Autumn

As it turned out, L. was hospitalized yesterday after arriving home, and she was released at eight that night.  A stomach infection, of course, but no one told her if it was rotavirus or not.  She is at home resting and taking care of herself, thank gosh, and I am alone in a quiet house!  Only my wind chimes and the birds are singing.

Here is a picture of the flowers produced by the plants I nursed like babies during the god-awful summer.  Behind them you can just make out the rosemary bush.  Also, many years ago, I dug up a weed I found growing in my neighbors' sidewalk, and its small purple flower has been going strong ever since, a real draw for hummingbirds.

Old Slave-Driver Me

You just don't know what to think.  There is a fine lady who cleans my house for me, and another fine lady who comes a couple of times a week to ride herd on the outdoors part of the house--patio, yard, and vehicle park (a place where all the grandkids' bikes are stored).  Yesterday these women showed up, and a few minutes afterwards, M. came in to say that L., my full-time help, felt very bad and needed to lie down, that she was vomiting. 

Horrified, I went to find her and she was dragging herself around my bathroom, trying to clean up after me and my husband--her usual Monday task.  She was pale and shaking, and I immediately had an employee of my husband (who happened to be here doing something) drive her home.  As she left, she told me she had had diarrhea all night and had been vomiting.  By the time she left my house, she had fever.

How does one interpret her coming to work when any right-minded individual would have stayed at home?  My daughter Karina told me she thinks it is some kind of cultural message drilled into Mexican women (not men, mind you...), that you show up to work even if you are embalmed.  No logical reason made L. come to work:  I do NOT dock pay for sick days since my ladies are almost never sick.  I give them days off whenever they need or want them, knowing that they never abuse the privilege.  They have time off for family emergencies, family events of importance, official holidays, one day a week just to give myself a rest from having the house full of people, appointments with doctors, you name it.

Was it a misguided sense of loyalty that made her want to fulfill her work obligations even though she might be giving all of us--us, then our kids, then the grandkids--something like rotavirus or a raging stomach infection?  Karina said she has told everyone who ever worked in her home that coming to work even with a cold was verboten, but she says they just don't listen--so of course, she sends them home and docks their pay not for being sick but for not paying attention to her. 

As she left, L. threatened to come to work today.  I told her not to, but I may have to send her home again if she darkens my doorway.

Meanwhile, I sit here wondering if I have the energy to go walk/trot...

Overload

Mexico is a terribly noisy country. You are overloaded day in and day out. Dogs bark night and day, hysterically, and all you get by calling the police is disgruntled neighbors, but no solution to the dog problem.  People seem unable to undertake any activity without a radio going, CDs playing, singing, non-stop conversation.  Restaurants usually have some idiot box blaring, toward which your eyes seem to gravitate whether you want them to or not.  It always struck me that when my family travelled, especially in Europe, the only place we could go where we weren't the loudest and most raucous people around was Italy.

Acupuncture involves a soothing cloth placed over the eyes and an even more soothing Chinese music piped into your torture chamber.  Except, of course, for the fact that I can hear every obese patient being weighed and the subsequent congratulations--or not--provided by the doctor.  Every remark made in the waiting room seems to be made at the top of someone's lungs.  The receptionist of course has a t.v. on, playing some ghastly Mexican soap opera.  The combination of these things is worse than no effort made at all to create a gentle atmosphere: At least if there was no Chinese music, you could easily eavesdrop on other people's conversation without impediment, which can be pretty entertaining and under these circumstances, guilt-free. 

There is no peace to be had anywhere except at home, and that only once in a while.

The night after my first acupuncture treatment, I felt like I'd been electrocuted but, due to faulty execution equipment, had managed to survive.  On Saturday it dawned on me that only a mild weight workout was going to help, so I did that after a 5K walk.  Worked like a charm.  Next day, Sunday, instead of being horribly sore from fibromyalgia muscle pain, I was agonizing from the muscle overload.  As someone who wrote a book on fibro so succinctly put it, you're going to ache like hell no matter what you do, so you might as well be strong and sore instead of weak and sore.

