On the surface, one might think my dad and I were not much alike. I’m liberal; he was conservative. I always vote Democrat; he never voted a straight ticket in his life. I saw him cry maybe three or four times in 46 years. I sometimes cry over a dog food commercial or when the fading sunlight catches my child’s face just right, all in the same day. He was rational and logical and a planner. I tend to be impulsive and approach life with the thought of, Why not? I’ll figure out a plan B later. I anger easily and have little patience. My dad demonstrated patience every day of his life — whether teaching a bunch of loud-mouthed eighth-graders or dealing with three daughters arguing over who needs the bathroom next.
I think because of those differences, he didn’t really know what to do with me. He shook his head in subtle disbelief — a lot — when I was around. I was the one who fell out of line. I moved away. I didn’t listen to advice (much). I had no interest in cattle ranching. I’d stay up all night reading when he’d told me, “lights out,” five times before. I wore socks with holes in them so I could afford to travel. I ate Cheetos and drank Dr Pepper for breakfast if the mood hit me. I mowed circles in the yard versus straight lines like he taught me. I chose to live where temps hit 50 below and bears hang out by the front door. Did I mention he shook his head a lot around me?
In fact, my very first memory at age 3 or so is of my dad shaking his head at me, grinning, as I tried to climb over a sagging barbwire fence. He waited to see if I could do it on my own, then quickly picked me up and over when my shoe caught the top wire.
Now that he’s gone, I miss that feeling so much, physically and metaphorically.
But something happened at his funeral that makes me think maybe we weren’t as different as I thought.
After he retired from teaching, my dad worked in my hometown county in Texas helping the area’s veterans and their families get access to benefits they might be eligible for through the VA. His office was in the county courthouse, across the street from the fire station. One of the firefighters came up to me at the funeral to tell me how much he enjoyed getting a wave from Dad in the mornings.
Then he asked me if I knew Dad was trying to help a homeless vet who slept down by the river and who hung out near the station some days. He said my dad would watch for the guy and bring over forms for him to complete. Several times, same forms. Tried to help him fill them out right there in front of the station. Told him about resources. The firefighter friend said my dad would always say, “I’m working on it!” when asked about the man who wandered around town, obviously needing services but not trusting anyone to help him.
I was so proud to hear this story. But it didn’t really surprise me. My dad was the kind of man who would stop on the side of the road to fix someone’s flat or run into a neighbor’s burning stable to get horses to safety.
But hearing the story did make me feel closer to him. Because my husband and son and I, every fall, put together a warm blanket and pajama drive for the homeless folks who stay in Denver shelters as winter moves in. It’s gotten really big over the years, and it’s something we look forward to all year. Last year, we collected nearly a thousand blankets alone. Now, knowing my dad had a soft spot for a homeless vet in my hometown … makes what we do even more meaningful.
I’m sure we had other things in common, too. The love of animals. A strong work ethic. Good books. Credence Clearwater Revival. Stubbornness when pushed.
But the next time I’m home, I just may try to find that homeless man. Maybe I could at least bring him a home-cooked meal or some clean clothes.
I don’t think my dad would shake his head at that.
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Do not listen to music. This is especially true of country music. Hip hop may be okay.
Do not commute to work over long distances that leave you with too much time in your head.
Take fast showers, and stay focused on hygiene, not the emptiness.
Avoid looking at family photographs.
Ignore the fact that the holidays will still exist.
Abstain from drinking more than one glass of wine at any one point in time.
Do not travel down Target aisles that pose a threat, such as those where you might see a can of his favorite kind of nuts (Beer Nuts) or catch the scent of Old Spice aftershave.
Talk to your dogs about chewbones, the weather, or anything but how you’re feeling. Especially if they have big, brown-saucer eyes and floppy ears.
Do not allow yourself to linger for very long in the company of compassionate and kind people who ask you how you’re doing.
Do not text your sisters or call your mom.
Tell your husband no thank you when he wants to simply hold your hand or massage your neck.
Amp up your carb intake and emotionally overeat as necessary.
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It’s been 26 days since my dad died. It’s been 26 days of waking up every day hoping that losing him has all been just a bad nightmare, and thank goodness, I can call him now and hear him say, “How’s life in the frozen tundra today?”
But I can’t. He’s gone. And it hurts. Like a primal, raw, curl into the fetal position at night, dry sobbing pain. Only worse. A complete, ugly, want-to-vomit, overwhelming feeling of drowning in emptiness.
