Drawer of Shame

If, when reading one of my books, you come across a character with cluttered kitchen countertops, you’re safe in assuming that this person is flailing in every aspect of her life.  For instance, in this excerpt from my Fran Furlow sleuth series, Fran’s nemesis, Wendy, has gone missing. Check out what Wendy’s thirteen-year-old babysitter has to say: 

“Did she say who she was meeting?” I ask Billy.

“A client, that’s all.”

“How was her mood—excited, nervous, maybe impatient?”

“Well, to be honest, she always seems weird to me.”

“In what way?”

“She’s so scattered.” He gives a confounded shrug. “I mean, she calls herself a life coach, but piles of overdue bills and notifications are all over the place, and you’d think someone who tells other people how to get organized would know to put mayonnaise and milk back in the refrigerator.”

A boy after my own heart. I’m forced to bite my tongue to stop from joining him in a rant.

Not always, but often, my fictional opinions reflect my actual views. And my belief is that a messy space reflects a messy life. 

So why did I allow a drawer in my kitchen to become so packed with random disorderly sticky stuff that its existence brings disgrace to our household and renders my personal credo meaningless?  

It’s my habit when having guests to give them my kitchen. Some women are protective of their refrigerator and oven, pots and bowls; but the kitchen isn’t where my heart is, so I’m liberal in that area. So, when the after-wedding guests visited us for a few days, I was happy to turn the cooking over to the culinarily adventurous millennials. But when one of them—dark curly hair, constant smile—started toward that drawer, I leapt across the room in full panic, arms stretched out in an effort to stop her motion while emitting a horrified, “NOOO!” 

Poor girl. I made her jump

“Not that one,” I told her. “That’s my drawer of shame.”

Her look told me she thought I was crazy. And to prove it, she bent over, opened the drawer, and immediately recoiled in shocked revulsion. The rest of the kitchen is so neat, so organized! What happened here? 

It started out as a cookbook drawer, but I’m not gifted or patient when it comes to reading instructions and combining ingredients, so the cookbooks taunted me. Perhaps the gradual dropping-in of all the extraneous items was a subconscious attempt to cover them up. Nevertheless, the cookbooks were slowly buried by plastic forks, birthday candles, plastic plates, baskets, flexible and inflexible kabob skewers, toothpicks, a strainer, napkins, two broken cork screws, three sleeves of disposable cups, and extra oven mitts; also, a baggie with the peeled-off labels of wines we enjoyed; and a metal basket with a handle that’s an accessory to a never-used appliance that went to Goodwill three years ago. 

So, during this soul-sapping period of isolation, cleaning out that stupid drawer is a task I decide to take on. While on television the governor of New York endlessly laments his state’s plight, I pull everything from the drawer, lay the items out on the counter, spray the interior with cleaner, and scrub the whole splotchy storage area. 

How’d I end up with so many throw-away dishes, cups, and forks? Was I at some point obsessively fearful of not having enough plastic tableware? Because I don’t want to think about or see this nonsensical collection, I climb a ladder and poke all of it on a shelf so high and so far back that it’s not visible from the floor. I find appropriate spaces and niches for a few other things, too, but most of it goes in the trash. 

The cookbooks. Did you know that every time you order steak or seafood online, it arrives with an instruction booklet? We have, over the last five years, accumulated twenty of these advisory pamphlets, all of which we tossed into the drawer. Now, into the trash they go. 

Considering that I’m not an avid cook, it’s inexplicable that there are at least fifty loose copies of recipes printed from websites. Also, recipes on lined paper penned by so many friends who were a part of my life for a while, women who did love to cook and, when I praised their efforts, painstakingly and without request from me, took the time to write the ingredients and directions out by hand. 

Gathering recipes and selling cookbooks was a fundraising fad for a while, and I always bought them to support whatever cause—two from Cairo, others from the American Women’s Club of The Hague, the American School in Scotland, the Beaconsfield Women’s Guild, and the Home Counties Chapter of the RSPCA. Halfheartedly involved in these groups, I was often asked to contribute recipes, at which point I unabashedly copied others’ recipes from other books to donate as my own. One of the books, a wedding gift that’s travelled from country to country for over thirty years, holds only blank pages, offering me the pleasure of documenting my own gastronomic experiences and favorite recipes. The pages are still blank.

