Tonight, as I am writing, they are walking across the stage at TCU SchollmaierArena, collecting their diplomas. That’s right, I’m the grandmother, and I’mnot there. Apparently, each graduate got few tickets. Plus Jordan reasoned itwould be a madhouse and a long evening, so we celebrated beforehand. If I’m notmistaken, Jacob has gone to school with these kids since kindergarten. Jacoband Lexi will go to Arkansas; I don’t believe at this writing I know where theRussell twins are going—except they will not go to the same school.

To see Jacob graduate fromhigh school—even if I’m not there—is a real moment of nostalgia for me. For hisfirst five years at Sweet Lily B. Clayton Elementary across from my house, Iwas the daytime caretaker. We did homework, though he would sometimes say, “Juju,I think we should wait for my dad on this one”—that almost always referred tomath. We cooked meals and dodged thunderstorms and had lots of sleepovers.There was the night he put a chair, a glass of wine, a book and a flashlight inthe closet for me, blankets and a game for him, and insisted we stay there untilthe storm passed. Lots of good memories of his school years. It wasn’t until sixthgrade, when he was ten, that we moved me to the cottage, and he 
and his family moved into the main house.Renee Hoke, Jordan, Marge Martinez (whose daughter graduated from Keller High
earlier this week), and me

The weather was perfect forJoe T.’s tonight—sunny and in the low eighties. We’ve had so much rain, we wereall afraid the heavens would let loose again this afternoon, but they didn’t.It rained this morning, and I think will rain again tonight, but the godsfavored us. I saw a meme of a man yelling, “For God’s sake, stop raining!” andmy first thought was never say that in Texas. The day will come when we allpray for more rain.

Joe T.’s is tricky for someoneon a soft diet: I had an order of guacamole, but one can only eat so much guac,good as it is. While the Burtons hurried off to TCU, Renee brought me home, andI had a small bowl of applesauce.

The other big bit ofnostalgia: my twenty-year-old, VW Bug convertible went away today; Three yearsago when I gave up my license—driving a Bug while using a walker doesn’t reallywork well—I gave control of the car to Christian, hoping he could sell it forsomething special for Jacob to use for college. That didn’t happen, but Jordandrove it occasionally (not with as much joy as I had). Then it wouldn’t passinspection, and then it wouldn’t start. So it sat in the driveway, a kind ofgrim reminder of a life I’d given up. Still, it was a comfort to me to see itthere. For sixteen or seventeen years, my identity was closely tied to thatcar. People all over the city knew where I’d been and what I’d been doingbecause they saw not me, but the car. One of my great joys when the Burtons livedin Hulen Bend was to put an Alex Beaton tape on (that’s how old the car was—a cassette),put the top down, and drive home from their house through the park, belting outScottish songs as loudly as I could. (I’m loud, but I don’t carry a tune wellat all). So there went another chunk of my active life. I tried hard not to seeit as symbolic, and Colin encouraged me to see it as a relief. I know Jordanwas ecstatic to get it out of the driveway. What’s next for my Bug? I have noidea. The body is worn, but the engine has under 40K miles on it.Me and the best car I ever owned.

So a mixed day, and one thatconfused me all day—I was sure today was Saturday.

Sweet dreams, my friends.

 

 

Meet Chloe, the therapy dog
Benji didn’t even know it wastime to get up this morning, because it was so dark outside. Texas continues tohave fierce storms—more are due tonight. But this morning, the darkness and theheavy rain gave me a nice reminder of my mom. I could practically hear hervoice saying, “Rain before seven, clear by eleven.” And sure enough, by elevenor a little after it was a lovely sunny day with blessed temperatures in theeighties. And it’s to stay that cool all week.

Benji had a spell of jealousythis evening, though he was, as he always is, good natured about it. Themedical office where I had an appointment today had a therapy dog. That’s Chloeabove—a lovely (and calm) two-year-old Aussiedoodle. At one point we heard ascratching at the exam room door, and the woman with us asked, “Do you likedogs?” Jordan and I assured her we do, so she opened the door, and in cameChloe with a ball in her mouth ready for us to throw. With the door closed andno place to throw the ball Chloe allowed us to love on her a bit and then laydown for a nice nap. Quite a contrast to Benji who jumped about wildly when wecame home and then, a few minutes later, when Mary arrived.

