Omnivores Be Warned! This Post May Contain Triggers

February 1, 2020, was a day I planned to have Ben pick up the groceries on my list. And there was no meat on the list. I had eaten the last of the frozen meals containing chicken the night before and I just didn't feel like eating meat anymore. There is nothing remarkable about the date, that's just when it happened. And I feel like it happened to me, that something external to me had decided that Melody would no longer eat meat, not a personal choice. Kind of like it had been inscribed in the brushed stainless steel finish of the dual refrigerator doors, "No meat shall pass these portals".

I wish I could say it was because of some noble reason like realizing the inefficiency of meat as food for humans. I read Diet For a Small Planet years ago and kept eating meat. And I know cows contribute a lot to the environmental methane overload. All are solid reasons to avoid meat, but didn't sway me.

However, several other things over a long time had lead me to this point. I have always had a gut reaction to meat counters in grocery stores -- just so  much meat, and all of it raw and dead. But, the thought of a nice barbecued rib eye served up with twice-baked potatoes, roasted corn on the cob, and a good bold Cabernet Sauvignon painted over any fleeting thoughts of revulsion. Maybe it was really the thought of the Cab. Sadly, since meat has been off the menu, Cab has lost its allure.

I suppose another factor had been the several trips I had taken to Southern California during 2019, driving up and down the dullest road in America --Interstate 5. Between Sacramento and Bakersfield there is very little in the way of sensory stimulation, except. . .Harris Ranch! The miasma of the feed lots assaults the olfactory nerves for miles around and bring tears to the eyes. There is no escape, no matter how insulated the vehicle, the odor of Cowshwitz permeates. And do you know? There is a restaurant and a hotel there! I can't imagine how anyone could have an appetite, especially arriving from the north where the feed lots sprawl and the prevailing winds conspire to announce the presence of so many thousands of steers literally on their last legs. And who would want to spend the night? To better to soak in the glory (gory?) of it all? And yet, the label Harris Ranch Beef on a plastic-wrapped prime rib in a white Styrofoam tray conjured up visions of a Christmas feast, with mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, Brussels Sprouts (another olfactory assault) and the perfect Cabernet. So, is it the prime rib or the Cab? They are inseparable in my reverie.

And then there is the fact that I co-habit with my grandson, an avowed vegan (until February 1, 2020). He seemed to exist mainly on hummus, guacamole, and granola, with an occasional frozen Pad Thai meal. But, when I stopped eating meat and started cooking vegetarian meals with the possible inclusion of dairy or eggs, he suddenly broadened his food choices to include whatever I prepared. He never proselytized his culinary practices, but his disinterest in meat dishes I prepared had some influence on my conversion. I love to cook for an audience -- feeding the people has always given me joy. When the audience is limited to a single person who is not impressed with virtuosity in the kitchen, what had formerly brought joy, became tiresome. What was the point?

Then there was the time when a truckload of cattle was overturned and around 80 cows escaped. After a few hours they were rounded up and loaded into another truck, with all accounted for and no apparent injuries. The public reaction was bizarre. Everyone was worried about the well-being of the animals and relieved that none had gone missing and that none were hurt. Those creatures were on the way to the feed lots and eventual slaughter. Wouldn't a more compassionate person pray they made their escape?

 

The last straw was the dog. When Oreo was in the throes of her final illness and I became keenly aware of just how sweet, and trusting she was. I realized how all these years she had depended on us to take care of her. It was clear she had feelings. And since she did, doesn't a cow (or chicken, or pig)? Don't confuse me by the fact  that dogs are meat-eaters. A whole lot of what I came to feel has logic holes as big as a Florida sinkhole. 

Fish was kind of a separate issue. It took a while for me to make the mental leap to exclude it. I miss it far more than I miss meat. If I should ever fall off the vegetable wagon, I'm sure it would be for some harvest from the sea. I  miss shrimp, crab, and lobster from time to time, although not enough to buy and cook it. 