Oh, but here, the biggest treasure, fallen to the bottom, up to this point forgotten and covered with unwanted paraphernalia—a beautiful tome compiled and edited by Anthony Bordain. Seeing it, I recall receiving it as a gift, and what a delight it was to receive this physical and inspirational manifestation of a man I admired—right here in my kitchen, his food wisdom available to my flicking fingertips. And happily, the gladness I felt in getting it as a gift the first time revisits, and I am once again uplifted. As I said, a treasure. Alas, I have forgotten who and when. But I can promise this—with this second gifting it will remain on top, handy and appreciated. No more letting it get covered with crap. If you’re the one who gave it to me, please let me know. I’d love to say thanks again. So, a lesson learned. Don’t bury valuable stuff beneath mundane stuff. 

Here it is. Shameful.

My kitchen is this shiny and organized any day, any time, likely because I spend so little time in it.

The Joy of Cooking, which David possessed before I came along, has ancient greasy food gunk all over it.

I can’t look at this cover without humming a happy tune.

Written in my mother’s hand, the out-of-order instructions are a clear indication of how muddled she always was. She pulled it from an issue of Redbook in the 60’s. It’s absolutely delicious and I was asked for the recipe every time I made it, and my response was always, “It’s the only cake I know how to make, and I’ll happily give it to you as soon as we’re transferred to another country.” Hah. That never happened—but here it is for anyone who wants it. What the instructions don’t say is that it should rest in the refrigerator for a couple of days before eating.

This brought back memories of going to a Thai cooking class in Bangkok with cousin, Georgia, and sister, Resa. That was one good time!

This is what happens when you remember you need plastic forks while you’re at Costco.

All done, never to be messy again.

Wedding Pictures!

It took a while, but here they are!

To say it’s all about the dress is to diminish a monumental milestone. But honestly, I’ve been an observer of wedding attire for my entire life, and this is absolutely the most glorious dress I’ve ever seen. So it’s understandable that quite a few of the pictures I selected from the many that were taken showcase every aspect of Julia clothed in this heavenly dress.

I mean, check out the back. Delicate, alluring, mysterious. Of course, not every woman’s backside could make it look this good.

Again, Julia in the dress, plus Julia’s father, David; sister, Alex; and Mother, Khim. We were thrilled that they could come and stay with us in Marble Falls for a few days after the wedding. Before retiring, David was the IT manager for Plymouth (UK). He is soft-spoken and thoughtful and was kind to my little dog, which is definitely the way to my heart. During her working years Khim was a mid-wife, which says it all—sensible, reassuring, open-minded, and compassionate. Julia’s sister Alex is the definition of exuberance. She’s an English teacher in South Korea. We thought she was crazy when she flew home amidst the unrest caused by the virus. But I spoke to Khim the other day and she says that Alex is doing well and that Korea is handling the crisis with equanimity and compliance.

David and I walking Sam to the altar. We were so happy for him on his big day!

Sam and Curtis watching Julia and her parents’ approach. Look at our two boys. Gorgeous, right? Curtis is currently the senior counsel for Norton Rose Fulbright’s Energy Disputes Division in Houston, and Sam is on his way to Stanford to earn his Master’s.

I couldn’t resist this front view. You can see the tips of Julia’s cowgirl boots—a touch of whimsy.

And this shot in profile is perfection. The bridesmaids were quite attentive toward the train and veil.

The first married kiss. Julia’s sister, Alex on one side; Sam’s brother, Curtis, on the other.

The new couple. See that smile on our Sam.

