The Project

Before we signed the final papers on each of the three homes we bought over the years, the main thing David wanted to know was, “Is it alright the way it is? I don’t want to have to go in there and do a bunch of work on it.” He’s who the phrase “move-in ready” was created for.

“Oh yeah,” I told him each time. “Everything’s great.”

In the house in Houston, the Sugar Land house, and our current home, nasty carpet stains started appearing within weeks of our moving in. It’s a well-known fact that every seller shampoos the carpet before putting the house on the market, and that the stains always re-blossom. Also, there are more dogs that aren’t house trained than I ever thought possible. In all three cases, though it had been established that David wanted nothing to do with any kind of remodel, I started with a hint—“Have you noticed those dark spots coming out in the carpet?” And his answer would be, “Don’t look.” But once I mentioned them to him, he couldn’t look away.

We repainted and redid the floors in all three houses. As an aside, we never made a single change to the company-leased flats and houses in other parts of the world, though we knew many ex-pats who spent plenty on painting and retiling. Putting money into a rented home never made sense to either of us.

This house in Marble Falls is lovely, with an artsy dome in the dining room, high ceilings, tall doorways, two fireplaces, one with a molded mantle, the other with a stone hearth and hand-crafted wooden mantle. And the bar is also made of rock and topped by granite. Every guest heads there as soon as they’re through the front door.

As with most homes, the heart is the kitchen—in this case it’s literal as well as figurative. The kitchen is at the physical center of the house, with a hall going away from it in one direction and another hall leading away in the other. And the kitchen looks out over the two living areas, so there’s a wide-open feel. I loved this home-heart from the second I entered it. The storage space is phenomenal and the mottled black granite of the counter is classic. At the time, I noticed that yes, the tile and antiqued cabinets were dated; but I truly thought I could live with them. I never deceived myself about the sink, the color of which I crudely named Arian nipple. Anyway, after eight years of looking at a backsplash of so neutral a shade that it offered camouflage to every bit of grit, grease, or sauce found in a kitchen, I began to long for a color that would expose every germ-ridden speck. So when the time was right, I mentioned to David that the tile on the backsplash was dated; and that, furthermore, I was tired of looking at the antiqued cabinetry that had, in the beginning, seemed so charming. Again, once seen, he couldn’t unsee.

We got the name of a tile guy from a friend, met with him, chose a tile, and set a date. Inarguably knowledgeable about tile, Larry-the-tile-guy was our age, older than expected. He brought another man with him; a helper or partner, we weren’t sure. The two of them bickered like they’d been together for years. Once they went silent on each other for an entire day, and the house was burdened by their childish pique. On the whole, they understood that having the kitchen torn up was unsettling and they couldn’t have been more considerate. Larry was big on consulting me about my preferences, vowing that his job was to please the customer; though when he first realized my plan, he voiced an opinion—“This is going to be a really bright kitchen.” Yes, yes, I thought, give me the brightest kitchen known to man. Larry and his grumpy cohort were finished when they said they’d be and they did an excellent job. I’d recommend him to anyone in the area who needs tile work done.

Receiving three bids, David made the decision about who would do the painting. And the decision was exactly right because the price was fair and the finished product looks great. On the other hand, the crew spoke no English, which is the way of things in this part of the world, although usually there’s one worker present who can communicate. Their English-speaking boss only showed up occasionally, so if there were questions or concerns when he wasn’t around, we resorted to playing A Game of Phones—David called the boss, waited for him to call back, which he usually did within minutes; and after discussion the boss called the head man on site, then called David with answers and explanations. Expecting inefficiency, that’s what we got. The guys didn’t show up until late in the mornings. Once they showed up at eleven and went to lunch at twelve. And the job wasn’t finished when we’d been told it would be. We were both aware of what to expect before we embarked on the project; and, knowing I’d brought this on myself, I nevertheless complained. Proclivities aside, they were good men and they did good work, so them, too, I’d recommend.

Next came the sink. I went to Mahjong on Monday at noon, and when I returned the most beautiful shiny white sink had replaced the ugly gross one. It’s too beautiful to hold dishes. I rinse and polish it several times a day.

