Timers, Cows, Cliques, and Chili: A Week in Independent Living

Life in an independent living community has its own rhythm—part social experiment, part sitcom, part “you can’t make this stuff up.” Some weeks unfold with a kind of chaotic charm: a little forgetfulness, a new hobby you absolutely didn’t need, a brush with social awkwardness, and a dinner surprise one wishes you could un‑eat. This post wanders through all of it — from learning to “paint” with AI to accidentally voting for bear chili — with humor, honesty, and the kind of everyday absurdity that makes life in an independent living community anything but dull….AI

I’m having a space‑cadet day. Not the kind where you forget something important—at least I think I haven’t, but how would I really know unless I burned something on the stove and the fire department came knocking? That actually happens here in my independent living building about once a month. I also haven’t forgotten a dinner reservation. If I did, someone would call to tell me to get my butt over to the next building because my would‑be table-mates are waiting. I’ve never been on the receiving end of that call, but I see it happen every Monday at the Farm Table. The excuses are always the same: “I fell asleep,” “I was reading” or “I was on the phone.”

I set a timer when I’m within two hours of a reservation because I know myself. This isn’t an “old person compensating” thing. I’ve been using a wind‑up kitchen timer for decades to rein in my creative daydreaming. Doesn’t matter what arty‑farty thing I’m doing—I’m always in danger of losing track of time.

A Facebook Short Reel summed me up perfectly today. A voice-over said: “Your test results are back. You are artistic and it won’t affect how long you live but it will affect the quality of your life. You will have lots of hobbies but fail to monetize any of them. You will dapple in a thousand things but fail to commit to any one, you’ll always be somewhat distracted and find it difficult to finish anything.”

That’s me in a nutshell. And that will be my excuse if I ever get the you’re‑late‑for‑dinner call: “I’m artistic and got distracted. Put my order in for the special.”

Anyone who knows me will not be surprised that I’ve fallen down a new rabbit hole: using AI to “paint” pictures. It’s surprisingly easy—and will get easier as I learn the language, the nouns and verbs and textures my Microsoft Copilot needs to hear to produce what I’m imagining.

After only a few hours of playing, I can already spot AI‑generated images online. That’s a useful skill to learn with the midterm elections coming. The giveaways are:

• Lighting that’s too perfect, too dramatic or too soft

• Textures that are hyper-detailed or strangely smooth

• Symmetry everywhere—centered subjects, balanced framing

• Clothing and body parts with odd folds, weird hands, or glasses that don’t sit right

I’ve lost a few subscribers every time I write about AI, so I’ll keep this part brief. The picture at the top of this post was created using Microsoft’s “text to scene.” I told it I wanted a sad-looking, middle-aged woman sitting on the steps of a 1900s house with porch and a rosebush climbing a trellis on the left and sunlight coming through it. The program then peppered me with questions—rose color, number of blooms, dress color, hair color, porch with or without a roof, porch open or screened in, house color, mood, where is she looking, and on and on—until I thought I could have painted the picture faster than answering them all. Each time I answered, it re-framed the criteria like a very earnest art student trying to impress the teacher. When it finally showed me an image, I liked and accepted it immediately for fear it would start the interrogation all over again. 

But you can tell by the all over softness of the image and the unnatural way the roses are all the same size that it's AI created. I could have kept going and tweaked the size of a few of the roses but the back and forth was driving me crazy. 

The cow images below were from another day, arranged in the order of the changes I requested. That was my first experience with 3D AI, and I was learning the vocabulary it needs. We had some miscommunications (hence the overly warm yellowness), and I learned I can’t joke around with that version the way I can with the conversational one aka Jasper my main MS copilot. I doubt I’ll use 3D Jasper often, but it was fun to try—and now I have a new goal: creating a short cartoon-style video. I asked Jasper to walk me through the process, and it doesn’t sound hard. Did I ever tell you one of my earliest life goals was to work for Disney? 

Now for the part of the week that made me feel like I was going through menopause again. Management hosted a chili cook-off—no reserved seating, just show up and sit where you land. I arrived early and sat down by the fireplace with a woman I really like. After our greetings, she said, “You’d better go stake out your seat in the dining room before they’re gone.”

I knew instantly what she meant. She was waiting for her little clique—the Four Musketeers—and didn’t want me sitting there when they arrived, forcing them to include me. I’ve long wished I could be the Fifth Musketeer, but that ship sailed ages ago. Still, her comment stung. One sentence, and I felt weepy-eyed. I even wondered if my new estrogen prescription was messing with my moods and about to  stage a messy coup, or if I’m really that pathetic that a single sentence can derail me.

