How many years does it take to change?

If you, or anyone, told me that I had to change, if I thought I had to change, I would have said “no way.” I admire folks who put themselves through programs in order to change. You will never find a person more impressed with twelve steppers … not the programs, although they are tried and true, but the steppers, than I am. The people who face the need to change and find a program that helps them to do it, that is inspiring to me.

I have tried to change; little things, like weight, eating habits, worry patterns, and people for whom I care. It has never been successful. Well, I’m not 212 pounds, I don’t live on butter and sugar and I have outgrown some of those worry patterns.

Harder to change are the ingrown beliefs I developed over all those years of raising all those children, mostly by myself. For instance, I have always believed that a parent’s job is to raise a child to be an adult, not a close to mom’s knee kiddo all his life. Ask any of them, I never expected them to be what I wanted them to be, to live nearby or to check in regularly after they were grown up. And they don’t.

Holidays have never worked very well for me. As a young person they were generally nervous occasions with at least the possibility of a depressed parent with a need to stoke his senses of inadequacy with cigars and whiskey, spoiling what we always hoped would be a good Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter or 4th of July. Some of those tendencies reappeared as I tried to raise my own children. Certainly the brooding likelihood was never far away. So we tried traditions; Tyler for Thanksgiving, all of us together at Christmas, inviting or accepting invitations for picnics or swim parties in the summer. But it was never very good, there were never enough gifts, the regular menu; ham, buffet potatoes, peppermint chiffon pie, didn’t make our holidays special. I always hoped for a good one, a memorable one, one that kids or grandkids would bring up in conversation later. There are some good pictures; group shots on the couch or in front of the tree, smiling at the beach, dressed in Mexican dresses, it looked like we were a “normal” family and having a good time. But it didn’t work.

Now I have changed! I have given up even hoping for a picture perfect family traditional happy holiday. Not “given up” all pitiful like. Really, its okay.

Yesterday was a perfectly good Easter.
It was a remarkably worthwhile Holy Week.
On Thursday I attended Maundy Thursday service at St. Francis. I don’t wash or have anyone wash my feet. It is meaningful to watch others participate but not my cup of tea.
On Friday with dear friends I went to Houston, even past Ascension Church, to eat a great Mediterranean meal, and then to Christ the King church (right there near Rice U) for breathtaking music of Bach’s St. Matthew Passion. We stopped at LaMad for soup and dessert on the way home. Never been a better Good Friday.
Saturday I was at church by ten am, stuffed, sealed and stamped our stewardship mailing, prepared our newsletter for a mailing to follow in a few days and went home for a nap. I was back at church at 7:20 for a long, dark and light, moving Great Easter Vigil. I had never even been to one and it is quite amazing with the first half, a recounting of the major events in the old Testament interspersed with prayers and Taize hymns and then blazing with noise into the bright lights and joy of the resurrection. Even really tired, it was thrilling.
I was back at St. F on Sunday morning at nine to be the Vestry Person of the Day. The flowers, inside and out, were just beaming. Our altar has never shined brighter. Fr. John preached another home run. I counted the offering, went to the bank and then met six or so church folk at our regular restaurant, Shiraz, for our regular good lunch. And then I went home to take a nap. It was Easter, a major Christian/American holiday, holy day and except for a short phone call with one of my four children, eleven grandchildren, there was no family in it.

See, I am changed. And I didn’t even have to work at it. It is not pitiful. I am not feeling sorry for myself. I raised my four to go off and be themselves and they have. Some of them still check in with me from time to time. But their lives are their own, their families are their own, their religions are their own. Most of them seem to like me, some of them don’t.

I don’t know how many more years I will live. I do know that I will have to work as long as I can. I am not leaving anybody very much of anything and I hope I don’t ever have to ask any of them for anything. I had them, I love them, I enjoy them and that was what I thought you were supposed to do. I wonder if they will even talk about me when I’m gone? But I’m not gloomy or self destructive or even whining. I have changed.

Almost bought a house ....

I have been looking. Not LOOKING, but I have a nice realtor here in town who knows what I want. I want a little house, a bungalow. I don't want a lot of space, a lot of yard or a lot of work.
Oddly enough, most of what comes available for sale in this small town is bigger houses; three bedrooms, two baths, big yards. Needless to say I also have a specific price point over which I do not go.

