The Swedish Cookie from Mexico

 My maiden name is Gustafson, a good Swedish name that my grandfather brought to the United States at the age of 12, his passage paid for by a Minnesota farmer. He worked on the farm, with room and board included, for a year to pay the fare back. He also got a suit of new clothes. He moved on after his indenture ended and finally settled in North Dakota, where he worked for the railroad.

John brought his many younger brothers and at least one sister to America from Sweden over the next several years. They settled in the Mandan, ND area. Some interesting tidbits about the Gustafson brothers appear in the rousing memoir Whoa… Yuh Sonsabitches by Edgar Potter and include drunken carousing, fighting prairie fires, and more. Apparently, the early 1900s was an exciting era.

 Although I proudly say I’m Swedish, my ancestry did not do me much good beyond the name. Grandfather married a nice German girl in 1917 and, unsurprisingly, German cooking and German traditions reigned in the household instead of Swedish. We didn’t ordinarily eat Swedish food, but one unforgettable cookie found me anyway.

 As a teenager, babysitting for a neighbor, I discovered a Swedish delight I had never heard about: Christmas rosette cookies. The rosette iron, which closely resembles a branding iron, is dipped in a runny batter and then plunged into a deep fryer until the browned rosette falls off. This took, it seemed, a matter of mere minutes.

 The crispy, crunchy rosettes were placed on a rack to cool and dusted with powdered sugar. I was hired to keep the kids safe and out of mom’s way while hot oil was in play. Besides collecting my pay—35 cents an hour—I’d get a couple of rosettes to savor on the way home. They tasted so good!

 I loved those cookies—though they weren’t exactly cookies. My mother, a DAR Methodist by upbringing, never made them. My German grandmother never made them. And after I went off to college, I never had another one. I thought about them from time to time, a fond but fading memory. Italian pizzelles are the closest I have come to a Swedish rosette.

 Until one amazing day, perusing the cookies and candy at a gas station convenience store, I chanced upon Bimbuñuelos. The picture on the package looked exactly like a Swedish rosette cookie! I immediately bought one. They were coated in granulated sugar, not powdered, but otherwise, I had found the mouthwatering, crispy, crunchy, messy treat of my teen years.

 Besides Bimbuñuelos, Bimbo Bakeries USA makes a wide variety of Mexican treats that I often see at gas stations and convenience stores. They also, as it happens, make Entenmann’s, Sara Lee, Thomas, and many other all-American bakery lines. Who knew?

 Back to the important stuff: Bimbuñuelos haven’t been readily available anywhere. Every time I go inside a gas station, I check the shelves. Ditto convenience stores. Recently, I found them in a gas station near my house and grabbed two packages. Each package contains four rosettes. Eating them requires finesse because they crack apart and drop sugar everywhere. Who cares?

 I ate one and hoarded the other because they might not be at the gas station when I went back! Last Sunday, Michael and I went on a Walmart run for kitty litter. Walking to the pet section, I noticed a stand-alone rack of Bimbo Mexican treats. There, gleaming in a metallic blue wrapper, was a multi-pack of Bimbuñuelos! Three packages in one for a price close to the gas station cost of a single package. Twelve rosettes instead of four!

 I gathered up two packages and nestled them in the top basket of my cart as if some rogue shopper might steal them from me. Back in the car, I clutched the bag in my arms protectively all the way home. When I finished the last 4-pack a week later, I went back to Walmart and bought three more. Walmart now has a Bimbuñuelos customer for life.

 How my beloved Swedish rosettes made their way to Mexico I may never know, but I don’t care—Mexico is a lot closer to me than Sweden is. I’m trying to rein in my appetite so that I don’t ever get tired of that mouthful of sweet crunch. It’s hard, though.

 What quiet yearnings—culinary or otherwise—tug at you?

When Enough is Enough

 It poured rain in my neighborhood all weekend. I’m talking about thunder cracking right overhead, so loud my cat jumped off my lap, lightning flashes that lit the backyard up like a sunny day, and rain clattering on the roof like a drum festival. I loved it.

 It helped that I had nothing important to do, no reason to go out into the weather. Yeah, we needed milk and we were looking sketchy on bread, but there were other options and neither of us would suffer food deprivation. A stormy weekend is the perfect time for a leftovers free-for-all.