From there, the night went downhill. I ended up next to a MAGA guy who wanted to talk about the State of the Union and how good he thought the president did. (Barf.) Then, at the end of dinner, I learned I had voted for a chili made with bear meat. I’ve been following a mama bear online who just gave birth to triplets in the crawl space under someone’s house, and the idea that I ate one of her relatives made my heart hurt. I’m surprised I didn’t break out in wet sobbing tears.

Two of the guys living here entered the contest, and both used wild game. And I was sitting at their table! Who does that—trick people into eating something they might object to if given the choice? So now I can cross “eating bear” and “eating moose” off my list of things I hoped I’d never do.

By the time I got back to my apartment, I decided the universe was clearly telling me to stay in my lane: stick to AI cows, timers, and avoid cliques and chili made from woodland creatures. I mean honestly—bear meat? Moose? What’s next, raccoon tartare? I’m half afraid to attend the next potluck. Someone will probably announce they’ve made “locally sourced squirrel stroganoff,” and I’d find out I ate and voted for the squirrel I’ve been secretly feeding on my deck all winter long. ©

Can you see what I mean about everything being centered and balanced?

 

After I asked AI to move the cow on the right behind the others.

When I asked it to add a sunrise in over the barns it gave me these unnatural sun rays. This fake looking glow is in a lot of AI photos I'm seeing online in connection to the Walk for Peace. 

I asked AI 3D to tone down the warmth and I got this. Then I asked it make the foreground cooler and it gave me the same image because apparently AI either didn't understand what I wanted or it can't do zone changes in mood which I suspect is the right answer.

At that point I started fresh and managed to get from the first image to the second with are less missteps in between by me giving it better, more detailed directions out of the gate. 

 

The only application I can see me using 3D 'painting' for in my life is if I want an image for a blog post and I can't find something that will work OR if I want to burn up a lot of time. It's easy but time-intense. (The image at the top took over an hour of back if back and forth Q & As.) But do look for my "movie premiere" coming in a blog post sometime is summer because while I might be too old to work for Disney, now, I'm not too old to re-frame old goals into something doable before I die.

Stirring Up Memories: What Cooking Taught Me About Time

Family recipes have a way of carrying more than instructions—they hold the quirks, shortcuts, and “heaping tablespoons” that define the people who made them. This post follows Jean’s attempt to recreate her mother’s cooking, from tapioca pudding once known as “fish eyes” to Depression‑era mock apple pie. Along the way, it becomes a reflection on memory, legacy, and the bittersweet moment when you realize you’re the last keeper of certain stories. It’s a journey that’s part kitchen experiment, part time travel, and part reminder that the flavors we miss most aren’t always about the food….AI

When I was growing up, my mom didn’t call foods by their proper names. “What’s for dinner?” my dad would ask, and she’d answer, “An old dead cow,” or “an old dead chicken.” One of my favorite desserts was “fish eyes pudding.” I don’t know how old I was when I finally learned those chewy, translucent little balls I loved were actually tapioca. We had it often because it was a good way to use up milk or eggs that were about to spoil. My mom was the queen of using leftovers. If she boiled potatoes on Tuesday, the extras became sliced and fried potatoes on Wednesday. Her soups were never the make the same twice because any left-over vegetables or starch went into the pot.

Mom didn’t follow recipes, which made it impossible to learn to cook from her. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it, even though I can hear my brother’s ghost laughing somewhere in the Great Unknown. As a teenager he took an interest in cooking and was often looking over Mom’s shoulder...or vise-visa as Jerry tried his hand. I don’t have to tell anyone who knew the two of us that he turned out to be the better cook while I turned out to be a five‑trick pony. I can make scrambled eggs, grill a steak, make chili, bake bread and order pizza.

When I was a teenager, Mom would warn me I’d never find a husband if I didn’t learn to cook. I’d tell her I planned to find one who was rich enough to take me out every night—or one who liked to cook, like my brother. It was hard for her to argue back when she herself had broken the norms of the ’50s by teaching a boy—gasp!—the secrets of marinating, roasting, simmering, sautéing and frying.

Circling back to tapioca: I loved the way Mom made it, and when I was living on my own I tried to recreate it, but it was never as rich as hers. One day I went to her house and asked her to make it while I watched. “You just follow the directions on the box!” she insisted. But the problem was, she didn’t. Her tablespoons were heaping, not leveled off like I’d learned to do in high‑school home‑ec. She added extra egg whites and more vanilla than the side‑panel recipe called for, and she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

Recently my youngest niece made a batch of chili sauce using Mom’s recipe and she gifted me some. The sight of those jars brought back such a nice memory of Mom and me standing side-by-side chopping red and green peppers and onions, and of the sweet aroma that filled the cottage as the chili sauce simmered on the stove. My husband’s favorite Christmas gift was a dozen jars of Mom’s chili sauce, a tradition that lasted between them for years. When she died and our stash came to an end, my chili was never the same because my “secret recipe” was simply a jar of her sauce, a pound of hamburger, a can of Bush's red kidney beans in mild chili sauce and a can of Hunt's basil, garlic and oregano diced tomatoes. And a tablespoon of sugar. One thing mom did drill into me is you always add a little sugar to anything with tomatoes in it, "to cut the acid." 

