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"....

Back at last...

Our trip to Seattle was marvelous, just to see such huge trees and run in the misty mornings. In Los Angeles, the weather was all right but the smog was awful, and I didn't run there except for one day at the gym. It was very unpleasant, however: the treadmill arm supports were sticky and the treads themselves had some kind of spilled liquid on them which had dried, leaving streaks. I felt like going over the whole thing with a Lysol cleaning cloth, and it was so disgusting I didn't go back.

Here I have managed a run since our return on Saturday night, but I'm having the ever-famous fibromyalgia post-trip fall-out in which every spot on your body aches. The Austin 5K looms, and I see myself walking it now!

Rain, and more rain...

It's either feast or famine. The rain began yesterday, and from the news we see it was so bad in some parts of town that at least three people were drowned when they were swept away by flash floods--in the streets and underpasses! Apparently the amount of rain that fell in a short time qualified as a cloud burst. I've lived in Mexico for 43 years, and this town has never failed to have natural disasters associated with water each year. The incredible part is how dangerous the streets get.

However, when I went out to run in the rain this morning--just a misty rain, no big deal--the park was almost empty. Thank God for small favors. I expected to see the hard-core runners, but no, it was just us old folks trying to lighten old age by keeping moving somehow. It is supposed to rain on and off until Thursday when we leave for Seattle, so maybe there won't be the usual park traffic jams.

And of course, it will rain in Seattle too! Well, I'm off to pack and to get my closet in some kind of order. That is an easy task--most of my clothes need to be thrown away. This tendency of mine to cling fiercely to a pair of silver hotpants left over from the 70s has just got to stop. Even if I could get into them, and even if summertime here is ideal for them, and even if my legs still look good, the rest of me has gone to pot with a vengeance.

So I'm going to Seattle with two pairs of jeans and tops, a sweatshirt, running gear, pajamas, and that's it. I have GOT to buy new clothes--this is what happens when you keep thinking, "I'll wait until I get back to my real weight...", as if I were EVER going to get back into the clothes I've saved. Merciless, that's what I'll be while I toss clothes...