On Sunday morning I went out planning to do another walk; the traffic was closed off around the park and every individual in the municipality was there--games for kids, chalk painting, those inflatable jumping areas, a kind of harness-and-frame bungee setup for children, people on skates, bikes, skateboards, and one woman who had us mesmerized as she bounded down the street with a pair of objects strapped to her feet that look miniature shock absorbers.  She wasn't bounding too high, mind you, because she seemed a bit unsure of herself, but without doubt she was going to run injury-free unless she lost control of her feet and propelled herself into a concrete abutment.

By the time I had marched 3.5K, the noise was getting to me.  There was music of some kind the whole length of the park, and a local rock band was warming up and getting ready to take off.  Finally I decided it was too much and I broke into a trot that I managed to keep up over hill and dale until I finished the distance right at the turnoff to my street. 

Then I made the mistake of going with my husband to the mall.  We hadn't started out going there; I talked him into going to Mass at a Jesuit chapel, since the Jesuits are thinkers, and he has enjoyed the sermons every since.  But lo and behold, the traffic was blocked off because of some blasted road work that is itself like God--eternal.  So naturally, we decided to stock up on Christmas wine instead of going to Mass. 

The wine store was closed.  It was high noon.  On the door was a sign that said "Open on Sunday from 11 to 2".  That was when we went to the mall.  I detest Christmas shopping.  I went to wait for Roberto at the restaurant where we were going to have lunch.  While I sat there, I realized that even without a t.v. set, the decibel level in the place superseded anything I had been subjected to so far.  It's a good thing our table was so small our knees met beneath it or we wouldn't have heard each other talk.

Then, when Rodrigo and gang came over in the early evening, I offered to go with my daughter-in-law to the store because she needed to stock up on groceries.  Sunday evening is a favorite grocery shopping time in our town because so many women work and because mornings are so hectic.  But when we got to the nearest supermarket, there was a line of cars waiting just to get into the parking area, so we went to Walmart. 

I don't ever again want to hear Christmas music, especially songs in Spanish sung by nasal pre-pubescent individuals.  This kind of spurious holiday cheer makes me want to puke.  The noise was made worse by the sensation that I couldn't escape because of the numbers of people stopped mid-aisle, apparently suffering an attack of petite mal (and I don't blame them) or catatonia.  When we got home, I blessed all those around me, and went to bed with my Kindle.  I can do that, they are used to it.

Back to the needle...

It's back to acupuncture for me, but not because I want to or because I believe it actually will work.  It's the only way to get Roberto to see that it does not work for what ails me--fibromyalgia!  The Mayo Clinic did a study that showed symptom relief after six sessions, so one would assume that if you don't get results by then, you may as well give up.

People react differently to the frustration of seeing someone they care about undergoing some kind of problem that can't be solved--my husband, for example, is convinced that trying everything is a real option.  It's true he found my current excellent rheumatologist by undergoing a determined search, and it's true his allergy has been almost eliminated by acupuncture, but back when I went with him to the sessions, I didn't seem to get much relief, frankly.  Oh, the experience is nice--gentle Chinese music, a friendly and very competent general physician who learned acupuncture as an adjunct to medical practice--but I'd rather hire someone to give me a foot massage every day! Ha! 

Well, let the needling begin, at least Roberto will see for himself what does, or doesn't, result from this.

No pictures...

Not even the cooking school is going to get pictures this time, because Rodrigo came over to lunch and dishes were served as they appeared.  I didn't have the batteries in my camera, and with the ravioli on the plate and with me riding herd on the chicken saltimbocca, there was just no time to stop to fiddle with the camera.  Roberto wants to taste the food today since he was not her for lunch yesterday, so maybe today I can get shots of the stuff.  Let's just say it got rave reviews.  Suggestions of opening a restaurant were heard, and my marinara has been voted something I should can and sell.  No, that would ruin the flavor.

