Day 76 Botulism, Anyone?
I got all kitchen-inspired yesterday by Secrets of Moms Who Dare to Tell All (how can you resist such a tagline?) to make what Secret-Telling Mom Liz calls the Best Macaroni & Cheese Ever. Since I’m pretty fond of all pasta and all cheese, it’s a lead-pipe cinch that a recipe claiming the best ever combo will call to me.
Not the best strategy for my cholesterol-lowering plan (which isn’t so much a plan as an observation. As in “I should do something to lower my cholesterol.”)
Nevertheless, in our house we get excited about a fresh bulk purchase of President’s Choice White Cheddar Mac-n-Cheese. No plain ole’ KD for us anymore, thank you very much! So this concoction promised to be a crowd-pleaser.
Unfortunately, my day got away on me a bit, and by the time I got started, I only had about a half-hour before I had to leave for yoga. I’d have to hurry.
I went into the pantry, a niggling suspicion that my grocery purchasing had been a little lax of late. Sure enough, no macaroni. Oh well, I found two crumpled-up bags of opened fusilli noodles. That would do just fine. Maybe not quite as much I needed, but I’d make do.
I started the water boiling and got out another pot for the cheese sauce. Hm. The recipe called for Gruyere. I could substitute goat cheese, from another gratin recipe that my family had given the thumbs-up to. No problem.
But as the noodles cooked, I realized there really wasn’t enough of them. I’d have to augment the recipe. Protein and vegetables, that would be good. I had canned crabmeat, oooh, yum. Broccoli or kale would be great but I was all out of fresh vegetables. Then I found a can of artichoke hearts. We love the cheesy crab-and-artichoke dip appetizer, I thought. Why not put it in with the pasta?
Great idea. I pulled the tab on the artichokes and… hisssss-splat!! The thing exploded like a shaken beer can. Sour artichoke-juice all over me, the counter, the fridge, the floor. I stood dripping for a moment, wondering how I was going to deal with this in time to make my yoga class, then remembered I could always offload the clean-up to my daughter. After all, that’s why you have kids, right?
I tipped the artichokes into the sink, noticing that they looked and smelled just fine. I nibbled on the corner of one, thinking I could give them a rinse and add them to the casserole, where no one would be the wiser. Tasted fine. Wait. Isn’t botulism tasteless?
Reluctantly I spat out my tid-bit and ran the whole mess down the garburator.
Now I’ve got a drippy, sticky floor, various unrinsed cans, spoons, pots and containers littering the counter, plus an incomplete casserole that bears no resemblance to the initial inspiration.
Then I remembered there was a can of kale somewhere in the back of the pantry. Now, I’ve grown fond of fresh kale. It’s a super-food, you know, so it’s got to be a good cholesterol-fighter. And it’s got a nice crunch and tang. I have no idea, however, why I purchased a sodding can of it. Or when, for that matter.
But desperate times, and all that. I blew the dust off it, opened it and dumped it in. A bit more pungent than the fresh stuff, but maybe the crab smell would override it, I thought. Mixed it all together with the sauce, hid it under a layer of breadcrumbs, covered the whole mess with a mountain of grated parmesan cheese and I dashed off to my class.
“This is good,” my husband mumbled around a mouthful. He’s always been easy to feed. It probably helps that he has no sense of smell. I’m not kidding.
When I told him my cookery adventure, he paused, fork in mid-flight. “But it’s safe to eat. Right?”
I hastened to reassure him. By that point, my experiment had zero appeal to me but everyone else seemed to enjoy it, so what do I know.
And right now, before I head off to today’s class, I have to fire up the steam-cleaner. Even I am grossed out by the condition of my kitchen floor.
By the way, anyone know the symptoms of botulism??
Day 72 Crack Me Up
So as I continue my education in all things yoga, my reading has extended to a book called Stretch: The Unlikely Making of a Yoga Dude, by Neal Pollack.
Very, ahem, different from my other recent readings. His catch-phrase is “Namaste, mother&*%$ers!” How can ya resist?
