Family Values

My cousin Garrett is in Liberia, helping people cope with the Ebola epidemic. Here he is being interviewed via Skype by a reporter at New York’s WPIX:

If that doesn't work, here is the URL:

http://pix11.com/2014/10/03/ebola-relief-worker-describes-liberia-situation/

By Miss Manners’ reckoning, Garett is my first cousin once removed; by my family’s traditions, he is my second cousin, and by the calling customs of my nieces and nephews, he’s my baby cousin, being the son of one of my first cousins and the grandson of my dad’s younger sister. I’m not entirely sure I ever met Garrett, unless it was at a barbecue his uncle held while I was in NY visiting my sister this past July. He and I are Facebook friends, but he doesn’t post much. I knew about this interview because his uncle and aunt posted the link to this interview on Facebook. We are all quite proud of him.

AmeriCares, so their website tells me “is a non-profit emergency response and global health organization. In times of epic disaster or daily struggle, we deliver medical and humanitarian aid to people in need worldwide.” Garett is Vice President of Emergency Response, hence his trip to Liberia. His organization has been providing supplies that medical workers need in order to provide the care that they can without risking their own lives or infecting other patients.

AmeriCares has scaled up its response by providing eight emergency shipments of essential medicines and personal protective wear to both Liberia and Sierra Leone to help treat Ebola patients and to provide protective gear for health workers facing great risks in trying to control the outbreak. 

The shipments contained over 90,000 pairs of gloves, 88,000 face masks, and over 28,000 units of protective clothing including scrubs and disposable coveralls and gowns. Shipments of intravenous fluids to rehydrate Ebola patients have also been sent to Liberia and Sierra Leone.

Now they are working on large shipments of bleach to be used in infection control. People find Ebola scary, and rightly so, but it isn’t an airborne virus. Catching it requires coming in contact with blood or other bodily fluids from an infected person, all too easy to do if the proper protective wear and disinfectants are not available, but preventable if they are. Ebola is also not necessarily a death sentence. If patients get symptomatic care (such as rehydration) to keep them alive until their immune systems kick in, it is possible to survive Ebola. It’s not the same as getting over the common cold, but there is no reason to shrug and say, “Oh, well, what can we do?” either. 

So what can you do? Donate, obviously, if you possibly can. You can donate to AmeriCare here, but if any readers know of other reputable organizations working on Ebola relief efforts, go ahead and post about them in the comments.

If you are the sort to pray, or send good thoughts, or use other blessing rituals to signify your solidarity with people going through bad times, yes, please do! Garrett is not involved in direct patient care and does not anticipate being in any danger, but there are the many medical workers, the patients themselves, their family members, and anyone with the potential to be infected  to whom you can direct your efforts as well.

And go ahead and remember Garrett while you are at it, just in case. Because even if neither of us could pick the other one out of a police lineup, he’s family. Apparently, he’s one of the people who sees the rest of the world as family, too.

Update: More from Garrett here:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/garrett-ingoglia/a-firsthand-account-of-li_b_5958884.html?utm_hp_ref=tw

Tenderfoot

The foot that I injured back in the spring has been slower at healing than I had hoped. The joint has healed, but I strained a ligament and managed to keep re-injuring it, including during the last week of physical therapy. In my natural, non-injured state, I walk fast, and what would happen is that as soon as my foot would feel better, I’d start walking faster until recurring pain stopped me, for a while. 

I finally recognized the pattern and made an effort to walk slower (“like a geisha”, my foot doctor recommended). I began to have several pain free days in a row. I found a new pair of shoes to replace the old comfy shoes that were much the worse for a year’s worth of daily wear.

In the past week or so, I have noticed a new milestone. I have hours at a time when I don’t even think about my feet.

If you have never had long-term pain or intermittent chronic pain, that last sentence probably doesn’t make any sense. After all, you have days, let along hours, when you don’t really think about your feet. Once the shoes and socks are on and if nobody steps on them, what is there to think about?

The thing about long-term pain, though, is even when it is gone from the affected body part, it’s not gone from your mind. For one thing, it doesn’t go away all at once, like somebody turning off a switch. You have pain free hours followed by the pain coming back. It may be gone during normal activity, but not during more strenuous activity. It may recur when you are tired. In my case, for a while I was perfectly fine walking on the carpet in my house but not on the hard surface floors. So even when the pain is gone, you expect it to come back. After all, it has before.

