Knock and Run

That’s tough to do around here. There are seven families per floor. Our neighbors are having people knock on the front door and leave. They need an elevator to do so. I know everyone on the floor so it’s not any of us.

Backstory is that this neighbor’s young grandkids show up a couple of times a year and at their age all they want is to see Zoe, our old dog. Sorry, Grandma and Grandpa! They sometimes stand in the hall and just whisper “zoe” and she rushes to the door to see them.

I ran into Grandpa the other day and he told me of this issue, something I never did in my youth and would certainly never dream of in adulthood. I did knock on their door the day they moved in and gave them pasta and sauce and pots so they wouldn’t have to order in or go out for dinner.

He said “I thought Zoe might have learned to knock on a door. She would never leave, though, she’d always stop to say hello.” I replied “yes she would, and especially if your grandchildren are around!”

Ah, neighbors. As it is, our bedroom is way in the back and even Zoe, lifted by Otis The Elevator (me) to the bed at night, is unaware of hallway sounds so we can’t help find the culprit.

I find it hopeful and helpful that neighbors are so kind and watch out for each other. Another neighbor, when my husband is out of town on business, checks on me and Zoe at least once per week. It is so sweet of him to do so. No, he doesn’t knock and run. He’s usually off with his recycling or to an appointment somewhere and just checks in to see if we’re OK.

There is something to be said for neighborliness and camaraderie. A Swedish neighbor taught me Kottsbullar (Swedish meatballs) and in return I taught him true Texas Chili (Pedernales a la the great Lady Bird Johnson) circa 1962.

The neighbor who checks on me is also a Swede. Are they taking over here? Now there’s Irish. I’ve been given several packages that belonged to someone with the same Irish name I was given at birth. I introduced myself to her today, and her kids. Now we know when packages or drycleaning goes to the wrong Dee, where to send it.

We’re up in the air right now, things happening and in flight. This certainly will not be our final destination but it’s good to know we’ve friends around. I need to get a dinner party together before my husband is off for a while. I think I’ll do a pork roast with hard cider gravy and apples stuffed with corn bread. Southern, I know. I’m smelling and tasting it now, in my mind. That’s how I cook.

I’d actually rather bone out and butterfly a leg of lamb and marinate in a sauce from Jacques Pepin, one of my culinary heroes. Roasted potatoes with garlic, green beans with salt, pepper and a touch of butter and all we need is dessert!  I’m thinking fresh vanilla ice cream with a berry coulis and fresh raspberries and blackberries. Let me call our neighbors on another floor. I used to help take care of their dog who died last year, perhaps the new additions would like to come along as well. Zoe has friends and has been termed, by me, a “cougar.” She only flirts.

Y’all take care. Y’all means you, dear reader, in Texas-speak. All y’all means the mess of you who just got together for real BBQ. Just so you know. Cheers! Dee

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