These are Sam’s “people”. On the right of Sam, Curtis. On the left, Jimmy, a friend of Sam’s since third grade. The idea of having a woman in the line of groomsmen was new to me, but I like it. The guy beside Curtis held his two-year-old son in his arms throughout the ceremony, which was adorable. The one in the gray suit is the officiate, Andrew, Sam’s business partner from Beijing. On the opposite end is a middle-eastern humorist author, with whom I had much in common. Sam and Julia have some interesting friends.

And these are Julia’s friends. The way she handled the dresses was clever—she simply gave each girl a sample to match, then they went their own way in choosing, which meant that no one had to wear something that was hideously unflattering. The guy on the end acted as the flower boy—he danced gracefully up the aisle and was quite fun and charming. In this group are businesswomen, diplomats, and foreign aid workers.

On a personal note, meet Mary Ann and Phil, Jimmy’s parents and years-long friends of ours from Sugar Land. During her busy years Mary Ann was a powerhouse, a social activist working against the tobacco industry. She was a leader among the many who fought for laws banning smoking from bars and restaurants in Texas; and if you feel ostracized every time you light up, it’s due to her. Where would we be as a society without our Mary Anns?

And then there was dinner with toasts and speeches and an afterparty. Much dancing and joy and laughter. Of course all the guests aren’t shown in this simple and limited selection. Tons too many pictures for me to post, so I restricted myself to the ceremony.

Best wishes to Sam and Julia!

The Death of Hugging

At church last week, before all the rash of calling off and postponing, we were instructed to drink from the chalice rather than dip the wafer into the wine because the drinking method would be less germy. The reasoning eludes me. This week church has been cancelled. Upon hearing this, my first thought is that Episcopalians must be wimpier than Methodists. But then our old church, St. Luke’s Methodist in Houston, posted on Facebook that they were cancelling services, too. Common sense versus faith, a complex doctrinal tangle. 

“Cancelling everything is silly,” I say to David. “Shouldn’t we simply go about our regular lives and take the chance?”

“The fear is that if everybody gets it at once it’ll overload the system. So it’s best to slow the spread.”

He’s been following the news about the virus closer than I have been. All I know is that I was going to give a talk to a writers’ group on Wednesday and now that’s not going to happen. At least Mahjong still stands. Tile love wins out over disease fear. Several of David’s activities have been cancelled. Saddest of all is that he’s been the driving force in developing the new community garden, and now there will be no open house, no grand opening. And he does like celebrations. He’s not an attention-seeking guy, but it would have been nice for him to have received recognition for all his work. Now, nothing. 

“Let’s drive into Austin, do the lake walk, and go to brunch,” is his suggestion for our now-empty Sunday morning. 

So that’s what we do. The weather is dreary and drippy and there are few cars on Seventy-one. If you don’t live in this area you have no idea what all the fuss is about this time of year. Since the last time we drove in this direction, the Indian paintbrush and bluebonnets have popped up and bloomed, splashing the verges with periwinkle and coral. It’s beautiful. As to the traffic, even in Austin the highways are wide open. 

Every year or so we do this outing—the walk, the brunch at True Food. The path is usually solidly populated by bikers weaving through and runners bouncing by. Today I’d estimate that there’s a tenth of the usual number. 

“I guess everybody’s hunkering down at home,” I say. 

“How do you spell hunker?” David wants to know. I spell it for him. 

“There probably aren’t five people in Austin who have the virus,” I say, “and those five people are staying away from the population. Yet folks aren’t leaving their houses because some geriatrics died in Seattle and there are cases in New York.”

“Look at how fast that runner’s going. I miss running.” Aches and injuries put a stop to his running about ten years ago. 

True Food is usually packed on Sunday mornings. A reservation is necessary. But today there are few diners. David orders hot apple cider and banana pancakes. I order a bloody Mary and smashed avocado toast, which is composed of a piece of toast topped with gouda, guacamole, and two runny eggs. Uncharacteristically, I take a picture. It’s yummy; but I scrape the overabundance of thyme to the side. I respect thyme as an herb, not as a complete salad. No amount of dressing makes it palatable.  