Pairings no longer play into my meal planning. I never wonder, does red wine go with brown rice and white wine with white rice? Consequently I'm spending a lot less money on wine. My bank account and my liver rejoice. Of course, as always, Champagne goes with everything.

And so, I simply could not eat meat anymore. I don't know if it's forever, but it is for today. 

Puzzled

During this time of  quarantine, Ben has been assembling jigsaw  puzzles. He's very good at it and enjoys challenging but interesting puzzles. The first one he worked kind of resembles a depiction of the COVID-19 molecule. Closer examination reveals satanic faces. Maybe it is the deadly molecule.

He moved on to a beautiful round dragonfly puzzle which was missing a piece.

This solid black circle within a rectangle challenged him next. It took longer than the others, but he did it.

Now he is working one that was just a box full of pieces. When he started, he had no idea what the finished product would look like. Of course, he now knows it is  Washington crossing the Delaware -- kind of an appropriate theme to begin on Independence Day. It's by far the easiest of the lot.

Let me know if you would like to have any of them. We'll gladly pass them along. We have no plans or place to keep them. In fact, the more stuff we get rid of, the easier it will be when it time for us to move. And that time is approaching rapidly.

Ben and I need to find someplace else to live by September 1. Matter of fact, Ben has found someplace. He will be moving to Davis into a shared apartment.

I have no idea what I will do. I'm in kind of a difficult "monkey in the middle" situation. My income is too low to qualify for a good rental, but too high to qualify for any kind of assistance. My physical condition is such that I cannot live alone, but not severe enough to draw on my Long Term insurance.

So, I really don't know what to do or where to go. I have faith that it will work out, I can't imagine that I will be  thrown to the curb, but I'm eager to find a solution. At the present, I am puzzled.

***

And masks are for sale -- speak up! $5 each, porch pick up or I will mail them.

Mac and Cheese (Without Ham and Peas)

I'd been thinking there had to be more to Macaroni and Cheese than noodles and cheddar or the blue Kraft box. In years gone by, I prepared a stove top version of the dish for grandkids, Ben and Logan, probably one out of every three nights when they were between the ages of five to fifteen. Then I got fancy and added ham and peas to the mix for a one-pot dinner.  Oddly, I don't recall ever serving it to my children, I'm not sure why, perhaps memory fails.

So, in the throes of quarantine gluttony, I turned to Pinterest (it's what I do when I'm not on FaceBook).  I finally settled on a recipe that called for a ton of four different cheeses and a half ton of whipping cream. Separately, the ingredients sounded delicious and I made the leap to gathering the fixings (not easy when I shop online only twice a month). I wanted to sample an uptown version of good old Mac and Cheese.

The recipe calls for a roux which was really just a bunch of butter fat and four tablespoons of flour, and a pint of whipping cream. And then I added the cheese. My logical mind was telling me that this was a lethal dose of fat and the cooking odors alone could be fatal. But, my quest for a true gourmet Mac and Cheese experience continued. I tried to pour the sauce in all its cheesy glory into the cooked noodles. It had the consistency of molten lava and moved at that speed, which if you live at the base of a volcano is very rapid, but standing over a hot stove was agonizingly slow. Giving up on pouring, I scooped about a third of the mixture into the pasta. It now looked like noodles floating in fondue. Deciding enough was enough, I abandoned the plan to put the whole mess into a baking dish and covered in buttered bread crumbs. It was time for the taste test. My worst fears were realized. It was like eating a cheese-flavored version of the library paste I used to eat in kindergarten and I suspected it would likely have a catastrophic effect on my GI tract. 

I have a lopsided frugality about food. My parents came of age in the depression era and war-time rationing was in effect during my early childhood. I was a proud member of the clean plate club and dutifully thought of the poor starving children in China. So, in my "waste not, want not" convoluted way of thinking, I am willing to buy whatever food I crave, cost be damned, but, I unwilling to throw out leftovers.