Benji obviously smelled Chloeon me  and gave me such a thoroughwashing with his tongue that I nearly had to shower before I could fix mysupper. Now he’s trying to get me to take an old artificial bone he loves. ButI notice how rough it is, and I wonder if that means he’s chewing offparticles, and we should take it away from him. At eight-thirty, it’s the hourwhen he settles down and lies next to my desk—unless something outsideintrigues him. It’s probably my favorite time of the day—the soft lamp is on,along with the colored lights Jordan long ago put on a collection of pussywillow. They may look like Christmas, but I find them warm and comforting inthe evening.

I read an interesting columntoday about reading habits and mental decline, the latter being a subject ofmuch discussion today with our two aging presidential candidates. I have my ownopinions on who is in mental decline and who isn’t—I bet you can guess!—but Iwon’t go into that. The suggestion in the column was that a switch from fictionto nonfiction might indicate a slowing of brain function. Fiction, the theorygoes, requires active participation by the reader, using the imagination to engagewith the plot and events of a story. Nonfiction on the other hand lays outfacts that the mind can more easily grasp.

I would have thought theopposite. Recently I started the new Erik Larson book, The Demon of Unrest, aboutthe period between the election of President Abraham Lincoln and the Confederatefiring on Fort Sumter, South Carolina, which signaled the beginning of theCivil War. It was then a period when our democracy was as fraught andthreatened as it is now. Larson’s research is superb, his writing clear andcompelling. I found the tension of the foreword—waiting for the Confederateguns to bark out—almost unbearable. Nonfiction at its very best.

But it was not what I needright now. My mind has enough tension and suspense of its own—I don’t need to grapplewith history.. Raher, I need escape, so I turned to an unread book on myKindle; A Big, Fat Greek Murder, by Kate Collins. It’s a cozy, no deepdark problems (except murder) and it distracted me from my own situation. WhatI’m trying to say is that I found—and often find—fiction easier to read than nonfiction,less demanding on my brain. How about you? What kind of reading is easier, morerelaxing for you?

Thanks to Kait Carson, whowrites thrillers, often about deep sea diving, for bringing up this subject.

 

Have I mentioned I have a newIrene in Chicago Culinary Mystery coming out at the end of the month? Justjoking, because I know I have. It’s easy to think by now it’s all done, and Iam idle, but that is not the case. Today I fired off two guest blogs to tellthe cozy world about Irene in a Ghost Kitchen and tonight I’ll try topost on some cozy mystery groups web sites. I still have to proof the finalversion, when the formatter sends it, and get it up and available on Amazon,decide who gets comp copies, etc. A lot of details to wrap up, and so that’swhere much of my day went today.

Jean and Jeannie Chaffee camefor happy hour tonight, bringing with them a bountiful feast of dips andquesadillas and all sorts of good things. Despite our best efforts, they wouldn’ttake any of it home with them, so I have a loaded refrigerator. Jeannie alsobrought Benji a bag of new toys, and he took an instant shine to her, ploppinghis slobbery tennis balls in her lap, crawling over others to get to her. Ihaven’t seen as much of Jeannie in recent times, so it was fun to reminisceabout the days we shared office space—well, the administration didn’t know it, butthat was what it amounted to. We had glorious funny lunches and all kinds ofadventures. It was a good life, and we will always treasure those memories.