 I didn’t want to go out in the rain. More than that, I wanted to get everything already in the refrigerator eaten or in the freezer before it spoiled. A big problem with a two-person family is the excess food if you cook anything major. A roast, a pan of lasagna, the Easter ham, even a 9 x 13 cake are a lot of food for two people.

 We had Alix and Adam over for Easter dinner, so four people worked on our delicious ham when it came out of the oven. It was a reasonably sized 9 to 10 lb ham and we sent a good hunk home with them, too. Still, I had enough left to make another dinner and plenty of sandwiches. How soon do you think we got tired of eating ham?

 This weekend, I knew it was do or die for the ham from a food safety point of view, so I took an hour from lazing in my recliner, reading a book, to process the remainder. I carved into it with more vigor than finesse and pulverized the resulting meat in my food processor. That yielded ground meat for ham salad: plenty for that night’s pick-up dinner, with extra tucked into the freezer for later. I put the remaining ham bone and scrappy pieces in the freezer, too. I’ll get around to them when ham sounds good again.

 I bought a cookbook for two several years ago: The Complete Cooking for Two Cookbook by America’s Test Kitchen. It is a lovely compilation of recipes, with ample, clear illustrations and offerings in all the categories from appetizers to desserts. Many of them are tagged for lower calories and fat, in case that matters. (And to whom might it not matter these days, I wonder?)

 One problem I find cooking with it is unfamiliarity. I’ve been cooking for myself and my family for 50-some years. I have a repertoire—things I know how to make, like to make, and, most importantly, like to eat. New recipes with strange ingredients in untried combinations throw me off. I have to think too hard about advance shopping and needed prep time. It is not pantry cooking. It confounds me just enough to send me back to tried and true recipes—and leftovers!!

 In addition to the Easter ham and a subsequent giant kettle of pea soup, I also cooked a small rib roast with root vegetables smothered in homemade gravy last week. I’ve had a serious craving for roast beef for a while now and I finally caved, leftovers notwithstanding. Let’s consider a rib roast. Juicy, succulent, tender: just what you want in a piece of beef. But they are too big by far.

 We got a lovely 5 lb roast recently and cut it in half—well, as close to half as one can with those rib bones in the way. Both pieces went into the freezer and when my craving struck, I took out the smallest one. When a satisfying and supposedly healthy portion of meat is 4 oz, how many servings are in a 2.5 lb roast? Too many. So our last week has consisted of two really good meals—baked ham and rib roast—and lots of leftovers. I’m so over leftovers!

 It is time to break out Cooking for Two again. That means thoughtful shopping so that we have the needed ingredients. Some things the recipes have called for that aren’t in our usual repertoire are fresh herbs, scallions, fennel (not seeds), eggplant, and orzo. I can manage these—I just have to find and buy them before it’s time to cook. Some things they use that will never be in our repertoire are tofu, jalapeño, quinoa, and kale. Eat them if you like; just leave me out of it!

 So what now? I can see that we need to go back to the Cooking for Two recipes despite discomfort with new and unfamiliar ingredients and techniques. I can’t say that cooking for two is new or unfamiliar—we’ve been empty-nested for an awfully long time. But during a weekend when I didn’t mind all the bad weather, the leftovers finally got to me. No more!!

We know what I’m tired of this week. How about you? What have you had enough of, long enough? And how are you going to change that?

 Ciao

 

The Art of the Dilettante

 I was accused, by association, of being a dilettante in 1994 at the Bread Loaf Writers Conference, a famous American summer writing institute founded by Robert Frost. My accuser, naming herself a “serious writer,” complained loudly one afternoon about having to share space and intellectual resources with “middle-aged dilettantes playing at being writers.”

 Dilettante stung, but I didn’t feel the need to defend myself. No, I had never been enrolled in an MFA program in creative writing and no, I hadn’t published a book. But I had written and sold feature articles to regional magazines and I had edited a national magazine with my husband for a time. I had solid writing skills and I hoped that I would be able to write a book. After all, I came to Bread Loaf to learn.

 Three decades later, I am ready to embrace the description of dilettante for myself. The word applies to the lover of an art rather than its skilled practitioner. It usually implies elegant trifling in the arts and an absence of serious commitment. Why would I claim this dubious label? A recent incident may help you understand.