And here they are (refrigerated version):

Quarantine Day #124

My quarantine began March 1, but some aspects go back even further. I fell September 2 last year, and  fractured my right tibia and bruised both legs thoroughly from ankle to knee (I have pictures, but I'm pretty sure you don't want to see them). I hobbled around for a couple of months and finally was unable to walk at all in early November. I've been using a wheel chair ever since. So, my world became very much smaller and closely resembled what I am now experiencing in quarantine.

I don't know the date of my last haircut, probably sometime in October. Hair hanging in my face drives me crazy, so I've adopted a Pipi Longstocking coiffure. What you don't see in the picture is the mullet formed by the hairs that refused to be bunched up. Pretty goofy, but it's become my go-to daily hair style.

February 16 was the day I last set foot in a restaurant. Sister Valery and I had lunch with brother Rick -- the first time I had seen him since he and wife Kathy split up. And shopping at Trader Joe's sometime before the first of March, was the last time I set foot in a grocery store.

I now do all my shopping online, using e-cart for groceries and Amazon for just about everything else. Ben picks up the groceries and my prescriptions from CVS. But it really doesn't feel much different and I don't feel like I'm suffering. I've visited with a few friends and family members sitting outside, maintaining social distance and using masks as appropriate. No shared food. On a few occasions people have come into my home briefly. Upon their departure, I run around with Clorox wipes and Lysol spray.

All that said, I am not suffering, I don't feel deprived. My (inadequate) income continues. And like always, I sew, read, cook, write, and pay rapt attention to politics and social movements.

Here's my mask inventory for sale: all are adult size, have nose wires, and soft elastic bands that fit over the ear. I'm going to work on some smaller sizes and a couple of different styles in the near future. I have several of each of those in the bottom picture. The top ones are one of a kind at the moment, but I have more of the same fabrics and will be making more.

Back to the Blogosphere

I quit blogging when I felt what I had to say might hurt others. Time has thickened my hide, I hope my readers feel the same. I am compelled to speak out on so many things ranging from a very personal level to global issues. Maybe I'll step on a few toes, I'm okay with that. Folks are free to disagree in comments. I will publish any well-thought out opinions, but won't tolerate personal attacks directed at me (politicians are fair game), just leave out any nasty language, be creative, exercise your vocabulary. So you are going to hear about whatever is running around the squirrel cage of my mind.
Today it's masks. I'm for them. And I make them. And I hope to sell them.

They're $5 each, $1 shipping and handling. Each mask is made by me in my smoke-free, pet-free home from new material which has been laundered to remove any chemical residue from manufacturing. To order, email me at: melodyblairmoore@gmail.com, put "Masks" in the subject line. Please and thank you. I will evenually open an etsy shop, but I'm giving my friends a head start.

My beautiful model is Alexandra, daughter of beloved friend, Lisa. Every mask is made with love and prayers, hope, and good wishes for the wearer's good health from the heart and gnarled hands of this 81 year old woman. Custom orders can specify custom prayers! I'll show new masks at the bottom of each post.

In future posts I'll ramble on about politics, the pandemic, the opioid epidemic, the gun violence epidemic, racism, the declining global reputation of the USA, aging, books and maybe an occasional Netflix or Amazon Prime offering, food, travel, quilts, masks, family and friends, maybe a tad about the weather, but I'll try not to be boring.

Please tell your friends to follow me!

Seward's Folly-- Part III

Widowhood did not become my mother. She had gone straight from her girlhood home to marriage and motherhood. She often spoke of her loneliness as an only child and vowed she would not inflict that loneliness on her children. Remembering the large family of one of her friends, she said every night was like a party at their house, something she strove to emulate with her own brood. But, once everyone had left home, the only party she attended was her private party with Jim Beam. 

After the death of my father, she tried desperately to hang on to the traditions she had so carefully developed while raising her family, but unfortunately, alcohol clouded her ability to pull it off. I remember one particular evening. She prepared a huge elaborate paella, made from pounds of expensive fresh seafood. She invited several family members and a couple who had been friends from the UC Berkeley days. When dinner time arrived, she brought the masterpiece to the table stone cold. She had forgotten to cook it.

