Iconic Summer Sandwich

I almost never buy bacon--too expensive, too unhealthful, too tempting . . . but I can't let the summer go by without a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich. 

And as there were beautiful Cherokee Purple tomatoes at the store . . . well, what could I do?

Toast and mayo, lettuce and salt and pepper. At this time of year my FB feed is full of arguments as to which is the correct mayonnaise --Hellmans or Dukes are the top contenders, but I always make my own. (I grew up in a family fiercely loyal to Hellmans.) Miracle Whip? Mention it not.

The sandwiches, along with some leftover potato salad, made a perfect hot-weather supper. And as a bonus, bacon drippings to save for making cornbread--when it gets cool enough to think about cornbread.

 

Sweet Home Carolina

 

Bingeing on Russell and Holmes

Years ago, when I learned that Laurie R. King and I shared an editor, I quickly purchased her first book--The Beekeeper's Apprentice--and fell in love with her writing. And bought copies of all her books at the time. These books survived the Great Purge because they are books I've read and re-read. 

The beekeeper is a semi-retired Sherlock Holmes, and the apprentice is the teenaged Mary Russell, whose intelligence startles and intrigues Holmes to the point that she becomes his apprentice and, eventually, his partner.

The series is wonderful--rich, intelligent writing, complex characters, intriguing situations, exotic locations (Jerusalem! Japan! India! Oxford! Transylvania! Romania! Morocco! California!) and all backed up with King's own formidable knowledge of the Holmesian canon as well as the literature, social scene, and history of the time (early 20th C.)

The series in order:

The Beekeeper's Apprentice, Beekeeping for Beginners (e), A Monstrous Regiment of Women, A Letter of Mary, The Moor, O Jerusalem, Justice Hall, The Game, Locked Rooms, The Language of Bees, The God of the Hive, Pirate King, Garment of Shadows, Dreaming Spies, The Murder of Mary Russell, Island of the Mad, Riviera Gold, and Castle Shade.

Recently I realized that while I'd read and re-read the first ten or eleven books, there were some more recent ones out there, unread. Time to catch up! But first I had to re-read from the beginning.

I mentioned that King and I were both fortunate enough to have the redoubtable Kate Miciak as editor. So, when I delved into the newer books, I was tickled to find that King was giving Mrs. Hudson, Holmes's iconic housekeeper, a very surprising past . . . not unlike what editor Miciak nudged me toward with Miss Birdie. 

It was a delight to catch up with the Russell/Holmes team--and to know there is yet another entry in the series coming out in the fall.

This time I won't have to reread from the beginning.

 

Fooling Around with Filters

 

Thanks to Jenny

...who makes sure I'm up for the sunrise...

I've been on a book de-accessioning tear these past few days. Five large boxes are waiting to be taken to the library book sale. (Five have already gone.)I'm thinking of my kids and the massive sorting they will eventually be faced with--so I'm getting rid of books I don't think they would want and I know I'll never re-read. 

I've done the shelves in the living room and in the hall and in my bedroom. That leaves my workroom and the bookshelves in the other upstairs.  (John's study is bursting with books but that's not my concern.)

Onward

 

A Summer Long Ago

 

                                                                                 

                                                                         

      The child rotated slowly in the well of light. She had pulled the mirrored closet door all the way open till it touched the window, forming a secret place, a tiny three-sided magical room filled with early sun and the summer smell of new-mown grass. The rhythmic back and forth whir and grind of the hand mower in the yard below was a soothing background to the sounds of a warm Saturday morning. Mourning doves called softly back and forth in the live oaks surrounding the house. Next door, a car started. The child continued to turn—dizzy with brilliance and the happiness of the day.

Across the room her grandmother was making up the two double beds. plumping the feather pillows and setting them to air in the wide windows at the far end of the big room. As the sun warmed the cotton pillowcases, the clean smells of starch and ironing joined the sweet green grass smell.

Soon the child would go downstairs; her grandmother would go outside and cut pink and yellow and coral Gerbera daisies to arrange in an etched glass bowl that stood on a table in the front hall. An old lady, a friend of her grandmother’s would come to lunch, smelling of talcum powder and Jergens lotion and wearing a flat little hat with a silly crumpled veil. Miss Glennie and her grandmother would eat chicken salad and potato chips and peach pickle and talk about people the child didn’t know. She would get bored and go into the sitting room where she would kneel on the sofa, arms stretched across its back, staring out the front windows at the street beyond the yard and sidewalk. Squirrels would dart to and fro, flirting their bushy tails, and the rough upholstery would scratch her knees.

Later she would go play in the backyard. It was bounded by a low hedge but the rolling greens and fairways of the golf course beyond seemed to go on forever. Frankland’s Lake was out there in the far blue distance, hidden by trees. Sometimes, when it was really quiet, she would listen for the guns. A war was going on and her daddy was overseas in a place called Burma. That’s why she and her mother lived with her grandparents. So she listened hard and wondered if the sounds she heard were guns and if tomorrow she and her grandfather would walk all the way to Frankland’s Lake.