He was 74.
He had his first heart attack at 45, and we almost lost him then. But thanks to modern medicine and his strong will, he’d made it almost another 30 years. (After that bypass surgery back then, he quit smoking cold turkey and never looked back. I can’t even stop drinking Dr Pepper.) But if I hear one more person tell me how happy I should be that we had him in our lives for way more than doctors had ever predicted, I may punch them in throat. Twice. Three times. Maybe more.
Because you know what? I wanted 20 more years.
I know I’m in the anger stage of grief right now. You should probably stop reading right now if you don’t want to witness that.
Even though I’m smart enough to know that it does no good, I want to blame the hospital in San Antonio. If only he hadn’t gotten pneumonia or MRSA. After all, they knew he was at risk for both. If only they’d had better technology and infection prevention practices. If only the nurses hadn’t been so understaffed, someone might have been on top of his status, and stopped it, reversed it. Maybe if that one nurse had alerted the doctor on call just a few hours faster.
I want to blame his surgeon. What the hell happened during his procedure? He was never the same. Why did you go on home and relax for the evening when my dad was suffering and in pain? Where the hell were you?
I want to blame his cardiologist. Why didn’t you act sooner to replace my dad’s pacemaker? Why did you let him get so weak? Why didn’t you DO SOMETHING?
I want to blame the doctor treating his Laryngopharyngeal Reflux Disease. He told you he was getting weaker and weaker. He told you he needed help. You said you’d cure him. You didn’t. You lied.
I know doctors make mistakes. But why weren’t doctors working harder to save his life? Why didn’t just one of those doctors who are now sending their effing bills care enough to figure out how to help him live this time? He’d had some close calls, sure. But even they were all “surprised at his rapid decline.” Paying bills, taking work calls, and making jokes one day. Then a few days later, gone.
I know he’s just a statistic to them. A readmission. A hospital-acquired infection. A never event. A blip on their mortality radar screen.
But he was my father, dammit. And I wanted more. I wanted them to do more.
More, more more more more.
I wanted my son, who worshipped his grandfather (hat and boots and all), to have more time to soak up his rancher/teacher hybrid values and quick wit. For my son to not to have to cry when he reads Hank the Cowdog books now, because Pa was the one who always bought those for him.
I wanted more time to ask him questions. To get his advice. To hear his laugh. To talk football or weather with him. To hear stories of his father and mother and grandparents. College stories. Army stories. Stories about the land he grew up on and tended.
I wanted to hear him say he was proud of me.
I wanted him to be at home when he died, with his dogs near him. Not in some sterile, cold, stupid, dumb medical facility.
I wanted. Anything. Everything.
Oh, I know. I’m not the first person to go through this. I know, I know, I know. And it’s not like I lost a child, right? Or lost him in a tragic, horrible, accident or crime. It was just the circle of life. It happens. We move on.
You know what I say to that? (I probably shouldn’t write that here.) Just suffice it to say that none of that helps right now. It just doesn’t.
And I do appreciate all the well-meaning friends who tell me it gets better. I really do. That the memories will sustain me.
But right now, I don’t want the damn memories. I. Don’t. Want. Them.
I want him. I want our anchor. I want the sturdiness that his simple presence brought to the world.
I want him back, so he can continue to help veterans and their families in his job as a veterans services officer for the county.
I want him back so he can help my mom remember things she needs to remember, but sometimes can’t.
I want him back so his old dog, Jodie, doesn’t look like she’s lost her best friend.
I want him back to help me figure out why the hell my tomatoes won’t grow.
I want him back to figure out what kind of ants these are that are likely moving my home off its very foundation.
I want him back to laugh at the stories I tell about my kiddo and what crazy smart thing he’s done today.
I want him back by Aggie football season. I want him back by Thanksgiving. By Christmas.
Because all of those things seem pointless without him.
He would likely hate this, by the way … what I’m writing. He’d say “That’s the way it goes, kid. You win some, you lose some.” He’d expect me to push through it all, pull myself up by those stupid imaginary ducking bootstraps.
Other well-meaning people also tell me that he’ll always be with me. I do appreciate the sentiment. But remember, I’m angry. And I don’t think so. I mean, this was my dad. Everything was black and white to him. He wouldn’t be one to hang around. He’s already gotten the job done here.