Even once you are pretty sure it’s gone, you need to be careful not to re-injure the just healed part. So you motor plan consciously and carefully, instead of unconsciously and on the fly. If you had a sore back, you don’t turn your upper body and stretch to reach for heavy objects*, you walk yourself in front of them and turn to face them, and then “lift with your legs, not your back.” If you had a sore knee, you are careful about squatting and running. If you had a sore foot like mine, you walk like a geisha. So, yeah, even though the pain is gone, the injury affects your thinking. 

That’s why it is so wonderful to realize that you have spent the last five or six hours thinking about what on earth the Medicare statement you just got means and how fine you need to chop the onions for dinner and what setting to put the dryer on for your jeans, but not  about how your foot feels and if it is any better or worse than yesterday. 

Life is good.

*and the definition of “heavy” in this context could be as little as five pounds

Plague

A recent post on thenewcivilrightsmovement.com about how Bryan Fischer of The American Family Association denies that HIV causes AIDS, led me to think about how AIDS got identified as a “gay disease” to begin with.

According to author Nathan Wolf in his book The Viral Storm, 

The history of HIV begins with a relatively simple ecological interaction - the hunting of chimpanzees by monkeys in central Africa. While people normally think about the origins of HIV occurring sometime in the 1980’s, the story actually begins about 8 million years ago when our ape ancestors began to hunt.
More precisely, the story of HIV begins with two species of monkeys, the red-capped mangabey and the greater spot-nosed guenon of central Africa.They hardly seem like the villains at the center of the global AIDS pandemic, yet without them this pandemic would never have occurred. . . One thing these monkeys share is that they are naturally infected with SIV, the simian immunodeficiency virus. Each monkey has its own particular variant of this virus, something it and its ancestors have probably lived with for millions of years. Another thing these monkeys have in common is that chimpanzees find them very tasty.

He goes on to say, 

No matter what the particular order of cross-species jumps, at some moment a chimpanzee became infected with both the guenon virus and the mangabey virus. The two viruses recombined to create an entirely new mosaic variant, neither mangabey virus nor guenon virus.
. . .The virus, now known to harm chimpanzees, would persist in chimpanzee populations for many years before it would jump from chimpanzees to humans sometime in the late nineteenth or early twentieth century. And it all started because chimpanzees hunt.

 Wolf has a lot to say about AIDS, since The Viral Storm is about pandemics, and what aspects of human life and technology allow them to spread. Here’s a section about the first known AIDS patient:

The earliest historical HIV samples date from 1959 and 1960, twenty years before AIDS was even recognized as a disease. In an amazing piece of viral detective work, evolutionary virologist Michael Wirobey and his colleagues managed to analyze a virus from a specimen of a lymph node from a woman in Leopoldville, Congo (now Kinshasa, DRC).
The lymph node had been embedded in wax for over forty-five years. By comparing the genetic sequence of the virus they found in the specimen with other strains from humans and chimpanzees, they were able to attach rough dates for the first ancestor of the human virus. While the genetic techniques they used cannot pinpoint dates closer than a few decades, they concluded that the virus split from the lineage sometime around 1900 and certainly before 1930. They also concluded that by the time the woman in Leopoldville became infected with HIV in 1959 there was already a significant amount of genetic diversty of HIV in Kinshasa, suggesting that the epidemic had already established itself there.

Wolf goes on to talk about why it took medical researchers so long to recognize AIDS as a disease, and then about the social changes that occurred in central Africa that led to the spread of the disease:

In 1892 steamship service began from Kinshasa to Kisangani in the very heart of the central African forest. The steamship service connected populations that had been largely separated, creating potential for viruses that might previously have gone extinct in local isolated populations to reach the growing urban centers. In addition, the French initiated the construction of railroads, which, like shipping and road lines, connect populations. This produced another mechanism for viruses to spread from remote regions to urban centers, effectively providing a larger population size of hosts for a spreading virus.
. . . Large groups of men were conscripted, often forcefully, to build railroads.Moore and his colleagues note that the labor camps were populated mostly by men, a condition that dramatically favors transmission of sexually transmitted viruses like HIV. . .

 It's much harder to see AIDS as "the gay plague" if you look at the entire history of the crossover of AIDS from monkeys to chimps to humans and not just at the first cases in the US. It's a fluke that the first person to transmit AIDS from Africa to the US was a gay male. Even if AIDS had never made it across the ocean from Africa, it would still be ravaging the African continent, killing women and children as well as men (as it does here).Whatever Bryan Fischer’s narrative would have been then, I doubt he would have blamed colonialism or hunting the way he blames homosexuality for causing the disease. He might even have been willing to accept that this disease, like many other diseases,  is caused by a virus. 