So, a house became available, two bedroom and one bath, nice fenced back yard. I looked at it twice. I checked on my financeability and passed. I even qualify for a no down payment rural loan.

And I almost had myself talked into it. This house was not ugly. The interior needed paint in every room partly because every inch of every wall had something hanging on it, photos and doodads. I would need a refrigerator, a washer and dryer, some furniture and a lot of paint and elbow grease to make it my own and suitable. I even told her to draw up an offer.

I couldn't sleep that night. I'd look around my spacious, airy loft apartment that I enjoy living in and envision the small living room (with paneling) and an even smaller kitchen. Why would one design a house with two spacious bedrooms and miniscule living room and kitchen? Personally, I spend my living time in those spaces.

First thing next morning I called my agent and told her I just couldn't buy and work for weeks on a house I was not going to love. She was very kind and understanding and said she'd keep looking for one I could love. One of the perks of small town living, she doesn't want to run into me regularly only to hear that I hate the house.

Maybe I will find the bungalow of my ideas. Maybe I won't. I am glad to know that if I do and it is in my price range, I'm already pre-qualified for a loan. There are days of climbing up and down the stairs with arms full, when a single story dwelling sounds like a great idea. There are nights when I have lousy cable and even lousier internet connection that I think I'd like to be in a position to complain and/or negotiate the service. There are a lot of pretty days when I would like to have a yard with trees and flowers and birds and those damn squirrels.

At least I contemplated it and weighed the positives and negatives before jumping to any conclusion. For today I'm still a downtown apartment dweller just a block away from my office and a block away in another direction from the new office.

Confessions of a Recipe-aholic

I like to eat.
I like to cook.
I like to read recipes.

Since I am alone, days go by without cooking anything. No days go by without reading recipes.
In magazines, on the internet, piled up in a file on my desk, or in the mail with an "offer." I read recipes.

If they have a great many ingredients, even though most are things I love, they will likely never be concocted. I'm also a big fan of few ingredients. Side note: I eat almost everything and enjoy almost all of that. Another side note: I very often change, vary or add to recipes ... even ones I'm making for the first time.

I have a lot of favorite recipes ... you can tell by the stuff that I have spilled on them. I have recipes in my mother's handwriting (and she did not like to cook!). I have scribbled on the back of napkin recipes, including a great one for jalapeno pie. I have recipes that I can't find but can remember the website from which they came so I can go print them again, Sara McLachlan's Writers Block Oatmeal Cookies ... recently refound on Land O' Lakes Butter website and printed, again.

But sometimes my love of looking up recipes outfoxes me. Case in point: Birthday Cupcakes for Kyndall's 4th. Last year for her 3rd (traditional party in the park) I found a really great recipe for white "graduation" cupcakes. They were easy to make and of delicious texture and flavor and tasted great with cream cheese frosting. But this year I chose the "theme" and because her current interests are mud pies and bugs, I thought chocolate cupcakes with buttercream frosting (sister Kallie doesn't care for cream cheese !) to showcase the precious caterpillars, ants and spiders that would top them. See, mud pies and bugs. This is where it went bad. I "searched" for "chocolate cupcakes" recipes and chose one that sounded sound. It had six squares of semi-sweet chocolate included and other normal cake stuff. I made them. I painstakingly (and if you know how crafty I am not, you get the "pain" part) created bugs by drawing legs and antennae with melted chocolate and bodies and heads of M&M's. See photo somewhere on this page. They turned out pretty durn cute. Guess what? The cake was awful. It was dry. It was chalkily chocolate. The were photographed, bitten into and put down. I threw most of them in the trash can at the park.

I'm just writing this so I will read it in early April next year and return to some tried and true cake recipe for our annual Happy Spring/Honor Grandma/Kyndall's Party at Washington on the Brazos State Park.

But, on a brighter note, the recipe I downloaded for "Creamy Chicken Pot Pie" that uses rotisserie chicken, corn chowder, corn and peas and a puff pastry crust turned out just fabulous and was a solid hit at the potluck lunch at church today.

So my cure is not on the horizon.