Those two ladies are gettingready to set off on an adventure—they leave this week for London for a coupleof days and then a ferry across the Channel to France. June 6, D Day, will findthem on the beaches at Normandy, with a crowd of at least thousands, markingthe 80th anniversary of that event. It gives me goosebumps to thinkof them crossing in a ferry, replicating that journey taken by all those men,many of whom never returned. I know the trip will be fun, and I suppose they’llhave lots of rich experiences—they will, for instance, spend a half day withthe Bayonne Tapestry. They will probably also eat some really good, countryFrench food, the food of the villages and not Paris—I offered Irene’s menuadvice, but so far they have not taken me up on it. But it will also be asomber trip, commemorating a day when many lives were lost. It seemssignificant that we mark today the men and women who died for democracy whendemocracy itself is so challenged. A part of me will be with my friends as theymake this journey.

Tomorrow, the world gets backto business, and I have a list of phone calls to make, questions to ask. We aresupposed to have a cold front (lower eighties, which is just fine, thank you)coming in, with possible storms tonight. I will be glad if the world is a bitcooler, although the heat hadn’t struck me until late this afternoon when I openedthe patio door for Benji and a blast of hot, wet air hit me.

I haven’t seen much of “InFlanders Field” by John McCrae this year, so here’s the final verse. It amountsto a challenge to Americans to fly the flag high and remembers those who gaveall on June 6, 1944.

Take upour quarrel with the foe:

To youfrom failing hands we throw

Thetorch; be yours to hold it high.

If yebreak faith with us who die

We shallnot sleep, though poppies grow

InFlanders fields.

 

 

 

 

Tonight's supper
I think I’m getting a handleon this soft food business—Jordan said tonight it’s good to see me hungryagain, but I think I was always hungry. It was just that the things I thought Icould eat had no appeal—I was getting tired of yogurt and applesauce. So forlunch today I had a leftover piece of Dover sole. No one in my familyunderstands that I like cold food as well as hot. Christian would have insistedon heating it, but I ate it out of the fridge. I squeezed more lemon over it,added a layer of mayonnaise, and topped that with grated Pecorino. Served with

fresh watercress because I’m aware I’m not getting good leafy greens but am abit cautious of salad. Then again, who can resist watercress. It was a deliciouslunch, and I have another piece left for tomorrow. Yes, I did offer it to Jordan,but she declined—her loss.

Tonight, though, I fixed thedish I’d been thinking about—eggs scrambled with a diced green onion, dicedtiny tomatoes (maybe not a good idea because of skins), smoked salmon, and ahuge spoonful of cottage cheese. With more watercress. Tasted so good, and itwas nutritious and pretty to look at, though I warn if you try it, the eggswill seep as you eat—it’s the cottage cheese separating and nothing to worryabout. And I finished both meals with chocolate bonbons. I am in danger,however, of running out of bonbons. I’m not normally an ice cream devotee, andI think now I’m interested in them mostly for the chocolate covering. I amafraid to try my beloved chocolate-covered salted caramels. All in all, I feelwell fed. Now for some ideas for the rest of the week. One day I have toeliminate all good things—meat, dairy, mayo, etc. and eat lots of leafy greens.I can sauté in olive oil, so I’m working on that. Sauteed cabbage sounds good,but no one would eat the rest of the head. This is all for a Pet Scan.

Me with a bob
on a good hair day Me with short hair
(and Megan)
I am struggling with thedilemma common to older ladies and always ongoing—short hair or long. When Ithought I was gaining weight, especially in my face, I let it grow into a bob,which it did fairly rapidly. My thought was that longer hair lengthened myface, and Rosa, my stylist, agreed. But now, my face probably thinner andfacing medical matters, I’m thinking short hair might be the better choice.Neither my daughters nor Rosa have been helpful about this, all saying it’s upto me. I think I want someone to step in and make a decisive call. I have untilFriday to decide. Rosa, who has been coming to the house to cut my hair eversince I lost the ability to walk unassisted, has set Friday morning for hernext visit. Opinions welcome.