I'm Back

It’s been over a week since I last posted. The main reason is that I talked my doctor into ordering physical therapy for my problematical left foot. I pointed out that since I’ve injured it twice in one year, it probably needs strengthening, or something. So I’ve been attending PT 3 times a week for an hour each, and have exercises I need to do four times a day. The good news is, I’m back to being able to do my usual activities of daily living ( a little therapy speak there). The bad news is, I may have to wear athletic shoes to a good friend’s wedding. Fortunately she’s not the Bridezilla type; she’s a power lifter who would probably wear them herself under her dress if not for her two sisters having a fit.

Another reason for not posting is that our internet connection keeled over and died. It turned out to be our modem, which was four years old, but before testing the modem, the cable guy insisted on checking all our wiring, replacing connectors, and suggesting that the wiring itself was outdated and might need replacing. Only to find out that the modem was dead. He also left one of his wrenches here. We called to let the cable company know, and haven’t heard back.

The final reason is that I was working on a blog post about something stupid (IMO) said by two different writers whose work I have read recently, each citing a different person as a source. At least that’s how I remembered it, but when I went back to look for exact quotes, I discovered that the first writer had quoted the stupid statement, but then analyzed it, with references to research, and concluded that the issue is more complicated than that. So now I have to rethink my blog post, including the issue of just who is stupid here.

Scary moment. How often do I do that - remember something I have read or heard incorrectly and draw a completely unfair conclusion? I tend to check sources before committing myself to blog posts, but most of my life is not blog posts. Much of the time I have to rely on my apparently untrustworthy memory for the information I use to draw conclusions and make decisions, some of them important. 

On the bright side, my garden is thriving. All the plants I thought I would have killed by now are blooming profligately. The poinsettia is covered with new growth, the petunias, million bells and verbena are sharing their big pot nicely, and even the jasmine by my front door, which sits in bright shade for all but two hours a day of filtered sun at best, has glossy green leaves and fragrant white blooms. Maybe it has something to do with my remembering to water everything now that I am home during the day.

Maybe everything in life, from muscles to memory to plant life, works better if you pay it some attention. 

Ouch

So lately I’ve been thinking how good my foot feels. It was about a year ago that I broke it, so it’s been natural to contrast how it feels now versus how it felt a year ago during the same activities. Saturday, April 28, we went to Festivale Internationale de Louisiane, a free music festival in Lafayette, Louisiana, and the contrast between last year and this was so marked it made me wonder again how I managed to go for almost another month before seeing a doctor about my foot.

Then Thursday night we went to a lecture on horticulture at the Old Governor’s Mansion. The Old Governor’s Mansion is perched on a slight rise in downtown Baton Rouge, and to get to the door, you have to climb what for me is a pretty steep slope. Coming from the other side of the drive, the slope is less steep, but getting to that side requires circling the block on one way streets and we thought we were late. To add to the fun, I wasn’t wearing my New Balance shoes, but a dressier pair of shoes that still have built in arch and heel support, but not as much overall stability.

I climbed the drive very slowly, but my foot still felt sore the rest of the night. By morning it seemed okay, and I was even able to putter in the garden, planting a few pots and moving the hose to water the new plants from the past couple of weeks. My foot felt okay, but later in the day I felt an occasional stabbing pain mid-instep. Saturday I baked the cookies, and again my foot felt okay, but more stabbing pains in the afternoon. By Sunday night, I got online and booked a morning appointment with my foot doctor.

“Welcome back,” Dr. S greeted me with a smile. 

“Thank you, but I’m not feeling quite as enthusiastic about this visit as you are.”

I explained about the Old Governor’s Mansion (having been there, Dr. S knew what I meant) and my subsequent symptoms. Dr. S poked around at my foot and found a joint that felt odd. “You think it’s dislocated?” I asked.

“Subluxed,” he corrected. After yanking my third toe until he was happy, or at least happier, with the position of the joint, he positioned a selection of adhesive pads on the top and bottom of my foot, wrapped it all with a bandage, and told me to keep the whole mess dry until Friday, when I can remove it. Also, I need to stay off the foot as much as possible. He then had one of his minions add more padding to the underside of my shoe insert, the idea being to alter the way my foot hits the ground when I walk so as to keep pressure off the joint until it snuggles back into place and the irritation is gone. I also need to return in two weeks, or sooner if it doesn’t feel better next week.

