What we do for air conditioning
I doubt my late husband could have convinced me to move from California back to Texas without the miracle of air conditioning. I still marvel at how I lasted the first months of my freshman year at North Texas State University, moving from central Wisconsin into an un-air conditioned room on the fourth floor of Bruce Hall.
(There were showers full-on cold every morning and night, swimming in the pool that used to be across from Willis Library, and everything iced. And more showers. Go, Mean Green.)
I try not to think about those beautiful California delta breezes at 4 o’clock in the afternoon in August in Texas. In Sacramento, the winds shifted just as the summer afternoon got hot. Those delta breezes pulled in air cooled by the Pacific Ocean.
Summer outstays its welcome here in Texas, the way winter does in Wisconsin. Air conditioning makes it bearable.
So does splaying out on the kitchen floor tile, as my dog, Gus, would tell you if he could. Photo by David Minton
Gus doesn’t like the air conditioner in our new house one bit. On move-in day April 1 and for a day or so after, he wouldn’t go down the hall towards any of the bedrooms. I didn’t figure out why, and it passed. Only later did I understand that it passed because I turned off the air conditioner until June.
We had an unusually cool, wet spring. I wanted the peace and quiet. My house was built in 1961. Air conditioning for this house, like many homes of this era, came later. That means the system equipment that would be in the attic of a newer home was installed in our hall closet.
It’s loud.
Really loud.
After I turned the air conditioner on for the summer, Gus preferred to stay in the living and kitchen areas. When pressed, he would come into the first bedroom, which is my office, and hid under the desk while I worked.
Gus is an old guy. Come November, he’ll be 14, which makes him about 78 in dog years. After we sold the farm and moved to town, it was fun to watch him recognize that his patrol duties had shrunk to a city lot down from 10 acres (with the additional security risk of a creek running through part of it).
You could almost see it in his eyes. “Hey! This is great! I can retire!”
We have a new routine that includes lots of fake patrols through the drainage ditch behind the house. Instead of napping under the porch, he naps in the garage.
At night, he’d whimper and cry when I headed for bed, which soon became crying whenever I went down the hall. Still, it took me a few days to figure out it was the air conditioner that was bothering him. At first, to help him out, I carried him down the hall, past the unit, at bedtime. But then, he started getting anxious as I would get ready for bed. Clearly, he didn’t even want to be carried down the hall. I looked again and saw that there are intake vents both in the hall and in the master bedroom.
I gave up.
I set up the laptop in the kitchen. I hardly use the big Mac the way I used to for writing and research. I moved the sewing machine to the dining room. And every night since June, I throw the big decorator pillows on the floor for Gus, and I sleep on the sofa.
When Sam went to kindergarten at Argyle Elementary School, he was terrified of the school bells. The teachers worked it out that Sam would always be outside for a fire drill before the alarm went off. But the 9 a.m. attendance bell was becoming a problem. The kindergarten teacher told Principal Gaye Pittman that Sam would watch the clock earlier and earlier each day. He was developing an increasingly elaborate routine to try and anticipate the moment the bell would sound.
Gaye knew just what to do. She turned the bells off. Teachers would just have to remember to take attendance at 9 o’clock without a bell.
It’s August, Gus. It’s Texas.
We’re not turning it off.
How long can this go on? (Or, where’s my hockey stick?)
FIVE COMFORTING AUTISM LIES – A SUMMARY
1. There is no autism epidemic.
2. Autism is genetic and has always been with us.
3. Autism is nothing to worry about. It is just another way of being.
4. The belief that vaccines cause autism has been thoroughly debunked.
5. Those who claim to know otherwise are frauds or nutjobs. Best to ignore them.
These lies, when repeated by those who believe them, are symptoms of ignorance, shock, and denial in the face of a medical catastrophe. At the current rate of increase, the annual cost of caring for Americans with autism spectrum disorder — including health services, residential care, special education, transportation, and employment support — could reach $500 billion or more by 2025 (Paul Leigh, Ph.D. Center for Healthcare Policy and Research at UC Davis). Struggling families need help now. Since Representative Posey’s June 29th revelations on corruption and coverup on the CDC, ignorance is no excuse. How long can this go on?