Yesterday I took my courage tomy computer and sent a memo to friends saying how much I welcome their visits,but that I requested upbeat, cheerful talk—right now I don’t want to hear aboutillness, medical procedures, other people’s experiences, surgery, funerals, orrelated topics. I think it was the late Norman Lear who was once very ill andrequested that people laugh a lot when with him. It worked wonders toward hishealing—and if I’m right about Lear it means he lived a good long life. So Iwant happy talk—politics is fine because that fascinates me, jokes are good,food is good as long as it’s not steak and the like. The memo had immediate results—Inow have guests scheduled for Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. (Friday is Jacob’shigh school graduation, and I will be going to the pre- dinner at Joe T.’s butnot the graduation—Jacob gets few tickets, and all of us have been to so manygraduations; I guess that’s what happens when you’re number five grandchild).

Today’s sermon at church fitnicely with my conversational prescription. Russ Peterman began with theassertion that there is not a soul on earth who doesn’t want to be happy. I’mnot sure, because I see a lot of people who make themselves miserable. But followinghis premise, he went on to say none of us can define happiness. We don’t knowwhat that elusive quality is. Certainly it is not wealth nor success nor fame.Finally the conclusion came that happiness is a byproduct of a life lived forothers. It reminds me of one of my writing friends who talks about living lifebeyond ourselves, concept I truly believe in. But for the time being, until Iget through this rough patch, I am going to be living life for myself, with asmuch attention and care to others as I can muster.

Maybe, just maybe, happinessis having a dog lie next to your desk while you write. If I had moved to get abetter picture, he’d have moved. So this is what I see in the evenings, and Iknow he is there.Benji on guard

 

Dover sole unintentional hash
Tonight, Christian is inCoppell, with his dad who is not doing well after surgery, Jacob is off being ahigh school graduate, and Jordan and I looked at each other and said, “Wha’sfor dinner.” Then she added, “I’m probably not going to eat what you eat,” andtruth is she wouldn’t have; I planned to use that smoked salmon in scrambledeggs. But then, just in time to order from Central Market, she called andasked, “Fish?” I ordered filets of Dover sole, one large baking potato, and afew other things we needed. We feasted on a shared potato and generpid helpingsof sole. (Note to self: a quarter pound filet is enough for one, unless maybeit’s Christian.) I must explain the picture above—that fish is hash not becauseI need small bites but I have rarely been capable of cooking sole filets thathold together. Now I know why it’s so expensive in restaurants. But, to justifymyself a bit, Jordan got her helping out in one fairly good piece, and here’s apicture of the two left-over small filets that I cooked after weAlmost pefect filets
ate. I thinkmaybe size is one clue. And also maybe it’s like that first piece of pie thatnever comes out of the pie pan whole—but the rest do fine. At any rate, it wasa good dinner and satisfied my craving for solid food. In a bit, when I’m notquite so full, I’ll go get the tiny bit of tiramisu left from last night.

Otherwise it’s been a day atthe computer—organizing our schedules, which seem to change with every emailfrom a doctor’s office. But I also caught up on my own work. For the first timeI am putting an AI disclaimer on the copyright page of a book—makes me wonderabout the future. And I carefully, I hope, compiled a list of French foods withthe accents where they should be. Involved cutting, pasting, and guessing.

Today I heard from an oldfriend who has always maintained an apartment in Chicago but lived there parttime and in Florida the rest of the time. Politics and climate have driven himout of Florida, so he’ll be in Chicago more. I jokingly said I’d write him intothe next Irene book, and he revealed that one of the first projects he workedon years ago at the University of Chicago Press was a book titled, The Howsand Whys of French Cooking, by Alma Lach (1977). A plot idea immediatelysprung into my mind—can’t you see Irene working with a real editor andharassing him near to death. In fact, I warned my friend, the editor might meetan untimely end. Am I committing myself to another Irene book. Heaven help me!

Hot still weather has come toTexas early, not a good sign. At eight-thirty, it’s 85o and the airis eerily still. Possible thunderstorms tonight and several days during theweek. And 100o tomorrow. Too soon, too soon. I am glad Benji and Ihave the cool cottage. Now he’s lying by my desk but earlier something wasdisturbing him, and I think it was more than the flies he was chasing. He pacedour tiny space, and when he paces his nails click on the wood floors. At night,he moves silently as a cat, but the earlier clicking brought me close to screaming.Another good thing about him—he has never eaten people food not even scraps. Andhe doesn’t associate my cooking with food. Oh, sure, he’ll come sniff at thebutcher block (which is just above his nose, fortunately) but then he turnsaway. Even tonight when it was raw fish. That dog gets better daily.

