As I stood at the stove grating nutmeg into the roux for my gourmet mac and cheese, it occurred to me that I had some leftover butternut squash ravioli filling thawed out in the fridge, and wouldn't that be good mixed in with the roux and the pasta?
After I mixed the pasta and the milk sauce with butternut squash, and after piling on three kinds of cheese, it thought maybe I'd better omit the breadcrumb topping this time. But no, those buttery bread crumbs bake up to a toasty, savory crunch, so I put my French bread in the food processor and processed away.
Then as I was about to melt the butter to add to the crumbs, I remembered that I also had some brown butter hazelnut sage sauce left over from the ravioli, so why not use that to butter the crumbs? After all, everything I had in the pasta melded with the nutmeg-parmesan-pasta-cheese theme. So that's what I did.
I'll let you know later how this turns out, but in the meantime, the calorie count is obscene. Julia Child would be proud of me though--there is enough butter in this dish to satisfy even someone who said you just couldn't have too much butter. I think maybe you can. I think maybe I have.
martes, 6 de diciembre de 2011
Cold and RAINY!
It doesn't matter if it's cold--I can climb on the treadmill--but what really matters is the rain. Our part of the country was declared a disaster area because of the drought, and though this may not last long, at least my back yard won't be a disaster area too.
Time to break out the Sopranos and hop onto the machine.
Time to break out the Sopranos and hop onto the machine.
lunes, 5 de diciembre de 2011
Red Bull
This has been "Let's Destroy Our Knees" week on the running path. Suddenly--perhaps because I go out later now--there has been an abundance of older, overweight people with knee braces on both knees, or those bands worn under the knee to keep the knee cap from moving down too much. If there is anything a running book will tell you, it's never, never ignore the slightest amount of knee pain. Today on the running trail, ailing knees could be seen all over the place, and the only overweight gentleman who was being cautious was a younger man who was doing that kind of not-really-a-trot movement. Good for him, and more power to him.
Some products should not be sold to people over 30 years of age. One of them is Red Bull, the so-called energy drink. I've been told that young people at nightclubs drink it between rounds of booze in order to keep going all night. My son Rodrigo suggested it might help my morning fatigue so that I could get back out in the park, so I tried it today.
First of all, you should not have it on an empty stomach, but if you are going out to run, the most you've got in your system is coffee and a banana. I began sipping the stuff as I cleaned up the kitchen and made the beds, and I noticed I was really going at it with a vengeance, hopping from task to task like a frisky teenager. Not that a teenager would clean anything up in a frisky manner, but you know what I mean.
By the time I got to the park it was almost ten o'clock, and my stomach had been empty since six-thirty except for my coffee, the aforementioned banana, and a big can of Red Bull. The company may deny it, but I think the drink contains amphetamines. After a one-K warm-up, I began trotting; I had the odd impression that my head had gently separated from my body and was floating a few inches above my neck. The kilometer I trotted seemed to last about two or three minutes, as if it were foreshortened. The kilometer I then walked didn't seem to last more than 30 seconds. At that point, however, I was hit by hunger pangs that made me feel faint. Visions appeared of a large bowl of hot oatmeal with a big pat of butter melting in the center, sprinkled with brown sugar and studded with raspberries. Or an egg with my homemade hot sauce and refried beans. The last kilometer was torture. By then my head seemed to be floating several yards ahead of my body, which tried desperately to catch up with it. God knows how I made it home and managed to cook myself the oatmeal.
Be warned: energy drinks are for the young. If you are around my age, stick to water or Gatorade.
Some products should not be sold to people over 30 years of age. One of them is Red Bull, the so-called energy drink. I've been told that young people at nightclubs drink it between rounds of booze in order to keep going all night. My son Rodrigo suggested it might help my morning fatigue so that I could get back out in the park, so I tried it today.
First of all, you should not have it on an empty stomach, but if you are going out to run, the most you've got in your system is coffee and a banana. I began sipping the stuff as I cleaned up the kitchen and made the beds, and I noticed I was really going at it with a vengeance, hopping from task to task like a frisky teenager. Not that a teenager would clean anything up in a frisky manner, but you know what I mean.
By the time I got to the park it was almost ten o'clock, and my stomach had been empty since six-thirty except for my coffee, the aforementioned banana, and a big can of Red Bull. The company may deny it, but I think the drink contains amphetamines. After a one-K warm-up, I began trotting; I had the odd impression that my head had gently separated from my body and was floating a few inches above my neck. The kilometer I trotted seemed to last about two or three minutes, as if it were foreshortened. The kilometer I then walked didn't seem to last more than 30 seconds. At that point, however, I was hit by hunger pangs that made me feel faint. Visions appeared of a large bowl of hot oatmeal with a big pat of butter melting in the center, sprinkled with brown sugar and studded with raspberries. Or an egg with my homemade hot sauce and refried beans. The last kilometer was torture. By then my head seemed to be floating several yards ahead of my body, which tried desperately to catch up with it. God knows how I made it home and managed to cook myself the oatmeal.
Be warned: energy drinks are for the young. If you are around my age, stick to water or Gatorade.
martes, 29 de noviembre de 2011
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...
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...
lunes, 28 de noviembre de 2011
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.
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.
viernes, 25 de noviembre de 2011
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.
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.
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