If I had the energy, I'd think about said suggestions, but I am completely under the weather now with fibro and wondering when I'll be able to get back to running even minimally.  I miss it, and it misses me.  Time to grin and bear it and stock up on the ingredients for tiramisú. 

Comfort Food

Running is temporarily out of the question, just in time for me to lose all conditioning for Austin, but fibromyalgia has me at home consoling myself with comfort food--not a great choice of handling downtime, but what fun!

Today's Italian homework is, as first course, butternut squash ravioli with a sage-hazelnut-brown butter sauce, and then chicken saltimbocca, which is a thin chicken cutlet panfried with prosciutto and served with a white wine sauce and crispy sage leaves.  If my ravioli don't explode in the boiling, I'll post the picture of the goodies that I have to send to the cooking school anyway.

The rest of you, keep training, for God's sake.

Risotto, effortlessly..

Risotto is famous for having you standing by the stove carefully stirring and adding hot liquid by the half cupfill until it is ready, but yesterday the cooking school had us make effortless risotto that came out creamy and perfect.  While risotto is usually served before the main dish, in this case it had chicken.  My husband asked if I thought he was gaining weight.  I said no, you weren't here the day I had to make fettucine Alfredo and you avoided the massive calories.

On the other hand, my husband usually serves himself more than he can eat, but he may be on to something because he has been having seconds since I've been using him as my Italian food guinea pig.  It's a good thing, maybe, that the course doesn't include desserts. 

No run today, I got off to a late start and have been behind ever since.  The dog seems fine, by the way...

Upping the calories in my run...

Today I managed to consume ever so many more calories on a short 4K run/walk because I took my dog with me.  His tendency to pull me along--and the savings in effort--was offset by his tendency to go bonkers every time some other runner went by with his/her dog.  I had to make him sit and stay while the others went by, and I had him on a leash so short I could have superglued him to my running pants.  By the time we were through, he was tired enough to be more or less obedient, and I hope that this routine will finally tame his "I'm so much smarter than this woman" attitude that makes him the height of gentlemanliness at home and a terror outdoors where he knows I can't force him to obey because I can't catch him.

My whole right side is aching from hanging on the the leash and correcting him.  It's Advil time, as usual...

Cream in the arteries...

Today was fettucine Afredo, and it can be consumed only in very small doses--it is loaded with cream.  I could feel my arteries blocking even as I added the cream to the butter (yes, butter, that is the base fat for this sauce). 

On a more positive note, the home-made pasta came out perfectly.  The recipe and the video have fool-proofed the whole undertaking (the fool usually being me, in this case), and my pasta machine fairly hummed along as I produced a mass of fettucine pasta.  When they say to separate the strands as best you can, they are not kidding.  Because once you dump this stuff in your boiling water, you can't do it.  Unless you want a glutinated mass of fresh pasta that comes out as a single piece, you'd better do just as they say and get those little devils separate from the outset.

What with my Kindle and the Parmigiano-Regiano cheese for this course, I make my way toward bankruptcy apace.  Probably just as well. 

Tomorrow I will see if I can manage to run; my fibro is at an all-time high.  One never knows whether to go at it and damn the torpedoes, or whether after a run you'll wind up on Advil for days and days.  Oh well.

Before...

Unable to leave well enough alone, we have this, bought today, which will be prepared after a nice dose of home-made fresh pasta and Alfredo sauce, my next cooking assignment.

The Barefoot Guy

The day before yesterday, I was passed on the running path by a tall, Nordic-looking young man--maybe American, maybe German--who was running barefoot.  I would have paid good money to have been able to catch up to him and ask about his barefoot running.  He was long gone by the time I managed to propel myself up the pedestrian bridges spanning a big intersection, but next time I hope to be able to talk to him even if I have to hang out at the end of the running park (known as Narcisistics' Corner).  Because of the frequent winds at this time of year, the running path is often liberally sprinkled with acorns or even pecans, and one section is covered with bird poop that stinks to high heaven.  The poop washes off, but stepping on those acorns must be really painful.  He surely cannot manage to avoid them all.  I'll report back once I've managed to interview the guy.