Although there is an oblique suggestion that vaccines cause autism (I’m not convinced there is any good science to support that claim), the rest of the information underscores an important point. The burden that comes from this alarming rise in the incidence rate is not sustainable.
My youngest sister left physical therapy to earn her master’s degree in health administration. Now, she’s one of those people who try to help health care improve, and be accountable, by watching the science and the outcomes data. She said when a graph looks like a hockey stick, there’s real trouble: 
(Citation here)
I don’t have an MHA. But I played field hockey in school. I’d call that a hockey stick.
I have tried to explain this alarming rise in conversations with friends and colleagues. They seem to understand, but I can tell it doesn’t sink in.
One time I think I got close. I told people that when Sam was born, the cost to care for him would be borne by more than 10,000 people because he was one in 10,000 or more. Today, it seems 1 in 66 babies will have autism. That means the burden 10,000 used to bear now goes to just 66 of us.
It isn’t just a communication problem. We are bombarded with so much information every day. People throw around big numbers in science stories all the time. We feel small. And powerless. We send money to Comedy Central’s Night of Too Many Stars and hope that helps.
It’s just not acceptable. Something horrible is happening and we have to make it stop.
I think I’m going to start carrying around a hockey stick.
Reflections on nine years and three days
Saturday we took care of errands ending up at the grocery store just before lunchtime. About halfway through our trip, we saw an assistant manager leading three new trainees around the store, pointing out the location of various items.
Sam stopped and watched for a second. Then he announced that three days before was the ninth anniversary of his date of hire.
Wow. Time flies.
The good people at Albertsons hired him as a courtesy clerk the summer after he graduated high school. He had help from a job coach, hired by the state, to make sure he got off to a good start.
Sam has received lots of raises through the years but he hasn’t sought promotions to jobs like checker or stocker because he doesn’t feel the kinds of problems they manage are the kinds of problems he could solve quickly.
His favorite part of the job is retrieving carts. If you catch him heading out the door to fetch carts, you will see him ride a cart like a skateboard to the far side of the parking lot. He tells me it’s a move he invented.
Sometimes, he says, the managers tell him there’s enough carts for now, and he needs to come back inside to help sack groceries.
He’s a good sacker, but he he thinks that the speedy sacking champions who used to make an appearance on The Late Show with David Letterman are just crazy.
Although I don’t have it on any authority at all, the store seemed too quiet after Wal-Mart opened at Rayzor Ranch. But recently, it’s been busy no matter what day or time I visit the store. I don’t know the reason, although I have my theories. People are struggling with the construction on University Drive. And more than once I’ve heard someone say they are tired of the crazy parking in the lot outside Kroger.
Who knows how much longer he’ll be there. He just headed out the door right now to walk to work. He’s a cheerful, reliable employee. When we were shopping yesterday, everyone, including the store manager, stopped to say hello.
As wonderful as working at Albertsons has been, and will likely continue to be, Sam should be celebrating his second or third anniversary in the tech sector. That’s what his degree is in. That’s where his talents are. That’s what the contract says with his new job coach.
The IT sector is desperate for employees. Sam’s brother, Michael, didn’t major in IT, and yet that is where he landed. It’s hard not to feel irony’s burn. We worked so hard to get to this point. Sam’s ready for the world. But the world isn’t ready for him at all.
Building Arduinos
Tonight was Sam’s second time to go to North Branch Library and their meet-up group for Arduino. Sam says there’s a lot to explain about Arduino. “The possibilities are endless,” he says. “You can build drones. But today, it was mostly about building electronic musical instruments.”
For example, he built this little theremin today.
He calls it a light theremin because it changes its sound frequency based on different levels of light.
He also built this little keyboard. “It’s not exactly a keyboard,” Sam says. “It’s just buttons.”
Summer Slushie
So refreshing! My dad made these for us once years ago. When I realized I had both strawberries and watermelon in the kitchen, I tried to remember what he did. After I was finished, I recalled that he tossed in a few ice cubes to help the blender along, but I didn’t do that today.