My mother's friend pulled me aside and said, "Poor thing, you children have got to do something about her."

She was drinking heavily, I found cash register receipts from several different liquor stores listing all kinds of booze: bourbon, scotch, vodka, gin, rum, etc. She deluded herself into believing she needed to stock up for a party or to have a full bar available in case someone dropped in for a drink. I looked at her cancelled checks. Some days she was so shaky so could hardly write. We did have to do something.

We planned an intervention. We tricked her into coming to a facility in Half Moon Bay where we gathered in a room. In a meeting facilitated by a staff member, we told her how concerned we were for her, how we loved her, and wanted her to be the person we remembered, the one who was bright, funny, creative, and sober. She was outraged. Even though she had already been drinking that morning, she denied she needed help, and asserted that she could take care of herself. She made it clear we were trespassing in her private world.

The therapist said she had never seen such a strong-willed resistant person and after a couple of hours, we declared the intervention a failure and took her home.

No further parties occurred. I took over holiday dinners except for one Thanksgiving; we decided to have dinner at the Claremont Hotel in the Berkeley hills. When I stopped by to pick her up, she was in a bathrobe and nowhere near ready to go. I explained she needed to hurry as we had to stop and pick up her father (Bobo) on the way to dinner. She disappeared into her bedroom for a long time and when I went to check on her, she was still in her robe, shuffling through stuff in her room, but making no move to get ready. She was in a blackout, unaware I was there and that it was time to leave. When I tried to explain that we were late picking up Bobo, she just laughed and said, "Oh, Bobo doesn't care." I told her I was leaving in ten minutes with or without her. Ten minutes later, while she was still in her bathrobe, I left.

I did pick up Bobo and, although we were late, joined ten other family members gathered for dinner. About half way through dinner, an apparition appeared at the entrance to our small dining alcove, and it snarled at me, "Melody, how dare you! I will never forgive you." Fortunately, she had taken a cab, and not driven.

I think of my mother in paradoxical patterns; she was shy and introverted, thought of herself as a "private person", but she loved parties. She worked faithfully to make holidays and birthdays special to each of us. And I think she loved the release of inhibition from the alcohol that flowed freely on those occasions. Sadly, as she drank alone, she became reclusive and shut herself off from friends and family. She lived alone and in filth with a little dog who never went outside. Her one constant contact with the outside world was a phone call she made each morning to her father, to make sure he had made it safely through the night.

One morning, he called me to say he had not heard from her. Her telephone went unanswered. We both knew this was an ominous sign. I lived an hour away, in San Jose, but decided to leave right away to check on her. I hung up the phone, and called my son-in-law, Wes, arranging to pick him up to make the trip to Oakland with me.

Arriving in her driveway, we kicked our way through piles of fallen leaves to the locked front door. Looking under all the obvious places, empty flower pots and planters, decorative rocks and ceramic frogs, we found no key. Breaking a window in the still unfinished downstairs game room, Wes worked his way upstairs through trash, dirty clothes, and dog feces littering the green shag carpet, to open the front door. We made our way through the silent house to her bedroom while the dog, a filthy shaggy toy poodle, sniffed at our heels. She lay on a mattress that was askew, half off and half on the bed, her head seemed caught between the mattress and the headboard. She responded to her name with a groan, and we managed to get her to an upright sitting position. She seemed conscious, but unaware of her surroundings and with no sense of who we were, why we were there, what had happened, or anything else that would affirm that she was mentally present, so while I sat with her, Wes called 911.

She was admitted to the hospital and diagnosed with a brain bleed of unknown cause.

Comatose for several days, the initial outlook was grim. She was not expected to be able walk, talk, or participate in her own care. But, she did regain enough function to be able to live in assisted living for a number of years, an arrangement that brought her safety and was a relief to all of us who cared about her.