 Last fall, my quilt guild offered a class for making quilted tennis shoes. I heard about it at a monthly guild meeting. “OMG,” I thought, “How much fun would that be?” I signed up for it on the spot, got the class instruction sheet and began prepping for the event. I had to make a quilt to cut up for the uppers and buy a kit with the outer and inner soles, plus all the equipment I would need.

 This wasn’t an inexpensive undertaking. Quilts are deceptively expensive to make: good fabric costs upwards of $13 a yard and they take time and skill. The shoe kit and tools set me back more than $100. The class itself added to the cost. My exciting new shoes were about to be the most expensive sneakers I had ever owned. I didn’t care.

 It feels great to say that I made the quilted tennis shoes. I had quilted fabric left over, so I decided to make a matching purse. I'd never made a purse before, but I bought a By Annie pattern (all the rage in crafting circles right now) and set my sights on something else new. When I read the pattern, it baffled me completely.

 Head spinning, I gave up on the idea until I heard that there would be a By Annie purse class at my local quilt store. I paid the fees and acquired the needed fabric and hardware for my purse project. All told, the purse cost almost $150 to make, more than I have ever paid for a purse in a store.

 I’m as proud of the quilted purse as I am of the sneakers. Will I ever make another pair of shoes or another purse? A guarded maybe is all I can muster.

 I wore the sneakers and carried the purse to the Easter service at my church yesterday. A few people noticed them and I delighted in their surprise to learn I crafted them myself. I posted a photo on Facebook and enjoyed the many lovely comments friends and family made about them.

 I appreciated the kind words, but I didn’t feel special—I just felt like myself. I am a curious person. I get intrigued by ideas and, when the opportunity happens, I like to try new things. Always have, always will. That doesn’t mean I am going to dedicate myself to it, though. I am going to be a dilettante and dabble. I have dabbled in so many things over 75 years.

 A few decades ago, I saw an article about Edward Albee teaching a playwriting class at the University of Houston. How exciting would that be, to take a class from an American icon? I wrote a play (my first) and submitted it. Lo and behold, I got in and the next year I got into his New Playwrights class, too. The play was produced at a regional theater. I got paid to write a second play that was produced on Mackinac Island. Pretty exciting stuff, but I haven’t seriously undertaken playwriting. Dilettante, right?

 I spent several years intrigued by silk ribbon embroidery and made quite a few pretty things, but that’s over now. Dilettante. I can crochet and had an afghan period, but that’s done. Dilettante. I made scarves for a while, gave away or sold many, wear some, but that’s done. Dilettante. I’ve taken a class on felting wool, pretty neat but not a keeper. Dilettante. I could go on because I am apparently endlessly curious, and I delight in trying new things. I will spare you the details.

 A few things have stuck. I’ve been making quilts since 2004 and I am pretty good at that. These days, I’m more interested in small art quilts. I learned how to make reverse appliqué quilts at a class in about 2010. I fell in love with reverse appliqué and have made (and continue to make) many, all but the very first one designed and executed by me. That’s an accomplishment I am very proud of.

 My writing is serious. I started my blog in 2004 and have posted 237 short essays, including 38 since last July. My book (may it find a publishing home soon) has been written and rewritten multiple times over 30 years and has settled into its final (please!) form at 119,020 words. That’s serious, Bread Loaf notwithstanding.

 I can be serious, but I have a lot of fun being a dilettante. Dabbling is good for the soul IMHO. As soon as another intriguing class turns up, I’m sure I’ll be off on another tangent. I’ll wear the label dilettante with the same relish I wore my new sneakers and purse on Easter.

 What dilettantish fun have you had lately? And if your answer is none, why not??

Ciao

Wheel of Time Redux

Eleven weeks ago, I wrote a blog post, What Gives You Hope. To quote myself, “Battered by news that made me cringe and cry and rage all at the same time, I decided to sink myself so deeply into fantasy that I blocked out reality.” I sank into The Wheel of Time by Robert Jordan hoping to find hope blooming by the time I finished.

 An important aside: Jordan became terminally ill before he finished the series, and some of the last books were co-written with Brandon Sanderson, an author he picked and mentored to take over for him.