(When you have fruit this way — so concentrated — its doubly important that you use organically grown.)
Summer Slushie
1 quart strawberries
1/2 small seedless watermelon
1 T. sugar (optional)Top the strawberries and rinse lightly. Place on a cookie sheet and freeze for at least 2 hours.
Remove from freezer and let thaw slightly as you cut the watermelon in chunks. Put both in blender and pulse until a smooth slush. Taste and sweeten with more sugar, if desired.
Serves 4.
Blueberry Pie
Rita Pooler won a wild blueberry pie contest in Maine with this recipe. I pulled it off the Martha Stewart website in the 1990s. It’s still there, if you search “Rita’s Simply Blueberry Pie” there or on just about every other major foodie web site.
We don’t have wild blueberries in North Texas, but every year, I try to make a run to East Texas to pick some up. Lately, Blueberry Hill Farms in Edom has been the place to go.
I’m posting it now for Sarah Junek, whose birthday is today. Sarah went picking at farm near Houston and made a pie she was disappointed with.
When you work that hard for your berries, you should always be able to count on the pie. So, here you go, Sarah. Happy Birthday! This pie is awesome.
Rita’s Simply Blueberry Pie
Crust:
2 1/3 cup flour
1/3 cup cake flour
1 T. sugar
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 cup unsalted butter
1/2 cup shortening
1/2 cup ice waterFilling:
5 cups blueberries
1 cup sugar
2 T. flour
2 T. cornstarch
1 T. lemon juice
1 T. butterGlaze:
1 egg white
2 T. white sugar
1 tsp. brown sugarSprinkle lemon juice on berries. Mix flour, sugar, cornstarch and add to berries. Toss lightly. Set aside while you make the crust.
Mix flour, sugar, salt. Cut in shortening and butter. Add water and mix gently until moist. Divide into two balls and roll out one into pie plate. Spoon in filling and dot with butter. Roll out second to cover the top. Fold top edges under the bottom and flute. Slit the top to vent.
Beat the egg white with the water and brush on top of the pie. Sprinkle with sugars. Bake at 425 F for 10 minutes. Reduce heat to 350 F and bake 45 minutes or until done.
PDG Caramel Ice Cream
When an etude or solo went well in my weekly lesson, my music teacher at the Eastman School, Cherry Beauregard, would so clearly enunciate his compliment — “that was pretty damn good” — I’d almost not notice how inappropriate it was.
Of course, times were a little different then, too.
Mark had never been a student of Cherry’s, but when he finally met him, he’d heard me repeat the compliment for more than five years. After he met Cherry, Mark could parrot him almost perfectly.
It was one of the great private jokes between us.
After I made this ice cream this weekend and took my first bite, I wished Mark was nearby to hear, because it’s Pretty Damn Good.
Caramel Ice Cream
1 1/4 cup sugar, divided
2 cup cream, divided
1/2 tsp. kosher salt
1/2 tsp. vanilla
2 eggs
1 milk
In a wide, heavy bottom saucepan, melt 1 cup of the sugar until it turns amber. Stir until it begins melting, and then swirl to keep it from burning. Add 1 cup of the cream (careful, it can splatter), then remove from heat and stir until caramel dissolves.* Stir in salt and vanilla and allow to cool to room temperature. Whisk eggs with remaining 1/4 cup sugar until frothy, stir in milk and remaining cream. Fold in caramel and freeze.
*Don’t worry if it doesn’t all dissolve at first. It will keep dissolving as it cools. And if a few bits are still there when you start churning they will melt into cool little pockets of caramel in the ice cream.
Random Thoughts on the Crazy Coyote Trail Run
Texas is crazy hot. You can drink water at the aid station, but you may also find it’s better applied directly to your head. Water bottles dropped on the trail can be used as cooling devices. A still-warm-in-its-wrapper bacon McMuffin dropped on the trail likely makes the strangest item you’ll ever turn into the lost-and-found table. You can run as fast as your friend’s 14-year-old son through the wildflowers, but he’s still getting the nifty burnished birch coaster. Wearing a fake coyote tail is cool, but make sure all the kids get their tails before you ask for one.”Watch your paws” means the new trail on high ground away from floodwaters goes over freshly mowed prickly pear. Crazy Texas showers bring crazy gorgeous Texas flowers.