All in all, I’m thrilled with the new look. I’ll post pictures!

The Bright Kitchen. No nasties can hide from me now!

We got rid of the old-fashioned phone plug. It hasn’t been hanging like that this whole time. That was the result of the tile guy pulling it loose so he could see what he’d be dealing with behind it.

The new sink.

The old sink. It’s not dirty—it just looked like that.

People and Houses

When David started volunteering with the local chapter of Habitat for Humanity it became apparent to him that there was a disconnect between the labor, a group of retirees who found joy in being helpful, and the members of the board, people still in the workforce who were either too busy to do a proper job or not interested enough to take volunteer work seriously. For instance, when a home was nearing completion, and the crew was ready to look to the next project, it was dismaying to find that no preparation had been made. With a half-dozen future homeowners approved and on the waiting list, work came to a halt simply because no property had been selected and no permits sought. Among the ranks, grumbling ensued.

So David started attending the board meetings to see what was going on and if there was a way to move things along. What he discovered was an hour dedicated to personal discussion and a hurried fifteen minutes spent on Habitat business. Tasks like loan approvals, background checks, and property assessments were assigned; but at the next meeting it turned out that no one had done what they’d promised to do—and they weren’t even embarrassed to admit it. In our home invectives were flung—inept inefficient blatherers!

So here David is, a few years later, the new president of the Habitat board. To hear him tell it, he inherited a financial fiasco. For instance, in a couple of cases, homeowners were expected to make regular payments, but no account had been set up for them to pay into. Months went by and the homeowners, with no place to send their payments, simply never paid; and, coming to expect that payments would never be required, they spent their money elsewhere. So David, flummoxed and indignant, is now forced to be the bad guy, informing these people that not only can they not live in their homes for free, but they’re going to have to come up with the payments they should’ve been making all along.

Today he tells me that he needs to go see what’s going on at an old Habitat house in Kingsland. Interested, I invite myself along.

The situation, as he explains it, is this: The house is fourteen years old. Initially, regular payments were made, but they stopped seven years ago, with ten thousand of the debt still outstanding.

The house has no number and it looks more like a cabin than a house. Nevertheless, our phones tell us we’ve arrived. The neighborhood is made up of a combination of very old squatty ranch homes and newly built small, inexpensive homes. The habitat house looks like what it is—a twelve-hundred square foot rectangle plopped amongst trees and never maintained. Built sideways on a pleasantly shaded lot, there’re two doors and it’s impossible to tell which one is the front. On one side, in a driveway of hard dirt, there are two rundown trucks that aren’t going anywhere, and one old SUV that looks like it might still serve its purpose. Beyond them is a storage shed so old and splintery that it’s literally coming apart at the seams. The door on the opposite side of the house opens to a wooded area and is made prominent by a broad inviting porch. Old fashioned coolers hang from several windows. 

Being me, I want the human side of the story. Are the original owners still living here? If not, who is? Why did the payments stop? Any children in the original household would be grown by now; but, evidenced by bikes and toys, there are obviously children in residence.

In this part of the world, where meth labs are common and not every house has a refrigerator but you can bet they’ve got a gun, approaching someone’s property where you’re not known and haven’t been invited is risky—but David is brave. I stay in the car while he walks around the house taking pictures.

“Get one of that big truck!” I hiss from the window. He complies.

Eventually he makes his way to a door (front or back?) and knocks. Waits, knock again. I can feel someone inside, stealthily peering out, aware that a stranger knocking can only mean one thing—someone wants money.

David gives up and we drive away.

“What’re you going to do?” I ask.

“We can foreclose, or we can pay them to get out.”

“You can’t pay them after they’ve lived here for free for ten years.”

I’m indignant. Getting paid for not paying your debt is a ridiculous proposition.

“If we foreclose it goes to the bank. If the bank sells it, we’ll get the ten thousand owed, and the bank keeps the rest. But if Habitat pays them a few thousand to get out, we can go in and fix the place up, then sell it to someone who’ll pay for it and take care of it.”