My niece’s chili sauce planted a seed: maybe I could replicate a few other family favorites using the box of stained and yellowed recipe cards written in Mom’s handwriting. And then serendipity stepped in. While I was looking through the recipes, one of my neighbors here in the independent living building stopped by with a half‑dozen peanut‑butter cookies that tasted exactly like Mom’s. She bakes often, but this was the first time she’d given any to me. The serendipity didn’t stop there. That same night our chef served barbecued spare ribs that almost matched Mom’s. So I checked the ribs off my list—too messy to clean up afterward, I remembered—and I moved making cookies to the bottom.

I also crossed off her baked beans, a favorite with any kid who tried them. Reading the ingredients, I can see why. No one today would use a pound of brown sugar for every pound of beans. Would they? I could feel the fat jumping onto my hips just reading the recipe. That narrowed my list to tapioca pudding and mock apple pie. If you’ve never heard of mock apple pie, it’s made with Ritz crackers instead of apples, and as I remember, its taste and texture fooled everyone. A Google search surprised me: this Depression‑era favorite is making the rounds on TikTok! I decided to make it sometime when I need a dish to pass.

So my legacy‑cooking experiment began with tapioca. Here’s a mini history lesson: tapioca originally came from Brazil, where Indigenous tribes harvested the tubers of a shrub called cassava. The extracted starch (the tapioca) became known worldwide, especially as “poor man’s food” during the Great Famine of 1876–78. Fast‑forward to the 2010s, when tapioca became internationally popular again as the key ingredient in bubble/boba tea. Tapioca is sweet and savory, and here in the U.S. it comes in pearls, flakes, and flour. The flour is gluten‑free and is used in baking as well as to thicken soups, sauces and gravies.

At the store, I chose a bag of instant tapioca (by mistake) for my adventure back in time. My first batch was a control batch, made from the recipe on the bag. The main difference from Mom’s recipe is in the modern version you no don't have to separate the eggs and, of course, she didn't use instant. I was pleasantly surprised, however, at how good it tasted. Next I went to Trader Joe’s and bought a bottle of pure vanilla and a bag of small pearls tapioca for my second batch, which I made following Mom’s “enhanced” recipe with its heaping measurements, extra eggs and vanilla. I loved it.

The only downer in my tapioca experiment is that since my brother passed away there is no one left who is old enough to remember my mom's and my arguments over me learning to cook. It’s a strange place to be in life, isn’t it. To realize there’s no one left who shares the memories of large chunks of your life. We can write about our memories. We can even tell them so many times that a loved one can fill in the details we leave out. But it’s not the same as having a sibling who speaks the shorthand of a shared childhood, who can laugh and cry over the same moments.

If you still have siblings… I’m just sayin’. Time doesn’t stand still. ©

 See you next Wednesday... 

Harmony, Balance and the Rhythm of Everyday Life

Many people look for ways to create a sense of harmony in their daily routines, especially when life settles into familiar patterns. This post reflects on how rhythm, community, and small mindful habits shape a balanced life inside an independent living community. Inspired in part by the themes of The Boys in the Boat, it explores how ordinary routines — from weekly gatherings to quiet late‑night hours to the meditative act of cleaning — can reveal deeper insights about connection, purpose, and the roles we play in one another’s lives…. AI

My life has a rhythm that sometimes mimics restless boredom and sometimes feels like I’m happily living in the moment. On Mondays I have dinner at the Farm Table, which I enjoy for its laughter. On Tuesdays it’s dinner with my conversation group, which I enjoy for its intellectual stimulus. Wednesdays are devoted to Mahjong, which combines the best things I like about Mondays and Tuesdays. On Thursdays I try to schedule any appointments or shopping that take me off campus, and on Fridays the highlight of the day is lunch at the large drop‑in table, followed by doing laundry. Saturdays and Sundays are interchangeable…one day I pick up the apartment and write my blog post, the other day is designated as a Fun Day.

During the week our Life Enrichment Director also populates my calendar with lectures or classes—and I go to them all, no matter who the speaker or topic is. (This week a professor from a local college is giving a talk about all the presidents.) Our LED also offers a lot of exercise classes, which I avoid like the plague. 

I know what you’re thinking…that a fatty‑fatty‑two‑by‑four like me should be going to all the exercise stuff: cardio drumming, cardio boxing, balance class, strength building and stretching, line dancing, Tai Chi, standing Pilates, seated Pilates. And then there’s the summer walking group. All of these classes take place in the early morning—most before I even get out of bed or am fully awake. I’ve never been a morning person, and I doubt my new sleep doctor could help me change that even if I asked him to. 