I assumed Power of Attorney and rented out Seward’s Folly. The rent money, along with her other sources of income, provided for her very comfortably the rest of her life. When she died, the mortgage-free house was sold, and each of the heirs received a nice little sum for indulging their own follies.

Seward's Folly -- Part II

We dreamed of a large, comfortable house with a bedroom for each kid and spacious common areas to serve for family gatherings and parties. The reality was an all-consuming monster that ate our family.

The first few years were filled with dreams, plans, foundations, and hope. Then, years passed, and little progress was made on the new house, while the old house continued to deteriorate, as did our family.

My mother slowly settled into drinking more and doing less. From time to time, she seemed to bob to the surface and show some signs of life, learning to drive, taking Spanish lessons, joining a garden club, or leading a Bluebird troop for my sister, Valery. But, for the most part she became more reclusive, spending hours in her rocking chair, smoking cigarettes, working crossword puzzles, or playing solitaire, sipping on bourbon and soda, and taking long naps.

She had a set of household tasks she performed religiously. She always made her bed when she got up in the morning, started the coffee, and prepared breakfast for the kids. Each morning she made sure her kids went off to school with a hot breakfast in their tummies, and a  brown paper lunch bag filled with a sandwich, homemade cookies, a piece of fruit, and a paper napkin.

Every night, we ate dinner together in the dining room. Rarely, was anyone missing, and it was just as unusual to have a guest. The table was carefully set for seven people; dinner plates, salad plates, paper napkins, and silverware were laid out in Emily Post-perfect order. The silverware was sterling and we always used salad forks as well as dinner forks. Our mother brought the food to the table in serving dishes which were passed around, so we could each serve ourselves. Ritual was infused in our meal practices, but not until recently did I view them as offerings of love by our mother who was not able to demonstrate love in ways more easily understood by children.

I set the table until Valery was old enough to take over. Then, I was promoted to salad maker. Those were the only two chores that were ever assigned in our household. No one but our mother ever did the dishes. I never understood that, but she didn't want us doing them. And, of course, this was before every kitchen had an automatic dishwasher. We never ate out during those years before frozen meals and takeout. And I don't remember my mother ever being ill or missing a meal, except when she went to the hospital to have a baby.

She seemed almost possessive about meal preparation and dishwashing, unwilling to let the kids do any of it. Laundry was the same. In 1953, we got a brand new automatic Westinghouse front loading washer and a dryer that played the tune to "How Dry I Am" at the end of the cycle. They were installed against the far wall of the back room, their bubble glass doors looking across the room like a gigantic pair of eyes.The washer and dryer were in constant use, but nothing ever got ironed or put away. A mountain of clean clothes was piled on a nearby table. We pulled what we needed out of the pile and ironed it ourselves, if necessary.

The back room was an unfinished room, about 20 feet square, attached to the house by a breezeway. It served as my father's office as well as laundry room. It also had a toilet, but not a full bathroom. His drawing table was positioned under a north-facing window; it couldn't have been for the light, I don't believe that grimy window was washed once in the twenty years I knew of.

The back room was the repository for his not-so secret bottle of wine. He never left the house without a stop in the backroom, ostensibly to use the toilet, but he always left the room drawing the back of his right hand across his mouth and and emitting a breathy mahhhh sound. His left hand would reach into the front pocket of his trousers and withdraw a tube of lifesavers. Removing one peppermint circle from the tube, he would blow tobacco shreds from the center of it before popping it into his mouth. Then he was ready to hit the road.

 I left home to begin married life in 1959 and my brother Mickey joined the Air Force a couple of years later. Neither of us would return to the family home. So, instead of five, there were now three chicks left in the nest.

The house progressed slowly. Beautiful blue-green granite stones were purchased for the large fireplace in the family room and slate for the floor of the entry way. Framing and roof joists began to give the structure a three-dimensional aspect. The fireplaces were installed and the chimneys rose through the roof line. And I remember joining in the family prayer for a dry October as preparations were made for the installation of the roof, a large flat surface of crushed white marble. Windows and siding were added and the house was enclosed.