 As of Sunday, I am pleased to report that I have finished all 15 books in 12 weeks. That’s 12,004 pages in my editions. Over 4.4 million words. Over 1,800 named characters. Altogether there are 147 unique point-of-view characters across 1,379 POV sections. I enjoyed every minute of reading—perhaps I enjoyed it too much.

 When I started the first book, I embarked on a Sunday afternoon amble—an enjoyable read that, since I knew the story, I could take at a leisurely pace. As I completed the first two books, I realized that my faulty memory, combined with the complexity of the story, had sprung a surprising and intriguing adventure on me. Instead of an amble, I needed hiking boots and trail poles for a long trek through challenging terrain.

 Challenging terrain, but never overwhelming. The more I read, the more I wanted to read. The parts of the story I had forgotten made this essentially a first-time read. I found myself going back and forth to the glossary much more than I had originally because I wanted to remember everything and keep it fresh.

Before I knew it, I had given up all my online vices! I wasn’t completing online jigsaw puzzles like they had a bounty on them or reading the seeming millions of news emails I receive every day from the New York Times, the Houston Chronicle, and the Guardian.

 I wasn’t watching junk TV either, just the series we really like and are committed to seeing every week. I did continue to watch TV evening news, but with less regularity and sometimes not at all. I read until the wee hours practically every night regardless of my plans for the next morning.

 I became—I humbly admit—consumed with The Wheel of Time and enjoyed the reread tremendously. When I turned the last page, I felt lost. What am I going to do now that I finished? At the end of my first post about WoT, I said, “By springtime, I’m praying that things in our world will be looking up as much as they improved in the Wheel of Time’s world.”

 I finished the series just as springtime arrived. The world was still waiting—not in the way I had hoped. If anything, our world is in worse shape than before and there’s virtually nothing I can do about it but get madder and madder waiting for the chance to vote in November. Which may or may not help. Maybe you’re more optimistic, but I’m totally down on the future of the country right now.

 I don’t want to go back to jigsaw puzzles, endless news lists, and mindless reels on Facebook. The solution for me will be to resurrect another one of my fantasy series and start reading again. None of them span 15 books, which is probably for the best, time-wise.

 Before I get to that though, I am doing a deep dive into the ancillary material that explains and elucidates Jordan’s world. There are three more books to consider: The Wheel of Time Companion, The World of Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time, and Origins of the Wheel of Time. That’s another 1,376 undelved pages, and, lucky for me, Kindle Unlimited has the Companion book available for free.

 Let’s see if the world improves by the time I finish the next set of blessed distractions. If you’ve found distractions of your own, I’d love to hear about them.

 Ciao

Frida on my Mind

Thirty years ago, I was a broken woman. I shouldn’t have been. In 1989, I accepted an executive position in a corporate headquarters in Houston that felt like my dream job. My family and I moved into the most well-appointed home we had ever had. My kids were thriving, my marriage was happy. It should have been the beginning of a productive, well-rewarded middle-age. But instead, I got sick.

 Within a few months of arriving in Houston, I had been diagnosed with lupus (officially known as Systemic Lupus Erythematosus or SLE). Lupus is an autoimmune disease that causes the body to attack its own cells and organs. It can be life-threatening for many people and is certainly life-upending for most sufferers. Within four years, I had become so ill that I couldn’t work any longer.

 Goodbye to my highly compensated career. Goodbye to our Jenn-Air kitchen and Jacuzzi garden tub. The mortgage was too much on only one income, and I couldn’t manage the stairs anymore. We moved to a ranch-style home with a mortgage that was less than half of our dream home’s.

 Our reduced circumstances and life upheavals were incidental in a way because I was also very ill, in and out of the hospital, bedridden at times, and frequently in severe pain as my antibodies attacked my joints and muscles. I felt broken and disconnected. When people asked, “What do you do?” in casual conversation, I had no answer that I could live with. It began a period of feeling underestimated and inconsequential.