“Even with remodeling, it wouldn’t be nearly as nice as the Habitat houses yall’re building now. Who wants a house without central air?”

“No one I know.”

“What’re you going to do? Who decides?”

“I’ll present it to the board. Ultimately, they’ll do what I recommend.”

“And what’ll that be?”

He sighs. Habitat is a topsy-turvy quagmire.

The hard dirt where the trucks are parked.

This is where they store their junk.

Trees, and the porch isn’t awful.

Carwash User Manual

I like to think I’ve mastered the credit card/reading machine interaction. At the grocery store the payment gizmo tells me when to remove my credit card. Likewise, with the ATM. While every machine’s different, most make the instructions clear—leave it in for fifteen seconds to be read, or dip it with a quick in-and-out motion. In department stores there are many questions to be answered before I can grab my card and my purchase and move on—paper receipt? Zip code? Email address? Donate?

I run into trouble at the carwash. Driving up to the payment stand, I lower my window. Unable to reach, I lift myself a bit and lean out, an awkward position to maintain, but it happens every time I do any sort of drive thru.

The how-to illustration next to the slot shows the card with the strip at the top and facing left. I do what the picture tells me, but the response is “Unable to read card.” I try again. No joy. The card worked fine ten minutes ago at the dry cleaners. I try three more times before turning my attention to the written instructions. It turns out that the picture and the words don’t say the same thing. The strip is supposed to be facing right.

I turn the card and try again, but still the recording says, “Unable to read card.” The programmed woman’s voice is judging me. She’s impatient because I’m forcing her to repeat herself. And she’s condescending because I’m so inept. The card not working when it was facing the wrong way made sense. But it should work now. I’m obviously missing something.

In the neighboring lane, other cars zip on through; and I don’t like that other people know how to get this payment stand to cooperate and I don’t. Three idling cars hover in my rearview mirror. One of them issues an emphatic HONK! Exasperated and losing all confidence in myself, I push the “help” button. The recorded message becomes sympathetic, assuring me that someone will be out shortly to help.

Two minutes later a teenage guy with hair sprouting from beneath a cap lumbers out. He’s very polite, offering a pleasant greeting and asking what the problem is.

“It’s not accepting my card,” I tell him.

The screen is divided into three sections, the top advertising discounts, the middle inviting me to buy a membership—and this gives me pause. A membership to a carwash is something that, until this moment, I was unaware existed. It seems to come with a fob that has a barcode for fast entry, which would surely be of use to me right now; but I’m so flustered by the difficulty I’m having in simply achieving this one little thing that the thought of collaborating in a club-joining venture with this limited automaton is daunting.  

The lower third of the screen shows only the brand name of the car wash. My helper pokes this section and it comes to life, showing a menu of the types and prices.

How was I supposed to know to push there first? There’s no indication that it’s a place that’ll react—no Select Here, or Press Here.

“What kind of wash d’ya want?” he asks.

“Whitewater.”

He pokes my selection and the screen changes again, telling me to insert my card. He holds out his hand for my card, pushes it in, pulls it out, and hands it back.

So, two things I did wrong. I was supposed to select first, which I didn’t know to do because it was less than obvious; and I was supposed to dip, not insert and wait—information which was also held back.

“The instructions on this thing aren’t clear,” I complain.

“They’re all different,” he tells me. “Have a great day.”

Confounded, mourning my incompetence, he shakes his head sadly as he walks away.

The arm lifts and I go through.

As the outside of my car is getting the dirt blasted from it by powerful jets of soapy water, and gigantic spongy tentacles swish heavily on the windows, it occurs to me that this carwash is part of a chain. And that, as such, the same lack of precise instructions is mounted on the payment kiosks of every one of the chain’s carwashes in every town in Texas.

Across the state people with literal minds are reaching from their windows and shoving credit cards into slots facing the wrong direction. Stymied by a lack of directives, they’re holding up carwash lines. And they’re feeling stupid. Not just feeling stupid, but being made to feel stupid. Is this a deliberate scheme meant to sow self-doubt? Is this a black-hearted machination geared toward making, not just me, but all of us, feel lesser, hesitant, off balance? I think so, Cricket, I think so.