Here’s the bit I’ve been making everyone read, with full attribution to NEAL POLLACK. (I do not want this guy mad at me.) (Also, don’t judge me. Farts are just funny.)
“… One night,” writes NEAL POLLACK, “finally, I went to Tanya’s class. She had a degree in yoga therapy from the excellent program at Loyola Marymount. Her alignments were precise and invigorating. I could feel my warrior two improving markedly under her watch. We held our poses for a long time and it hurt; if your teacher makes your quadriceps hurt, you’re in good hands. Oh, how my yoga was evolving! My body and my mind were changing, becoming something grander and higher!
During the cool down, Tanya told us to draw our knees by our ears. We grabbed our feet with our hands and rocked gently from side to side. This was happy baby pose. My body felt free and loose, totally relaxed in every way.
A murmur emanated from my guts, and an airy whoosh moved through my intestines.
I then uncorked the sloppiest, wettest fart of my life, a desperate five-second bleat of sweet relief. The sound seemed to bounce around the walls of the studio like a rubber ball thrown at maximum velocity. I followed this with a series of three little toots, duckling farts chasing after their mother. It was like the campfire scene in Blazing Saddles except that, instead of cowboys, hot chicks in Spandex surrounded me, and I was the only one farting.
“Oh, yeah,” Tanya said. “That’s it.”
My fart had been so strong that even my teacher felt relief. I quaked with humiliation and self-hatred.
“Oh my God,” I said. “I’m such a Jew.”
The class roared in appreciative laughter, which made me even more nervous. Really, what did Judaism have to do with farting? My coment could be explained away by self-loathing, but what was their excuse? Were all yogis secret anti-Semites?
Regardless, from then on, whenever I went to Tanya’s class I couldn’t contain my flatulence. I ripped and hissed and tooted. There were silent deadlies and noisy, odorless farts. I farted while standing, sitting, and lying down. The sorrowful people next to me tried to stare stoically ahead and focus on their practice, but I knew they were thinking: Who is this hairy, ass-blowing Heeb next to me, and how can I prevent him from ever coming to class again?”
Day 56 Great News – I’m Not Pregnant
But it certainly explains the blueberry-sized pimple percolating unicorn-like on my forehead. It’s an evil joke that puts chin hairs and zits on the same face, but I know of many women around my age that are dealing with this. Hot flashes interspersed with menstrual cramps. Mood swings and memory lapses, (which is actually a good combination when you think about it.) Insomnia, cravings, and get-the-hell-out-of-my-way rage. PMS on crack, that’s perimenopause, except it’s less predictable and it seems to last longer.
Yay, right?
I’ve been in it for the last three or four years and, between herbal supplements and bioidentical hormone replacement cream, I’m dealing. Sometimes better than others, but I haven’t killed anyone, so that’s something.
I always told my girls that the emotional ups and downs that sometimes – but not necessarily – accompany the menstrual cycle are not a “bad” thing, but rather a tool we can use to identify something that perhaps we’re unhappy about, but that three weeks out of four, we’re pretending is just fine. My daughters have all inherited the “nice” gene, I’m afraid, so I always felt this was information they needed.
We try so hard, us nice girls, to deal, to make things good, fine, okay, great, happy, smooth, peaceful, that we sometimes roll right over those aspects of our life that aren’t quite as they should be. We don’t ask for help when we need it; we don’t say when we’re disappointed; we agree to things when we really want to argue. PMS rips off the veil, forcing us to see what’s real, instead of what’s easiest.
So, yeah, now that I seem to be in a permanent veil-lifted stage, the lessons I taught my girls are coming home to roost. I might look a little more selfish, crabby, argumentative, and a little less compliant and obliging. What I am definitely more of these days is honest. And I think that’s the real task of mid-life.
It comes circling back to that central question: what do I really want? For myself, not anyone else, just me?
Because as my primarily-mother years wane, I’m back to me, myself, a woman I need to get to know all over again.