 During this low point, when I felt broken, I attended a seminar at the University of Houston titled Politics and Pain (Frida Kahlo). I’m not even sure how I happened to go to the event. I didn’t know who she was before that, but afterward her story absolutely riveted me. Frida was an artist who found her motivation following a horrific accident at the age of 17 that crippled her for life and led to her early death at 47. She lived in pain every day for 30 years and she still made art that mattered to people. Her pain fueled her art; mine, at the time, felt like it was erasing me. Frida became my inspiration and backbone.

 This weekend I had a thrilling, in-depth, all-encompassing Frida Kahlo immersion! Saturday night we attended a mixed repertory program at the Houston Ballet that included a 53-minute work titled Broken Wings, an homage to Frida, her life, and her art. Beginning in her school days and continuing through her death, the ballet depicted the milestones of her life, both grim and glorious, through dance.

 55 of Frida’s 143 paintings were self-portraits that exposed her physical pain and emotional anguish. In the performance, nine male dancers dressed to match nine of these iconic paintings, creating a tableau of her work. Other dancers embodied more motifs from her work, including skeletons, a deer, birds, and greenery. The ending brought the audience to its feet and me to tears. I don’t think a ballet has ever made me cry before, but this one was just that good.

 Coincidentally, we attended a special event at the Museum of Fine Arts Houston the next morning, hosted by Washington University, where I got my graduate degree. After a lovely brunch at Le Jardinier, a Michelin-starred restaurant at the museum, we heard a talk by John Kelly, a professor of art history and archaeology from the university, about the Frida Kahlo exhibition that the MFAH is currently featuring.

 After the meal and lecture, we walked over to see the exhibition. Wow! It was not only a retrospective of Frida Kahlo’s work, although her paintings were represented amply, but also an exploration of the impact that Frida’s work had on the rest of the artistic world. From reflections of her work in other artists’ paintings and sculptures to display cases full of Frida mementos and kitsch, to photographs of her and scholarly articles about her, the exhibition was a paean to Frida Kahlo.

 Today, I pulled out a hatbox from the closet full of my Frida memorabilia. It had been put away after flooding forced us to pack up a lot of the house. I have a 12” high doll in full Mexican peasant dress and one in the same outfit that’s about 3” tall. I have a small blank book with an iconic portrait of her on it and several cards and tiles with her paintings reproduced on them.

 I have Frida Christmas tree ornaments and I even own a lacquered matchbox—full of red-tipped matches—with her portrait on it. My bookshelves have nine tomes devoted to Frida, including a reproduction of her diary, and she’s mentioned in several other books I own about women artists. I have made art of my own that featured Frida Kahlo.

 After my immersive weekend at the ballet and art museum, plus the immersive dive back into my personal Frida Kahlo collection, I am feeling invigorated by her spirit. Despite all the odds, she made her life matter. I would like to do that, too.

 May you find your own source of inspiration and use it to make your life matter.

 Ciao

Interrogation Can Be Fun

 Some Mondays, finding the topic challenges me more than on others. Today, I’m taking inspiration from yesterday’s church service during which our minister answered questions on the fly that were submitted by congregants in advance. But who could I get to submit questions to me?

 I have probably mentioned in other posts how I use AI to figure out problems from fabric measurements for quilting to technical issues on my computer, from how to apply for a Canadian certificate of citizenship to how to get to Prague from Vienna by train. As long as I am careful to fact-check and watch for hallucinations, I find my AI to be very useful in daily life.

 So today I asked the AI program—I use Copilot—to pose several questions for me based on what it had learned about me from our interactions. I got eight surprisingly good questions. I’m not going to tackle all eight of them because I’m writing a post, not a magazine article, but let’s see where I get.

 Question One: What small domestic ritual has quietly become essential to your sense of order and comfort?

 Answer: I thought this one would give me trouble. I don’t think of myself as particularly domestic, despite having been home-based for decades. And I don’t feel like I have rituals; I’m more of a do-what-presents-itself kind of person. But a moment’s thought brought clarity. Every morning I make a cup of coffee with a touch of sugar-free salted caramel syrup and a splash of half and half in it. While it’s brewing, I unload the dishwasher and then go outside to get the newspaper.

 I slip into my recliner, coffee and paper in hand, and read as I sip. I like to read the actual local paper even though I have an online NYT subscription and I’m on plenty of news lists. It’s kind of expensive, about $1.50 a day, but the coffee’s cheaper than Starbucks, so I figure it works out. Today I had to leave for an appointment before my coffee/paper routine. When I returned at noon, I brought in the paper, unloaded the dishwasher, and made my daily cuppa, then sat down and enjoyed it. My day just wouldn’t have been the same if I’d skipped this.