In the late afternoon, when long shadows slanted across the grass and the heat hung heavy in the air, her mother’s friends—the ladies—would sit under the trees in the backyard, sipping iced tea from the tall sweating glasses the rested on the broad arms of the wooden lawn chairs. The ladies wore crisp linen dresses and chalky white pumps with fat high heels. Sometimes they had on stockings with black seams running up the backs of their legs. They talked and smoked cigarettes, leaving bright red lipstick smudges on the cigarette ends and fastidiously picking occasional crumbs of tobacco off their perfect lips.

At night, after their supper of Campbell’s tomato soup and saltines, her grandfather would pull the window shades down, making a cozy inside world. Around the tall cabinet radio in the sitting room, they would listen to the hiss and crackle that was news about the war. She would wait sleepily till it was time for bed. Then they would climb the stairs, past the clock on the landing and to the big room where she would snuggle into the little cot placed between the two big beds. After she had said her prayers, she would stretch out and fall asleep, her grandfather holding her left hand while her grandmother held her right.

I wrote this maybe thirty years ago, remembering my charmed childhood. Where was my mother? She had a room over the attached garage. I expect she preferred the independence of a separate schedule. Before my father returned from the war, she’d bought a tiny little house in another neighborhood and we moved there—though until I went off to college, I would continue to spend many days and nights with my grandparents. See THIS POST for more on the subject.

I

Hidden Sunrise

 

Yesterday's Hearing

I watched all of the hearing yesterday, glued to the drama there on my laptop. The evidence is piling up and the snare is tightening. So many excellent witnesses and terrifying videos.

But I found myself focused on Stephen Ayres--family man, ordinary guy, Trump supporter, representative of so many of the easily duped who believed Trump's Big Lie and jumped on the call to "Be there! " at the Jan. 6 rally.

He wasn't a Proud Boy or an Oath Keeper. He was a sheep--following the crowd to the Capitol. And when Trump finally told the mob to go home, he went.

He says he's realized now that he was fooled by lies on social media. But he's lost his job, his house, and his life will never be the same.

I couldn't take my eyes off his wife, sitting behind him as he testified. I could certainly be wrong but watching the subtle shifting of her mouth as he spoke, led me to believe that he'll be lucky not to hear I TOLD you it was a bad idea for the rest of his life. Assuming they stay married.

I felt sorry for him. A true believer, not too bright, betrayed by his idol who is actually just a snake oil salesman, out for what he can get.

And I hope that idol meets justice at last. There is plenty of evidence.

Contrasts

The rain brought gorgeous cool weather--put on an extra shirt weather, get out a blanket weather--of the sort that used to have Floridians who could afford it flocking to the mountains in pre-a/c days. It was glorious.

And after Sunday's day long rain and overcast skies, when the sun eventually appeared, arrowing through the trees, it seemed like a revelation. Green was somehow greener, the sky bluer, and the mountains of cumulus clouds whiter. 

That's another reason for not having a/c--as long as the hot days don't go on too long, they make us appreciate the cool days all the more.

Contrast is one of the reasons we left Florida--four distinct seasons seemed like a good idea. I hear that Hawaii is in the 70s year-round-- which is admittedly a perfect temperature--but I kinda think it would become boring.

I know, I know--I sound like someone who might hit her head against a wall because of how good it would feel to stop. But still . . .I love the contrasts. 

 

The Blessing of a Cool, Rainy Day

 

Feck, Etc.

 

 

“Oh, I am so gruntled!” he peated.

“You’re what? She raised a ruly eyebrow and patted her kempt dark hair.

‘Gruntled,” he repeated. “Full of effeable joy.”

I found myself awake in the night and rather than going back to sleep, my brain started thinking about words that should have opposites but don’t. At least not in common use. (Weird but an improvement on when my brain wants to start listing all the people I know who’ve died.)

So yesterday I spent time with Mr. Google . . .

Disgruntled means dissatisfied and gruntled was indeed a word that meant satisfied. It’s just fallen out of use.

Feckless—lacking purpose or effect. Feck is a Scots word meaning effect. Also, in Ireland as a more couth replacement for f__k.

 Repeat (peat)—there does not seem to be a use of peat to mean say. Just that stuff in a bog.

Ruthless -- feeling no pity, there is no word ruth meaning feeling pity or compassion—ruthless likely came from rue, as in He rued the day he invited the ruthless killer on board.

There were more that occurred to me--

Uncouth--

Unscathed

Unkempt

Unruly

Ineffable

Indomitable

And I found some good links that show I’m not alone in wondering about this stuff. HERE is one. And here is ANOTHER.

Where will my brain go next time I can't sleep?

Wishful Thinking?

Not really. To everything there is a season.

But I find it cooling to look at these pictures.

And I remind myself that in less than half a year, I'll be trying to stay warm and thinking wistfully of the dog days of summer, of daylilies, gin and tonics, and long shadows on the green grass. 

 

Dabbling

Recently I needed to send a card to a friend so, having some blanks on hand, I did a simple watercolor bouquet. Not great 

but oddly satisfying.

These hot days, simple is all I have the energy for after routine chores. I use the pictures in a Dover coloring book as guides for my sketches, outline in permanent ink, and add watercolor.

Fun to do--just a step above a coloring book.

So now I have a little stash of all-purpose notecards. Maybe I'll turn my thoughts to Christmas cards--perhaps there would be a cooling effect.