And then there’s that whole heaven thing. I wish I believed in it, I do. I wish I could say for sure that he’s now happier than ever before. He’s back with his parents, his good dogs, his horses, his friends who passed away before him. Sunshine and tequila and unicorns. It all sounds nice. But honestly? It also just sounds like a good story. And no, I don’t want a lecture on Christianity right now, either.
I had to write his obituary, you know. In like 12 hours, to meet the small-town newspaper weekend deadline. (You can read it here, if you want.) I’d have rather written my own.
I don’t like what I wrote now. It’s not enough. It’s too ordinary. It doesn’t capture all that he was. It told the story of a really good man who touched a lot of lives in a small town, but it didn’t tell you so many of the more important things.
It didn’t tell you that he loved peanuts. And a good steak. And any kind of pie my mom makes. That we argued about politics and gun control and gay marriage. That he voted for Ross Perot and I never let him live that down. That he said “I love you” at the end of every phone call, even when he was dying. That he expected straight As from us kids and grandkids. Expected it. That he used to drink Evan Williams whiskey while playing dominoes or sitting in his recliner, holding court. That he used to play volleyball with his Pearl beer cap on backwards, while holding said beer. That he loved Big Bang Theory and Simon & Simon. That his barbecue was legendary. That he would take off work when I came home to visit. That he would take my kid fishing in 100-degree heat, even when he felt like warmed-over cowshit. That he had a party van in the 70s complete with a rocking 8-track stereo and swivel chairs in back. That he could hug and love on a dog all day, but he wasn’t a hugger when it came to humans. That he could get mean when he was working cattle. That he was never sadder than the day he sold them all. That his own father died when he was just 16. That he left a to-do list for my mom titled, “After My Death,” to make sure she got what was coming to her from life insurance, retirement, the Army, etc. That he really and truly loved teaching science, until too-many rules and tests changed how he had to teach. That he had the patience to help my son build a birdhouse at age 7, but got far too impatient with me when I was trying to learn how to mow the yard when I was 9. That he introduced me to Larry McMurtry books. That I never heard him use the F word. That he hated asking for help of any kind. That using a cane was hard on his ego. That he had a way of looking at you that could make you laugh out loud. That he liked Merle more than Waylon and Waylon more than Willie. That he always shined his boots before going dancing at the VFW or KC hall. That he loved to swim when he was younger. That he smelled good when he taught us girls to two-step. That he could grow anything from seed. That he was stubborn. So stubborn. Unbelievably stubborn.
I’ve read all the research, by the way.
One day, they say, I’ll wake up and I won’t be so angry.
And I really do hope they are right.
Because I just heard my son repeat one of my dad’s favorite phrases while watching/playing video-game football on Madden 25 (“Looks like there’s some extracurricular activity going on out there”) and now I’m in the back bedroom. In the near-fetal position.
Writing through my fury.
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So … I’m knee-deep in poetry right now, still. And I feel almost guilty. I have so many people waiting on my next novel, but I’ve set it aside (again). I’m drawn to poetry and I’m gonna ride this pony til she stops.
Here’s one of my latest that I worked on in a recent Lighthouse Writers workshop. I can’t seem to get the line spacing right on this blog, but it’s close.
Let me know what you think. Thanks for reading!
A Different Seed
I was born in fields of bluebonnets,
ink-well-sapphire dense petals spiked in sun-blind white
short-lived in the Texas spring —
each dew-soaked stem
flattened just yesterday
by the sharp nose of the coyote
the hoof-step of the Hereford
hiding the hiss and slither of the rattler —
always bouncing back
seemingly singular,
good for early-morning picking
before the heat sets in.
Yet by high noon
it’s never easy
to detach a wilted loner
from the rest held together by a nest of roots
entrenched in the holy dirt
of Saint Sam Houston
el malvado Santa Anna
battle-blood of the Alamo
sweet bread of the German siedler
rusted barbed-wire of fences
oily cotton boll of the farmer
weather-worn skull of a fire-ant-stricken calf
my grandfather would’ve tried to save.
And even though Lady Bird’s highways are lined with them —
musky-sweet flowers,
family ties,
good intentions —
not every seed will grow
where planted.
Is it easily spread on the wind?
Can it tolerate full sun?
And what happens
when
the parched and crisp soil
becomes suddenly drenched,
clay-like —
unable to breathe?