On the same day, leaving Narcissitics' Corner at a healthy trot, was a guy no taller than I but absolutely bursting with muscle.  Obviously heavily into pumping iron, he was short enough that weight work could build him up in no time flat, but lordy!  A tad more and he would be wider than he was tall, and if you've ever seen the charge of a mountain gorilla on the Discovery Channel, you've seen this guy. 

Yesterday and today are rest days, thanks to fibromyalgia, and this afternoon we celebrate the birthday of our little Ian, a cutie of the first order.  He is seven today.  He's the same honest little fellow who looked deep into my eyes while giving me a big hug and told me I looked like an iguana.  He's into reptiles, so it isn't as terrible as it sounds.  Well, okay, it is, but he meant well. 

Artie Choked to Death

The reason my blog was nonfunctional was due to an IE upgrade necessary for me to take an online course in Italian cooking.  So far the course has been fabulous--delicious salads, great manicotti, fresh and filled pastas, you name it.  The only recipe that was a dismal failure so far was stuffed artichokes alla Romana.

The video was clear as a bell on the cleaning and stuffing of the artichokes.  Now, they have always seemed to me too much work for very little payback.  That little bit of meat at the end of the leaf and the heart seem fairly tasteless, frankly, only being redeemed by dipping the leaf in butter or mayonnaise.  But, hey, if the Italians like them, then there must be something to it.

Cut off the top fourth of the artichoke, our chef advises.  Good luck on that one.  My knives are literally sharp enough to cut paper, and my bandaged fingers are proof.  After a while I felt like I needed a chain saw to get that top fourth off.  The results were less than aesthetic, but even at that point I knew something was not right here.  My artichokes were a different color, a very lovely purple inside; the instructions said to strip the leaves until the artichoke was a pale green.  Then carefully pushing the leaves aside, you dig out the choke with a spoon and rinse to make sure you've gotten it all.  It is ever so inedible.

I kept pulling off leaves until I realized there was never going to be any pale green.  Then, I found that the choke was protected by a tightly closed, minute set of purple leaves that would have to be dug out first.  I thought I would never get rid of the blasted choke, but as it was, it really didn't matter.  I prepared the stuffing (delicious indeed) and tried to get it into my artichokes.  Artichokes, by the way, are members of the thistle family, and as far as I'm concerned, that says it all.

The instructions said to cut thick rings of onion, lay them in a pot, add some parsley and a little salt, place the artichoke stems in the onion rings so the artichokes would be held upright, add water, and steam.  Halfway through, you are supposed to turn the artichokes over, "being careful not to spill the filling". 

My onions had wilted in the process, releasing their liquid, and there was no way I could turn the beasts over without soaking the filling.  I turned them on their sides.

Just to give the chefs a laugh, I dutifully took a picture of these god-awful things and sent it on to the school.  The instructor came to the conclusion that I had some other breed of artichoke, and I used the filling for stuffed baked mushrooms that came out spectacularly.  For your delight and amazement, I include the culprits here.

Am I here yet?

Folks, I may be able to post now with Internet Explorer 9, in which case let me update you: my running has gone to pot, and I have now given up my hope of winning the Austin 5K in all age groups in a record time of 20 minutes.  Okay, maybe that is a bit of an exaggeration and I shouldn't have hoped for that anyway.  But so far I have been unable to recover from the summer low, and any trip sets me back by weeks, so now my trainer has put me on a run-6-minutes, walk-2-minutes schedule for 5K.  Even that is uphill.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Gitano is turning out to be a difficult ride, not because he is badly behaved, but because his trot is like driving a Beetle with no shock absorbers.  Every bone in your body gets loosened.  He's a handsome devil, however, and that often makes up for a lot, and he is sweet--perhaps too sweet since he follows me around trying to find out if I have carrots, making a pest of himself when I am outdoors at the quinta.

Well, in spite of every instinct I have, out I go to run.  If only you knew how loosely I am using the term "run"....