A pair of grandparents enter and approach a table occupied by their daughter and granddaughters. The grandmother shares an awkward elbow bump with her granddaughters. The grandfather bumps fists with his daughter. Oh for goodness sake! Now families aren’t even hugging. 

Two men enter and pause, looking for the couple they’re here to meet. They spy their friends and go to join them. The two newcomers self-consciously perform a knuckle tap with the seated man. But then they lean in and give the woman hugs and cheek kisses. This difference in how the men greet one another and how they greet the woman is so bizarre that it’ll keep popping into my mind for the next week. Surely it indicates something—but what?

Later, as we’re driving home, we discuss the morning, which was pleasant, but also disturbing. I don’t appreciate this latest PC mandate. There’s speculation that as our planet warms hazardous microbes will be unearthed. It’s vital that we’re prepared. But fist bumping and social distancing aren’t realistic solutions; however, due to this first push, I fear that these ineffectual measures will become the norm, and that people who don’t fall in line will be judged. I foresee a whole divisive debate between shakers and non-shakers, huggers and elbow bumpers. 

“What if someone went ahead with their scheduled large-group activity?” I ask David. “Does that mean they hate America?”

David sighs. I can be annoying.

Artistic work on a column of a bridge crossing Lake Austin.

This was once a vacant weedy field. David oversaw all this work and now he’s been told not to recruit people to help in the garden.

As promised—my meal.

I look pretty good considering that I’ve been humidity hiking.

Enjoying his morning off from ushering.

The Smirk

I am in four seconds of the six-and-a-half minute wedding video. If it’s obvious to me it’ll be obvious to others. 

“I am basically the crew member who gets flung off the Enterprise during the first two seconds of the movie,” I tell David. 

He tilts his head in an attempt to conceal his smirk. 

The smirk is more significant than he knows. For one thing, it lets me know that he, too, noticed that I was barely there; and that he anticipated that I’d notice, get my feelings hurt over it, and put forth a bitter comment. 

The other thing it tells me is that, in his opinion, I’m small-minded for noticing. 

So, in addition to being a non-presence in my son’s wedding video, now my sensibilities have taken a hit because my husband thinks I’m being petty. 

Am I being petty? Yes. He’s absolutely right. The woman who took the video doesn’t know me and it’s her job to be where the action is and to catch the highlights, not follow the mother of the groom around. During the time that most of this video takes place, I was elsewhere catching up with old friends and enjoying myself immensely. 

Also, I detest being the focus of attention, so it’s foolishness to care that I’m not the focus. 

Still, when Sam was a child I discussed literature and nuance with him. And I taxied him from one extracurricular activity to another, years of my life spent in the car seeing that he arrived at a ridiculous number of events on time. Also, considering their future plans, I’m basically losing the son I raised to another family, far away. Ouch. There was a time when I was a force in his life. It seems like that should be worth more than just a few seconds.

 Another takeaway from David’s smirk is that he doesn’t care that my feelings have been hurt. I guess we’ve been living together for so long, witnessing each other’s pains and joys for so many years that anymore it seems predictable and rote. There was a time when my pain was his pain, my indignation, his indignation. Obviously, no more.  

The smirk also communicates a level of superiority, his sure knowledge that he is a better person than I. And this is true. He’s a way better person than I am, legitimately entitled to his self-righteousness. He would never get bent out of shape over something so trivial. He would never take time to count the seconds he’s in a video or take offence over a short film put together by a stranger. 

On the flipside, he’s involved in many community activities, which means that he, too, has his share of successes and obstacles. With whom does he share his triumphs and frustrations? Me. And I never, ever smirk. 

The critical intimation of the smirk also makes me question who I am. Am I wrong to feel the way I feel? Is my perspective skewed? Shouldn’t I be better at letting things go? Am I, contrary to what I thought I knew about myself, actually a narcissist? Is my mean-spirited reaction an indication that I’m spoiled and demanding? And lastly what do I do with my negative feelings if I’m made to feel horrible about voicing them? 

Perhaps what’s needed is a bitch club. Does anyone know of one that I can join?