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First, the history: I have slept on the floors of friends’ apartments where smells of cats past were strikingly fresh. I have slept on hotel room floors (I’m gagging thinking about it now) and pull-out couches (those springs can hurt like a mother dog) and non-pull-out-couches (there’s a joke in there somewhere) and even, once, a blow-up pool raft (tequila helped). I have slept on the cold, hard, bumpy ground in Yellowstone National Park and Rocky Mountain National Park and a few hundred other campsites from Central Texas to Montana. And for the last nearly 20 years, in my own home, I’ve slept on a mattress that was so old and misshapen that it required special gymnast moves just to get out of it in the mornings. True story. But I didn’t really mind all that much. Gymnast moves keep you young.
But then I hit the mid-40s. And my body became sore from things like, say, unpacking groceries.
I started to make those legit moaning sounds when I would get up from sitting on the floor after playing Hot Wheels with the kid for a long time. I began to hear unnatural creaking sounds in joint areas where I’m pretty sure there should be cartilage. And then, after 14 years of manual snow removal without one injury to my name, I hurt my lower back tossing a big shovel-full of heavy snow over our deck railing. As in, “ummm … holy hell, I may not be able to walk now, or ever again” kind of hurt. And then, several days later, during an epic snowball fight (turns out I could walk again – hallelujah!), I landed smack-dab on my hip, on a bank of concrete-ice.
Suddenly, what I slept on kind of mattered.
And suddenly, the evil advertising gods told me that Sleep Number was having a sale.
And then, I found myself strolling unknowingly into a Sleep Number store to test out their product and witness my body’s pressure points with their whole heat-sensor technology thing.
I was a goner once that remote hit 55.
I’m still a little worried about what that salesman was thinking when I let out a When Harry Met Sally-kind of reaction. (You know the scene.)
Granted, in the week between purchase and delivery, I mourned the impending loss of my dilapidated BeautyRest. After all, I brought my baby home to that bed, and we did the whole family bed thing until he was 4 years old, like the good hippies we aspired to be. I’ve snuggled with hoodlum puppies and held aging, sick old dogs next to me in that bed. My husband and I have had some pretty fun times in that bed (reading and talking and laughing, of course! What were you thinking?). I wrote a lot of my second novel propped up in that bed, writing by the light of the laptop. That bed has spent many a night dragged in front of the woodstove in our log-cabin great room when the power went out for days and we needed to sleep near the flickering warmth. And that bed was where I spent a lot of time last year recovering from some seriously bad flu/pneumonia/liver and kidney failure juju. That bed served me well.
But now, the Sleep Number P5 has entered my life.
I have changed.
I used to make the family pancakes or migas or biscuits and gravy on the weekends. Now, the kiddo’s eating cold cereal and, most probably, Cheetos. I don’t really know because I’m still in bed.
I used to lay down with him in his bed as he fell asleep each evening. Now, I tend to just yell “good night!” from the comfort of my Sleep Number.
I used to get up early to take the dogs for sunrise walks. Now they’re constantly giving me these accusatory looks, as if they are puppy-mill-level neglected.
I used to read in the great room, near my family as they did other things. Now, they can usually find me curled into that P5 like a kangaroo baby in a mama’s pouch.
My husband and I actually joke that we may never, errrr, talk and laugh in bed again because once you sink into the glory of this new mattress, you don’t really want to move unless the house is on fire or something.
In fact, when the dogs go bark-shit crazy (I’m trademarking that phrase) at 3 a.m., instead of going to reassure them and get them settled down to avert internal damage to our home, we nudge each other, then ignore each other, and then simply hope they don’t tear down the back door to get to the mountain lion before morning.
I’m sure one day I’ll reclaim the life I was once led. My son will get his mother back. My dogs will get another sunrise walk.
Until then, I plan to celebrate a lower back that doesn’t ache, a once-injured hip that feels young again, and the fact that I no longer need professional climbing gear to remove myself from the prone position each day.
P.S. Sleep Number didn’t pay me jack-anything for writing this. Which only proves I’m not smart enough to figure out how to ask them. #blogfail #bigmoneyfail
This is a Sleep Number bed. It is not my Sleep Number bed because taking a picture of my bed would be weird.