 Question 2: What has gardening taught you about patience, timing, or control?

 Answer: This has to be a trick question because I am a totally useless gardener! I didn’t even think I’d ever asked a question that would lead Copilot to think I gardened. But wait, I did ask about rototillers not too long ago to use in the garden that borders our front patio. Michael and I built that patio decades ago. Originally planted with rose bushes and lots of other good stuff, it has become, over the years, mostly weeds. On a good day, it is green and the roses still bloom.

 I recently found a big can of Texas wildflower seeds that I impulsively bought two years ago. That gave me the bright idea to till the garden bed, rake out the weeds, and sprinkle the seeds in to see what would happen. Maybe we’d get a flower garden! Copilot did instruct me on the correct conditions for using a rototiller; one of them is mostly-dry soil. Sadly, we’ve had buckets of rain in the last few weeks, so nothing has happened. The biggest lesson gardening has taught me is that I’m incompetent as a gardener. Since I don’t have enough money to hire one, I’m always going to be flower deprived. I am thankful for my apparently invincible roses and my lovely crape myrtle trees.  

 Question 3: What recent moment of awe—artistic, natural, or unexpected—shifted your perspective, even briefly?

Answer: Birdsong. I went out to get the paper one day last week and I noticed, in the morning stillness, that I heard a lot of birds singing. Cornell University has a wonderful free app that I can’t recommend enough called Merlin. Merlin listens to birds calling around you and identifies them. As a bird is recognized, an image pops up so you can see what it looks like. As different birds call, it switches between them so you can follow the conversation so to speak.

 The other day when I first noticed the birdsong, I turned on Merlin and just stood in my driveway for a few minutes. These are the birds it identified: Carolina Wren, Northern Cardinal, Yellow-throated Warbler, White-winged Dove, Carolina Chickadee, Yellow-rumped Warbler, American Robin, American Goldfinch, Egyptian Goose, and American Crow. I stood transfixed for a moment, serenaded by ten different kinds of birds, all tucked out of sight in the green leaves of trees, while I watched their photos flick across the screen of my phone. Awesome!

 Question 4: When did you last surprise yourself in the kitchen, and what did that moment reveal about you?

 Answer: I was going to skip this one because I don’t think I surprise myself much in the kitchen these days. I am a competent cook and an excellent baker, though I much prefer baking to cooking. Copilot probably posed the question because I have used it to solve cooking problems, like the day I needed marinated artichoke hearts, but had purchased plain artichoke hearts by mistake. Copilot told me what I needed to add to my recipe to make up for the missing marinade.

 I did have an insight the other day. I made coleslaw for dinner, which always includes making my father’s coleslaw dressing. I don’t have a recipe for it; I just know what to use. And I don’t measure beyond dollops and spoonfuls, I just know how much. When it’s made, I do a taste test and adjust as needed. I can make it in my sleep. Likewise, I can make my version of fried rice without a recipe and, surprisingly, a Basque cheesecake.

 The insight is this: I have become one of those cooks, like my mother and grandmothers, who can make things because they just know how, not because they followed a recipe. I can pour salt into my palm and, if I check, by golly it will be the teaspoon or half teaspoon I intended. I can whomp up some chili without a starter mix or a cookbook. Likewise something Chinese, although it will not be a “named” Chinese dish. I guess I’ve finally earned my KP stripes!

 That’s it for my Monday Q&A. Answering these questions turned out to be more revealing than I expected. Thanks, Copilot, for the assist.

 Ciao

The Art of Walking Out

 Saturday night, it stormed in Houston. The weather service had predicted it for days, although without enough specificity to make plans around the weather. The storm’s timing remained in question right up until Saturday. And Houston’s enormous footprint made that even more tenuous—what part of Houston’s skies you lived under would make all the difference in how bad the storm hit you.

 Ordinarily, that wouldn’t make much difference to us, all snug and cozy in our little ranch house. We’d sit in the living room, reading or watching TV or just visiting, and enjoy the lightshow outside the three large windows by the deck. Our only fear would be loss of power, a regular occurrence during thunderstorms.