So it’s not broken again, although it’s beginning to look like I am doomed to wearing orthopedic athletic shoes in perpetuity, which will be interesting with a friend’s wedding coming up in September. In the short term, I am restricted to sponge baths and washing my hair in the kitchen sink.

So yesterday afternoon, as I lounged on my bed resting my foot, my husband came in and asked “Why is it so warm in here?”

It turns out although the thermostat is set on 76 (24 Celsius), the temperature in the house is at 82 (28) and not budging. Did I mention it’s in the 90’s (30’s) outside?

So we are having a heat wave, the air conditioner is broken, and I can’t take a shower or bath until Friday. Ouch. It’s still better than this time last year.

Puny

This morning my husband wanted to go to the Home Depot to buy some more mulch, so I went along. He also wanted a new pair of ear protectors to use when he works with power tools, so while he looked for those, I browsed the garden section and picked out a few plants for the pots I have in the yard. I bought a hibiscus to put by the side door, a geranium to put on the other side, and two basil plants for the 3 foot high pot in the garden that runs along the driveway. In the past, the size of the pot has tempted me to plant a mix of herbs, but the basil always takes over. Those plants look puny now, but they are going to get big.

Once I got home and weeded out the planters, I realized I needed more potting soil. By that time hubby was busy sanding the tongue on his trailer prior to painting it, in the process trying out the new ear protectors, so I drove myself to Lowe’s, got a buggy, found the potting soil, and tried to lift it into the buggy. “Tried” is the operative word here. They were standard looking 24 quart bags, but they felt like lead. I finally got one into the buggy, at which point a muscular young man browsing next to me offered help with the second bag. I accepted gratefully.

Another muscular young man was at the checkout counter and when I asked for help loading the bags into my car, cheerfully complied. As the second bag went into the trunk, I saw the trunk dip noticeably. “That’s 80 pounds in there,” my helper explained. “Each bag weighs 40 pounds.”

That made me feel a little better, but not much. I used to be able to deadlift 160 pounds for reps, when I was 25 pounds lighter than I am now. Ten years younger, too, but I was deadlifting 60 pounds for reps last year before I broke my foot. That may be part of why I broke my foot, but still, I should be able to lift 40 pounds.

When I got home, I stopped the car in the driveway next to the first pot and tried again. By putting my arms under the bag as far as it would go, and bending my knees as far as they would go, I was able to lift one bag and shift it the three or four feet to the grass next to the pot. So far, so good. I drove around to the carport, and saw hubby putting the wheelbarrow back after having used it to remove a rotting stump. The wheelbarrow! How could I have forgotten it? It was exactly what I needed.

I took a bucket with me back to the first pot. I cut open the bag of soil, shoveled as much as I needed into the first pot, shoveled some more into the bucket to carry over to the second pot, and carried the bag, now down to half its original weight, over to the third pot. After I got everything planted and watered, I moved the wheelbarrow over to the car, lifted the second bag into it, and parked the wheelbarrow next to the trunk while I decided what to do with the bag.

Then I went to fix lunch, and forgot all about it. Later on, I found my husband had moved the bag of soil to the trailer with the mulch, and put the wheelbarrow away. I thanked him, and said I had trouble moving the bag because it was heavy.

“Yeah, I noticed,” he said. Okay, that makes me feel better, but tomorrow morning, I am getting back together with my dumbbells.

I should be able to lift a puny 40 pounds.

Little Old Lady Driver Class

My foot is still not quite up to Little Old Lady Exercise Class. My knees are getting stronger; I can actually pedal fast enough on the exercise bike to get my heart rate up. I even walked up the ramp to the P-MAC on two occasions to go to basketball games instead of taking the elevator. “Jumping around”, in Dr. S’s words, is still not advised.

My dear hubby found me a substitute, however - Little Old Lady Driving Class. It’s not just  for little old ladies (well, neither was the exercise class). It’s actually a class sponsored by AARP for drivers 50 years old and older. Hubby found out about it when he called our insurance company to find out of his rate would go down now that he is driving fewer miles a month. It turns out it does, a bit, but what really makes a difference is this driver safety class. It saves him $40 every six months. I’m not sure yet what it saves me, but it will be something. So he signed us up.