My father in his weekend uniform, wifebeater shirt and baggy khaki pants, 

Christmas, 1968, still in the old house,

By Christmas 1968,  the oldest two of the Blair children, brother Mickey and I, had produced five members of a new generation. They gathered under the Christmas tree, which was, as usual, placed in front of the door to nowhere. At that time, brother Ken was a sophomore at UC Berkeley, and Valery was finishing high school. Mickey, Ricky, and I were all married and living in our own homes. The marriage and the very lives of my parents were on unstable ground, The new house was at a standstill and all resources of cash and internal fortitude had been tapped out. 

My mother complained to me on the telephone that my father never did anything but pace around the unfinished interior of the new house and that she was going crazy living in the tumble-down old house. And, in fact, I believe she was going crazy. At one point, she disappeared for several days and no one knew where she was. She had taken their beloved German Shepherd, Jody, with her, so my father felt reasonably sure she was not suicidal. She loved the dog so much, he felt she would not take the adored animal into a dangerous situation. In retrospect, I believe she was suicidal, but I was so wrapped up in my own life, I took what my father told me at face value and didn't doubt him. She was drinking very heavily on a daily basis and when she was alert, she raged at her youngest daughter, Valery. 

My father complained that he didn't know what to do with my mother. Her drinking was going to be the ruin of him and he just couldn't stand it anymore. I was helpless, caught in the middle, and suggested to each of them that they leave the other. Each reacted the same way, as though I had blasphemed, "I could never leave your mother/father! How dare you even suggest it!"

A last draw on his inheritance, and probably more refinancing, produced a final infusion of cash. At last, in 1971, after all five children had left home, eighteen years after moving into temporary quarters in the tumbledown Victorian, my mother and father moved into the dream/nightmare house. It wasn't entirely finished, bricks still lay in piles around their ultimate destination as a decorative element on the exterior of the lower story. The downstairs pool room and workshop walls were unfinished, and parts of the exterior lacked paint, but a certificate of occupancy was issued, and the old house was emptied and demolished.

Demolition of the old house. The kitchen sink is to the left, my bedroom to the right. The only bathroom, with a tub and no shower, was in between the kitchen and my bedroom.

Preparing to topple the chimney of the old house

The house was torn down, all but the back room, left standing and visible in the picture above, with my father standing in front of it. It still held his drawing table, building material catalogs, architecture textbooks, drafting tools, probably the bug-eyed washer and dryer, a supply of empty wine bottles, and in all likelihood, some unfolded laundry.

My daughter, Colleen standing on the felled chimney, you can look across the debris field to the new house.

Six grandchildren and the first Christmas in the new house, 1971

Just as construction was being completed, my mother's mother (Mimi) died, leaving  a bunch of cash and telephone company stock which was promptly liquidated to provide funds for furnishings. My mother entered a gloriously productive sober period and went into a decorating frenzy. She attended a class on interior decorating, sewed curtains, bought and arranged furniture. The youngest two children, Kenny and Valery, were at that fledgling state in their lives where they bobbed in and out of the nest for a brief while. But, for the most part, the nest was empty and my mother and father had the roost to themselves.

In 1973, my father's mother died and he collected the remnants of his inheritance. For the first time in twenty years, it wasn't necessary to pour all available time and money into the new house. My parents used the money to travel the world. They made friends in the UC Berkeley alumni association, and they entertained. I think the years from 1973 to 1984 may have been the happiest in their lives. The kids were all grown and independent, the soul-eating behemoth was placated, and they were free, free at last.

Of course, the story doesn't end there. My father died on April 1, 1984 of a sudden heart attack after a night of smoking, drinking, and dancing. He was 71 years old, and my mother was a widow at 65. For the first time in her life she was entirely alone.