Wildflowers at Clear Creek Natural Heritage Center. Photo by Runner Susan Sullivan.
Overheard in the Wolfe House #296
Peggy: How was work? Long day?
Sam: I’m taking a nap. If I had a ‘do not disturb’ sign, I would hang it on my door right now.
I Really Want to Like The Kitchen
Trouble started the day we realized my best baking sheet wouldn’t fit into the oven.
An old shop on the Denton Square, Country Kitchen City Cooks, carried the Doughmakers brand. I don’t remember which baking pan I bought first, but it impressed me. I collected a pizza pan, a sheet cake pan, round cake pans, a muffin tin and the extra-large cookie sheet.
Do your cakes come out uneven, or do some of your cookies get too dark while others on the pan barely brown? I used to blame the ingredients, or the mixing or my oven. Then I learned most of the blame belonged to the pans. Doughmakers are to baking what cast iron is to the stove-top.
That big sheet pan was so versatile. I could make the cake for a jelly roll or bakery-sized recipes for pecan bars or brownies when the kids were little and had hollow legs. These days, it’s been Sam’s go-to pan for kolaches. We still make bakery quantities of sausage-filled kolaches.
I tried to tell myself I was going to love the kitchen in the new house. It has a cook top! A double oven! A standing freezer! A wet bar!
The galley design would be more efficient, I told myself. Fewer steps around the workspace. Don’t worry that you don’t have a second pantry. You’re not that hot of a cook, I reminded myself. Don’t worry that the dining room furniture now hides a mountain of seasonal kitchen gear. No one will know that you filled the big hutch with cookie cutters and the little hutch with processing equipment. Use the breakfast table when you need more workspace, I coached myself.
The afternoon Sam couldn’t get a batch of kolaches in the oven because it was too small for the cookie sheet, I had to admit it.
I had my dream kitchen. And I sold it.
Mark and I studied a lot of house plans before choosing the house we built nearly 20 years ago. Dog trot to help keep the house cool, big farm kitchen, wrap-around porch for Sam to pace when he was little, and an interior bathroom.
(People who live in tornado alley understand that last requirement.)
After I sold it, I made sure I could still check some of those boxes at the new house: interior bathroom, apartment for Sam (who paces a little differently now), a covered front porch, big trees on the west side of the house to help stay cool (I have yet to run the air conditioning this year.)
I’ve even figured out how to make up for the loss of a farmhouse garden, but it will take a few years of (enjoyable) work to terrace the back of the property and amend the soil.
But the kitchen. It’s a net loss. Even my son, Michael, notices its shortcomings on his brief visits.
I was in Argyle earlier this week. I didn’t go by the farm. But I couldn’t avoid its reach. I saw enough and felt enough and remembered enough and imagined enough that regret snuck in.
Stupid kitchen.
One of the Denton City Council members often tries to steer deliberations with an axiom he says he got from his father, “Let the reason be the reason.”
I listen even more carefully when he calls for it. It’s an elegant way to describe intellectual honesty, and to push for the more robust discussions that often come afterward. (Although, a person has to be careful. Oftentimes there is more than one reason. And you might need to be skeptical of your skepticism if you are thinking someone isn’t stating their reason.) When the regrets and the second-guessing come, I remind myself that I sold the farm for good reasons.
I need to let the reasons be the reasons.
I remind myself that we used to regret and second-guess our decision to leave California. And New York. And then we remembered what was important to us and we try to gather up those quality-of-life makers in order to keep moving forward. Very few of those things are truly tied to one place.
I don’t know what it will take with this stupid kitchen, but I really need to like it.
Sam and I are still building our new lives here in the central city. Yesterday, he bought a bicycle. It was fun watching him in the bike shop. He hadn’t been on a bicycle in more than 10 years.
He hopped on and pedaled away. Time hadn’t worn away anything at all.