You know what I think I’ll dotonight? Read a book and go to sleep early. Sounds like a winner. How aboutyou?

This may be a repeat, but sometime ago when I asked my primary care doctor if we needed to talk about my weight—inmy happy wine-drinking, chocolate gorging days I weighed more than I ever had.He replied, a bit righteously, “We do not encourage the elderly to lose weight.”Now I know why: when major illness hits, we overweight people have a cushion torely on. I don’t think this is exactly a license for gluttony, but I did continueon my merry way, loving the strip of fat on a good steak, a lot of butter on mytoast—you get the picture. Now I know what he was talking about.

Limited pretty much to softfoods, I have lost a few pounds—not the way I wanted to. And I’m hungry, and abit tired of soft foods. So I welcome any suggestions. (Maybe I’ve said thatbefore too—I lose track of things these days). But then again, things aren’tall bad. In the picture above, I am enjoying tiramisu for dessert, having justhad smoked salmon and good deli-rich cream cheese on toast as my entrée.Tomorrow I think I’ll dice some of that salmon into scrambled eggs with a bitof onion and tomato. But then, the prospect for breakfast is a dark chocolateprotein drink. At least it’s easy.

Today was another day of doctors’appointments and tests, this an out-patient biopsy that confirmed what doctorssuspected I was dealing with and emphasized the message that it is curable. Sorough ride ahead, but I’ll come out all right, albeit no doubt dramaticallychanged by the experience.

Meantime my kids, especiallyJordan, continue to be amazing support. She was with me at the out-patientsurgical facility all morning—would you believe we got home earlier than weexpected? Medical matters never work that way! We were both touchy at first,but after all, it was five-thirty in the morning. But we sweetened up as themorning wore along, and she promptly appeared in the recovery room, full ofgood reports and good cheer. Her siblings are studying how they can best rotatebeing of help, but the scheduling, which is a mess, all falls on Jordan, withmeager help from me.

Benji ready for tea
Benji continues to cement hisway into our hearts. The other day, Renee came by, and Benji jumped into thechair next to her, looking for all the world like he too would like to haveafternoon tea. “And two lumps of sugar, please.” Moments later I caught what Ithought was an aristocratic look—turns out his attention was fixed on a fly onthe ceiling. He is in and out of the flexible screen all day long, which meanshe inevitably brings some insects in with him. But he is also sensitive—he knowssomething is wrong and sticks close to me when inside, following me to thebathroom, sleeping by my desk while I work, settling by my bed when I sleep—thoughhe doesn’t stay there long and prefers his crate. It’s amazing to me to have adog who only has to be told once, “Go to your crate for a treat,” and he does.No attempt to bolt outside for one last bark at the moon. He was just nowgrowling at something in the oh-so-dark back yard, and I pay attention, 

Focusing on a fly

Me? Wouldn’t you know I have adesk full of work—guest blogs to write about Irene and her ghost kitchen, arevision of my brother’s obituary to reflect his importance in osteopathicmedicine (if you knew him, you’ll understand that and his “magic hands,”) andyes, Irene is tapping me on the shoulder telling me she doesn’t think her storyis over. And then there’s that book about dogs. I welcome all this these dayseven if it does make me feel harried and hurried.

And politics to keep up with:my current indignation is about the amount of corruption all around us. As afriend said recently, it is incomprehensible that a justice on the SupremeCourt flew a flag of rebellion and wasn’t run out of town on a rail. Made methink of the days when they tarred and feathered people for far less serious transgressions.And then there’s Judge Cannon in Florida, so obviously unqualified and biasedthat it leaves one breathless. And those are just the big names, supported byan unbelievable web of evil. Some days I just want to weep for my country.

That aside, I am working hardto make my days cheerful.