My car, clean; but was it worth the price?

THE BEST CAKE

The other day at Mahjong one of the other women mentioned that her cousin had sent her their grandmother’s recipes. They’d been written on index cards and stored in an appropriately-sized filing box; and seeing that old-fashioned set-up again caused her to fondly remember her grandmother and her grandmother’s cooking.

October is the month of my mother’s birth, so I’ve been a bit nostalgic myself lately, recalling my mother and how she could be goofy and wise at the same time. She, too, had a recipe box with index cards. She put one recipe in it—her fruit cocktail cake—then it got pushed to the back of the cabinet, not to be seen again until she moved from the house years later. She did the same thing with my older sister’s baby book—got as far as the first tooth, then dropped it. And where was the record of my first tooth? Who cares? Obviously, the teeth came in—no need to mark every occasion. Starting a project and stopping was my mother’s habit, which I’ve been known to do also. No need to let life pass you by because you’re chronicling something that’s not terribly significant.

However, my Mahjong friend’s talk of recipes called to mind the only recipe of my mother’s that I have—her fruit cocktail cake. She was kind enough to write it out for me when I left home. Though we always called it “her” cake, I believe she found it in Good Housekeeping or Redbook in the early sixties. I make it occasionally and everybody gives oohs and aahs. It truly is a delicious cake.

Years ago—I believe we were living in The Hague—I took the cake to a potluck and, as expected, everybody raved. When one of the women asked for the recipe, I gave her a decisive “no.” I didn’t think I’d said anything wrong—I mean, she asked, and it was my right to refuse—but the look on her face told me otherwise. Oh dear, I’d been harsh. I softened it with this explanation:

“I’m a lackluster cook and this cake is the only halfway decent thing I have in my repertoire to bring to these group luncheons. How about I give you the recipe when we leave for our next posting?”

The part about being a lackluster cook is true. The part where I would give her the recipe before we moved away was not. After all, who’s to say we wouldn’t travel in the same circle again? Expats tend to flock to the same locations. Many times I said good-bye to a friend, only to run into her in the grocery store in another town, in another country a few months later.

As far as the recipe goes, the copy I have was scripted from memory in my mother’s hand forty years ago. The bit of paper it’s written on is now yellow and dirty from use, and the ink is faded, but I take comfort in seeing her writing. Also, like her, it’s a happy mess—out of order and incomplete. The first instruction in any baking recipe is to give the temperature and to preheat the oven, right? But if you follow the timeline in her instructions, she doesn’t mention preheating until after the ingredients have been blended and are ready to go in the oven. It’s like, “Oh, by the way, you should’ve preheated the oven.”

Also, an omission in the list of ingredients is half a cup of nuts and half a cup of brown sugar, to be sprinkled on top before baking. So when you get to that step, it’s a surprise. “Hm. I see I should’ve bought pecans and brown sugar at the store.”

And her “beat good” makes me laugh every time. Grammar, Mother! For the sauce she’s written “canned milk” without specifying evaporated or condensed (it’s evaporated); and it’s been years since I’ve heard the word “oleo,” which is now called margarine. I use butter.

Back then there was no need to identify what sort of fruit cocktail because there was 0nly one kind. But these days the grocery shelves boast a choice of sugar free, light, and organic. If you’re making this cake, go straight for the original heavy syrup which, to my dismay, is difficult to find because it’s hidden on the bottom shelf in the furthest section, as though the store is ashamed to stock such an unwholesome product. Processed fruit in overly sweet treacle may not be the healthiest choice, but in this instance it’s what’s called for.

Another rather important requirement not given in the recipe is that the cake should sit in the refrigerator, soaking in its rich sauce of sugar, butter, and evaporated milk for at least a day before consumption. Two days is better.

Then go ahead. Have a piece. But only the one. It’s best to make it for a large group so it’ll all be eaten, because you don’t want it sitting around your house calling your name.

Here it is, a little piece of my history.

This is one of The Waterfront Grill’s specialty Halloween drinks. I hate it when I spend fifteen dollars for a cocktail and it turns out to be too yucky to drink.