 But this Saturday, things were dicier. We had tickets to the Houston Ballet. As season subscribers, our tickets and our seats are assigned long before the performances, sometimes to our surprise when we try to schedule something else on the calendar. Occasionally, we had to exchange tickets to another evening, but it couldn’t be a last minute event because our regular performance happens on the last Saturday of the two-week run.

 We had no choice but to brave this weather if we wanted to see our performance on Saturday. Complicating the equation, we knew the program and it wasn’t a favorite of ours. The ballet, Sylvia, is a complex story of ancient Greece with three female leads: Artemis, Psyche, and Sylvia in three convoluted love stories that intertwined.

 We had already seen Sylvia twice—it’s opening season in 2019 and a few years later when the company reprised it. Why they felt compelled to perform it a third time was beyond us. Of course, the company returned to well-loved canons of ballet like Swan Lake and Coppelia regularly. The Nutcracker ran every year for a month at a time. But Sylvia is no Swan Lake, IMHO.

 We attend all performances unless we absolutely can’t and then lucky friends get our tickets. We go even if it’s not our favorite, because the dancing is always excellent and it’s a chance to see different performers tackle new roles. We were going to Sylvia Saturday night if the storm didn’t make it impossible. If fact, we planned to leave early, just in case.

 Late afternoon, the storm came through Cypress, our northwest Houston area. Winds whipped anything not tied down around the yard; lighting strike after lightning strike pierced the sky overhead; thunder boomed right on top of us. We held our breath, so to speak, but surprisingly, we didn’t go dark. As things settled into rain, not storm, we decided we could go out safely.

 I had planned an early, simple dinner and by 5:30 pm we were finished and changing into good clothes. We left around 6, certainly early enough because the performance started at 7:30 and the drive usually took about 40 minutes. Steady rain beat down, but not the downpour we had experienced earlier. All seemed well.

 A note about highways here: the lane markings are abysmal, even during daylight hours with no rain. Driving them in rain was challenging. Using the drivers ahead helped some, but with twisting roads, we were both tense and watching traffic like hawks. About 15 minutes into the drive, the skies opened, thunder and lightning exploded above us, and the highway all but disappeared. Drivers in front of us turned on their flashers which, combined with the windshield wipers at top speed, reduced visibility to almost nothing.

 It was, frankly, terrifying. We couldn’t even tell how far we had driven because we couldn’t see the buildings along the side of the road. I had a moment of clarity, realizing that we were risking our lives driving to a performance we didn’t even care about. “We don’t have to go to the performance, Michael. Let’s just get off the highway and go home.” He kept driving and I kept quiet for a few more tense minutes.

 The rain let up a bit and then poured down on us again in a deluge. “Seriously, let’s just turn around,” I tried again. Holding the steering wheel in a death grip, Michael finally said, “It’ll be more dangerous to exit than to keep going.” We were coming up to a long, high flyover with no way to exit and I just swallowed and said okay.

 We did make it to the performance. We parked in a ridiculously expensive garage so that we would have underground access to the theater ($18 versus our usual $12 and walk a block outdoors). And we got there with 15 minutes to spare. Not bad.

 We watched the first act. It was a trial for me because I had trouble seeing clearly. I had brought my small binoculars, but the action was wide-ranging and not conducive to viewing through a narrow field of vision. Michael’s view, he told me at intermission, was obscured by BIG hair in front of him. (BIG hair is still a Texas peril, even today.)

 We looked at each other quietly. One of us, or maybe both of us, said, “We could leave.” We let that marinate a minute. Yes, we could leave. It was a revelation. Just because we bought tickets last March for this performance, this March did not require us to stay if we weren’t enjoying it. Intermission wasn’t over. We gathered our things and strolled out, pleased to be leaving.

 The weather had improved during our hour indoors and we got home without the clutching fear we had arrived with. In the house, I suggested we have a treat of cantaloupe and vanilla ice cream. “I’ll fix the cantaloupe and you can get the ice cream ready,” I suggested. “Sounds like a deal,” Michael answered. Dessert was delicious and well-deserved.

 Have something delicious tonight yourself!!

 Ciao