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I I’ve been dabbling in poetry lately. While several of my poems have been published through the years, and one even placed in a literary contest here in Colorado, I don’t consider myself a poet, really. I’ve not studied the genre like I have fiction and creative nonfiction. But something about it has been calling me. I think I like that I can play around with language and punctuation and flow and metaphor in ways that you just can’t with other types of writing. And I can swoop in and out of thoughts and imagery on the page.
Here’s one of my latest poems, dedicated to Mom and Dad’s daily challenges as they work through their early 70s.
Invincible Ignorance
Her hair dark, shining, beyond her shoulders
thick as three horses’ manes
legs perpetually tanned
sure-footed
in the garden
on the sawdust dance floor
carrying her sharp-tongued wit
wherever it wished to go,
taking her children along
for the bright lights of
the Ferris wheel ride.
His hands rough,
capable
of moving livestock
and minds,
holding dogs
and the dreams of little girls;
his shoulders, those shoulders
carrying us
and keeping all things steady,
the shelter of reason
the home of
it’s all going to be okay.
But now
her hair,
turning a corner
to spun silver —
where there is no planting
on uneven ground,
and the fair
with its lights spinning
at the pink of dusk
is likely
leaving town.
And his hands,
those shoulders,
they’ve turned on him
with knots like centuries-old
live oak branches,
creaking in a South Texas
night wind,
and swollen joints
no amount of tools
from his truck
can fix.
Uncertainty creeps in
like a rattlesnake
slipping
through tall dry weeds
for a strike.
pain overtakes
the laughter
meds don’t mix
with beer
mornings
are a crap shoot
and
reaching for anything
is just too much.
Me? I can’t, won’t
wrap my head
around the present
or how it fits with the past
or how it shapes the future.
Yet I do know
invincible natures
live longer
than those
who are not
bone and muscle
are a fallible
source of direction,
salvation
and, mostly,
ignorance remains
a nice place to visit.
After all
their truth
is not my truth
and the state of
all matter
is relative
anyway.
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Just in case there aren’t enough “best books of 2014” lists out there for you this time of year, I thought I’d gather just four of my favorites from a year of reading, as well. Because, well, EVERYONE wants to know what I’m reading, right? <sarcasm>
My brief list below is a little weird, though, (no comment necessary) because it contains not only two new books that came out this year, but also “old” ones I picked up again to reread. I think it says a ton if, out of all the books I read in a year, some of the best are ones I’ve read before. Oh, and the reason it’s only four books? Four words: Too busy to live.
Here you go:
How to Build a Girlby Caitlin Moran. This book came out in September, and I read it in October. Today, I still think of the main character and wonder what she’s up to. The publisher’s description says: “Imagine The Bell Jar — written by Rizzo from Grease.” I think that’s fairly spot on. The writing is lovely and poignant and provides so much to think about beneath the surface of the story. The storytelling is excellent; one of those rare instances where a character-driven novel, with no real driving plot, makes me can’t wait to turn the page. It’s a coming-of-age story about a young British girl, and I usually have issues with coming-of-age stories where the character’s voice feels far older than than the fictional age. But Moran makes this one work. And work oh so well. I laughed out loud repeatedly, which is always a good sign. (It should definitely have an “R” rating, though, so be ready for some shagging and fagging, as they say in the UK, and a rather overly descriptive scene involving a man named Big Al.)
Where Rivers Change Direction by Mark Spragg. This is one of those books — a memoir — that left me breathless about 12 years ago. Spragg’s stories beautifully capture a boyhood spent on a ranch in Wyoming and a deep, spiritual connection to animals and the land. Some people think the book is too slow. Too much focus on the landscape and not enough action. And I would agree it’s not a book that you’ll want to plow through. It’s one to be savored in hardcover or paperback. So you can dog-ear those pages and underline those sentences that speak some essential truth that you always knew was out there, but couldn’t put your finger on before. This book will change a small part of you, if you stick with it.
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain. My son and I have been reading this classic together, and I’m amazed at his young age, that he’s as into the story as I am. I think I didn’t read this novel for the first time until junior high school. Of course, he loves the idea of sneaking out of school to fish, of trading frogs for a slingshot, and tricking friends and adults on a daily basis. It’s also a great conversation-starter about race issues in America’s past and present. If you haven’t read this in a while, take another look. It’s free as an Amazon Kindle book. And for the record, we don’t say the “N” word out loud in this house, but we do read the original, unedited version.