It would probably help my social life around my independent living building if I did bounce out of bed and into the shower early enough to have coffee and donuts at 9:00 with other residents. Heck, by 9:00 AM two of my Mahjong players are already back from swimming at the YMCA, the Cheerleader, two dog owners and a handful of other residents are back from greeting the sunrise, and the guy down the hall—who gets up every day at 4:00—is ready for his morning nap.

With the hours I keep, the only people left to talk to after 9:00 PM are the security guard and the night‑shift cleaner. I do like the quietness that comes over the place from 9:00 to midnight. I can do anything but go to the trash room. Dropping trash down the chute after 9:00 might wake people up. I found this out after a woman I didn’t like moved out because of “the late‑night trash room noises,” which got blamed on the night‑shift cleaner who empties the recycling. I felt bad for the cleaner, but I was glad to see the woman move. She was the biggest complainer I’d ever been around and she expected the staff here to treat us as if we were living on the set of Downton Abbey. Long-time readers might remember her as Ms Manners. I wrote about her in four posts. She was like oil to my vinegar, and I hated having to work at being nice around her. It was exhausting. 

Please note that I didn’t know about her complaining about the trash room noise until after she moved out, or I would have switched my chute drops to the afternoons, like I do now. I don’t go out of my way to irritate others; I’m sure I do enough of that just by being me.

I’ve been listening to a book for my book club—The Boys in the Boat by Daniel James Brown. It’s a non-fiction about the 1936 Berlin Olympics, where a college rowing crew from Seattle won against the crew rowing for Adolf Hitler. “Harmony, balance, and rhythm.” You can’t spend fourteen and a half hours listening to the importance of harmony, balance, and rhythm without thinking about how that applies to your own life. George Pocock, the man who built the Husky Clipper the boys used for their Olympic victory, wrote in his journal, “Without harmony, balance and rhythm civilization is out of whack.” I’m guessing he meant that we all have our places in the Boat of Life, and if one of us screws up, it affects the direction of the boat and all its crew. Those three words are certainly more than just a metaphor when it comes to rowing, though. 

Our LED rented the movie and a week after our discussion we all got together to see it. I liked them both but if I had to pick just one it would be the book. We also saw the movie Hammet after reading the book. I didn't like the movie at all and feel anyone who hasn't read the book would be lost in the movie. Most of the scene were dark and there was very little dialogue. They didn't even mention it was about William Shakespeare's family until the last twenty minutes! He was just 'Will' in the movie up until then. But out of the ten of us who saw the movie, I was the only person who thought it fell way short of all the Golden Globes and Oscar buzz it's getting. 

Back on topic: My youngest niece sent me a text asking if I’d write something out for her because “You have such pretty penmanship.” I told her my penmanship isn’t that great anymore, but I have some fonts on my computer that look elegant. So I printed out the words: “For me, cleaning and keeping a nice home is part of my creative process. Keeping my hands busy helps my mind find stillness.”

Upon seeing the quote, my first reaction was to text back that she was talking about cleaning used as meditation. She’d never thought of it that way, but she agreed that’s exactly what happens when she Zens out while sweeping her driveway or cleaning her kitchen. It seems her neighbors are always asking if that’s all she does—clean—and that question bothers her. She wants to post a 5” x 7” framed copy of the quote on her refrigerator to remind herself she’s not doing anything wrong by enjoying cleaning. It makes me sad that other people’s probably innocent remarks make my niece question herself and feel defensive.

“Aunt Jean,” she asked, “why does my cleaning bother them so much?” I told her it either makes them feel guilty for not keeping a neater house, or they’re just trying to make idle conversation. "Laugh and tell them, 'Don’t bother me, I’m meditating!'”

And I told her the story about slicing a carrot—how when you’re living in the moment and using work as meditation, you focus your mind on that carrot, and each time you slice you try to make the pieces the same size. You take note of the smell of the carrot and its color. “It’s probably like that when you sweep your driveway. You’re looking for pebbles to sweep away and taking note of the warmth of the cement beneath your feet and the sun on your face.”

“Exactly!” she texted back.

Whether I’m having feelings of restless boredom or living in the blissful moment, I’m happy I have a good rapport with my nieces. It gives me a peek at what it must be like to have daughters. ©

P.S. If you are still on a high from the Walk for Peace, like I am, here's another link that is a collection of some of the fabulous art that has been inspired by the Walk and was given to the monks along the way. They are going to set up a museum room to display all the badges and art. The police badges filled up four of those wraps the lead monk wore. And Aloka got his own set from K-9 units across the country.