Nothing funny about feldspar

(I’d call this Chicken Paprikash, but it doesn’t seem appropriate)

• A package of chicken thighs (about 1.5-2 lbs)
• An onion, chopped
• 1½ tablespoons paprika
• 2 tablespoons flour
• salt and pepper
• A cup of chicken stock
• A cup of crème fraîche (it’s what we had)

Brown the onion in butter, then add the chicken and brown it. Take the chicken out, sprinkle the paprika, flour, salt & pepper on the onions and cook a little. Put the chicken back in the pan, add the stock, cover well, and turn the heat down and let it cook a while until the chicken is done. Take it off the heat, remove the chicken, stir in the crème fraîche. Serve with egg noodles.

Not exactly a scientific recipe, but I was working from Plagioclase’s mother’s memory, and a couple of old cookbooks. No internet searches this time!

It was ok, but kinda bland and brown. Browner and blander than we expected. Plagioclase’s mother said she never used more than a tablespoon of paprika, so I doubled her amount, and it still wasn’t enough. It could also be that I added too much flour, or overcooked everything, or really should have used sour cream.

So, for next time: less flour, more paprika, more salt and pepper, shorter onion and chicken browning time, sour cream. And put it on spätzle.

We were cleaning out Mom’s basement yesterday (only a week and a half ’til closing, yikes!), and came across a box with some radio equipment (Ham and CB) in it. The bottom of the box was pretty much rotten from a water-softener malfunction a couple of years ago, and we never got around to throwing it out.

In the bottom of the box, however, were photographs. I had no idea, and I’m not sure my mom remembered them, either. They apparently had belonged to her younger sister, and had been stored since she died in the early ’70s (the last 25 years in my parents’ basement).

Many of the photos were totally destroyed by the water and the subsequent mildew, and that makes me sad. I’m sad that I have no idea who most of the people or places are, and I have no one to ask. I’m disappointed that we didn’t take care of them better; that we didn’t clean up better after the flood. However, not all of the pictures are ruined, and there are some that I am happy to have (like the snapshots of my great-grandfather surrounded by his adult children), that I never new existed.

So I’m conflicted. Many of the photos should be thrown away — they’re faded, damaged, mildewed (and at risk of infecting the others), and I never would have missed them if Mom had tossed them without telling me about them. On the other hand, they can’t be replaced, and now that I know about them I want to be greedy and save them all.

There’s a lesson there somewhere, though I’m not quite sure what it is. Is it that archivists have a hard job? Is it that I shouldn’t be so dismissive of scrapbookers (who after all, know the who what when and where of their pictures)? I don’t know.

Most likely it’s a warning to me to not put off going through the pictures and stuff we’ve brought back so far. And then to start sorting through my own pictures that I’m going to organize “some day.” As I’ve learned recently, “some day” doesn’t always come.

I haven’t been blogging much lately because I’ve been trying to deal with my mom’s estate. It’s not that I’m super-busy, but more like I never seem to be able to write about what’s going on without fear of jinxing stuff. (Yes, I am somewhat superstitious.) That and most of it is incredibly mundane. Phone calls and faxes and meetings with lawyers and real estate agents and plumbers.

I’ve known for years that I was the back-up executor for my parents (they were each others’ primary), so I knew this was coming. I’ve also known for years that there wouldn’t be much left at the end — my parents were full believers in using credit and equity (”if you’ve got it, use it!”), and didn’t save much.

Their habits, however, have left me in a difficult position. There’s not quite enough cash to keep everything going until the house sells; my only option is to sell the house at a steep discount and hope there’s enough left over to keep the estate from being insolvent. In the meantime, I’m spending my own money to take care of getting the house cleaned out and repaired (which I probably won’t get back) and fending off my sister’s requests for early disbursements of the contents of Mom’s checking account (”All you have to do is give me my half of the money and I’ll give you a receipt.” She doesn’t seem to understand that beneficiaries come last in probate.)

Before the last few months I thought that the executor of an estate didn’t have to worry about late payments and collection calls. After all, assuming the estate is going to be (eventually) solvent, every one will get paid. But creditors don’t think the way I do. So not only do I have the normal stress of missing my mom, I get to worry about juggling her bills and mine, too.

I know I’m the best person to be doing this job that needs to be done. Mom’s finances weren’t in disarray — she just owed people money. I had no problem identifying legitimate creditors, and I knew who they were even before she got sick (I’ve been working with her finances for a couple of years). I just wish that the system was somehow different, that I could convince the banks that they’ll get paid without them having to foreclose, or seize assets, or threaten my credit rating.

I just wish it didn’t have to be done at all.

An earlier post mentioned the outmoded term “hung up [the phone],” and I was reminded that there are several things we say that we no longer do, such as:

• Hang up [a phone].
• Dial [a phone].
• Rewind [a tape].
• Crank [an engine].

What else?

This evening Plagioclase and I had dinner in a Thai/Chinese restaurant. (It seems this metro area can’t support a Thai-only eatery.) This is one of those pleasant, modern, pan-Asian places — no hanging red lanterns, for instance, and tablecloths with white paper on top. The staff was friendly and efficient and the food was reasonably hot (hotter than normal for this area, where one has to beg for something stronger than ketchup).

All in all, it was a decent middle-level restaurant.

Anyway, this isn’t a restaurant review. It’s a way to lead into the description of my perplexion at the restaurant. I’m looking around at the other tables, and see groups of various sizes and ages. Nothing out of the ordinary. I spied a family at a booth with their toddler in a high chair at the end of the table, and then suddenly I saw the familiar blue glow of a television.

The father had set up a portable DVD player on the table so the toddler could watch it while the parents ate dinner. (I couldn’t quite see what was playing — Plagioclase said it looked like some sort of educational thing.) Plagioclase and I looked at each other, and immediately began trying to figure out what made us uneasy at this sight. On the one hand, it seems pretty sad to addict your child to TV so much that you have to carry it with you everywhere. On the other hand, it sure worked pretty well to keep the toddler quiet in the restaurant. On the other other hand, educational television? Were they trying for a baby genius? On the other other other hand, the father was watching, too, while the mother was taking care of a younger child. Perhaps he was the one addicted to TV dinner?