Prelude to Bruise by Saeed Jones. This is poet Jones’ debut collection, and it’s moving and touching and oh-so-brilliant. The poems capture tenderness and harshness. They are fierce and hope-filled. The collection has such energy and such a story to tell about the connection between one’s history and one’s identity. Some of the poems are difficult to read, yes. But they hit you somewhere between your heart and your intellect, and that’s somewhere, as a reader, I want to be hit every now and then. This is probably one of the best poetry collections I’ve read in a long time. A sampling of why (from Postapocalyptic Heartbeat):
After ruin,
after shards of glass like misplaced stars,
after dredge,
after the black bite of frost: you are the after,
you are the first hour in a life without clocks; the name of whatever
falls from the clouds now is you (it is not rain),
a song in a dead language, an unlit earth, a coast broken–
how was I to know every word was your name?
What were your favorites of 2014? Please share in the comments below!
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Wow — 2014 flew the hell by, didn’t it? It was a crazy year for me in many ways … nearly died after New Year’s from complications from the H1N1 flu. Took me until April to really recover and be able to feel healthy and hike short distances again. Then we moved from our comfortable foothills experiment back to the top of a mountain in June, and I’ve been soaking that up ever since. In July, I took the kiddo on our first mom-son fishing trip. The school year started in August, and that’s been a rollercoaster ride, and not a fun one. I have to say that I’m looking forward to a smoother ride in 2015. And I hope the same for each of you!
In the meantime, here are the top posts from this blog in 2014 (based on unique views):
My Dear Moms of Adopted Children remains the number-one post of all time for my blog, still generating the most views of all posts, even in 2014, at nearly 80,000 over 12 months.
And the top search phrases folks used to find my blog this year (these always make me laugh) are: texas, colorado life, kathy lynn harris, cool whip, what are texas men like, is dr pepper bad for you
Happy New Year, Everyone!
Thank you for reading my work, and for sharing it with friends and family this past year and always.
What a good, good day. I read for two hours without an interruption, not even to pee. I didn’t look at my email all day. (Okay, okay, but it was only twice.) I got most of the gifts wrapped that were hidden in various places around the house, and I even remembered, after some time, where all of them were hidden. I had some awesome Pandora holiday music flowing. (Turns out, I like hipster music. Who knew?) And all day long, a gentle, light snow was falling. Basically, I was in my own little perfect snow globe. One of the good ones. Not one of those plastic ones at Walmart.
And then I had to make dinner.
I’ve been in a dinner-cooking rut of late. Everything seems old and tired, like me after a long day at work. But alas, just like there is vodka for me, there is Pinterest for dinner. And Pinterest’s got it going on when it comes to cool new recipes.
So I made a new soup.
Soup and I? We have a long history. In the beginning, we both made mistakes. I didn’t always follow the rules, and that made things complicated. But as our relationship deepened, we grew together, not apart. And now? We are soulmates destined to be together forever.
Especially soup that has any amount of cream in it.
Here’s the recipe I tried out tonight. It was the perfect soup for a snowy evening in the mountains. But it would probably taste okay where you are, too. (I mean, it could. I guess. Give it a try and see. Love, your favorite mountain snob.)
I made a few tweaks and the result was pretty dang good. The kiddo ate three bowls, and the hoodlum dogs were drooling. All good signs.
Sausage, Potato and Spinach Soup
2 tablespoon olive oil
1 pound mild ground Italian sausage
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 onion, diced
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano
1/2 teaspoon fresh basil, finely chopped (you could use dried if you wanted)
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
6 cups low-sodium chicken broth
1 bay leaf
1 pound young red potatoes, diced
4 cups baby spinach
¾ cup heavy cream
1 ½ cup skim milk
Heat olive oil in a large soup pot over medium heat. Add Italian sausage and cook until quite browned. Make sure to crumble the sausage as it cooks. Stir in garlic, onion, oregano and basil. Cook, stirring frequently, until onions have become translucent. Season with salt and pepper, to taste. Stir in chicken broth. Add bay leaf, and bring to a boil. Add potatoes and cook until fork-tender, about 12 minutes. (It took more like 20 minutes at high altitude, but who’s counting.) Stir frequently during the boil. Discard bay leaf. Stir in spinach until it wilts. Then stir in heavy cream and milk until heated through, about 2 minutes; test and season further with salt and pepper, to taste.
(And no, I didn’t take pictures. Even though I *am* on Instagram now. But I can’t even figure out how to put a border on my photos in the app, so …)
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