The class took four hours (almost to the minute), and consisted of videos, lecture discussion, and a pre- and post-test. The time went by relatively quickly. Subjects covered were how minds and bodies change as we get older and how it affects driving, eight safety strategies, other road users and how to respect their road usage, knowing our roads and highways, understanding our vehicles, and judging our driving fitness and knowing when to retire from driving. 

A sobering thought: death rates from motor vehicle accidents climb dramatically once you hit age 75. For women my age, there are just over 2 deaths per thousand crashes. For 75-79 year olds, that rate climbs to 4 deaths per thousand and for 80 years old and older, almost 7 deaths per thousand. For men, those rates are even higher and climb more steeply as they age.

As we went through the material covered, I realized I hadn’t taken a driver’s test of any kind since I moved to Louisiana in 1972. I’ve kept up on changes in the law (for instance, you now have to turn on your headlights as soon as it rains enough to turn on your windshield wipers; that didn’t used to be the law until some time in the late 80’s), but some things I really just did not know, like how far you have to stop behind a stopped school bus. Usually I just hit my brakes as soon as I see the driver activating the stop signs, but one time I came up a slight hill on a four lane highway behind a stopped bus and did not know how far behind I needed to be. (Thirty feet, in Louisiana.) I did not know who has the right of way when entering a roundabout (the drivers already in the roundabout), although I’m pretty sure I would have reacted correctly when faced with the situation. And it turns out I have been taking some risks in driving on the road with big trucks: cutting in too closely when passing them and then slowing down, and hanging out in their blind spots.

At least I behave safely around railroad crossings. If a gate is down and/or the bell is clanging, even if the train is not in sight, I won’t drive around it to get across the way I have seen some drivers do. I also do not walk on railroad tracks or stand too close to them.

So the class was worth the $14, even without the insurance rate reduction. (It’s $12 for AARP members.)

After class, hubby drove us to the insurance agent’s office with our class certificates in hand. As he chattered away (distracted driver), he was reminded of something he needed to convey with a gesture that took at least one hand off the wheel. “Sweetheart,” I pointed out mildly, “Didn’t we just finish taking a driver’s safety class?”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, then proceeded on with his anecdote. Fortunately we made it to the agent’s office without causing an accident.

Because I really, really would have hated to explain that one.

Oh, Gee

In addition to my regular annual checkup with Dr. N, yesterday was my annual eye exam. This was no accident; when Dr. N schedules appointments for her patients, she looks for appointments they already have and schedules around those. This is handy for people who live far away or whose insurance only charges one copayment per day, but it always makes me nervous that I will miss an appointment. 

Dr. N saw me promptly, however and came bearing mostly good news. My blood work looked good and my total cholesterol had dropped even more.

So then it was on to my ophthalmologist, Dr. Hottie. No, I don’t call him that to his face, but he is a sight for sore eyes. First I had something called a visual field test, and had to push a button every time I saw a flickering light. Then the standard vision test, then I had my eyes dilated and got the standard glaucoma tests. Somewhere in there, a technician took pictures of my optic nerves.

By the time Dr. H came in to see me, I was checking my watch wondering when I’d get out of there and if I’d have enough time to go buy my husband’s Christmas present at Lowe’s. I wasn’t expecting to hear that I have glaucoma. My left optic nerve is showing signs of notching on the lower margin, and I have corresponding “shadowing” in the upper left visual field. (The eye is flipped with respect to the optic nerve, the lower nerve innervates the upper eye and vice versa.) Dr. H reassured me they had caught it early. He also explained I have low tension glaucoma, which wouldn’t have been diagnosable by a standard test of eye pressure. In low tension (or normal tension or normal pressure) glaucoma, eye pressure is normal but the optic nerve shows damage anyway. Treatment is the same: eye drops to lower eye pressure and if that doesn’t work, surgery to increase drainage of eye fluids. Ten percent of people with glaucoma can lose their vision even with treatment.

I cannot figure out if I am the healthiest sick person I know or the sickest healthy person I know. What I do know is that I have an interesting reaction to bad health news. Whatever anger, fear, or self-pity comes along later on, my initial reaction is always the same: shame. If something is wrong with me, I caused it. 

I don’t think I’m the only person who reacts that way, either, because we have the Adam and Eve story to suggest that this is a pretty widespread belief. If human beings feel soreness and pain, and eventually die, it must be because we did something wrong. We must have brought it on ourselves some way. Women must have done it, because we’re the ones who bleed mysteriously. Shame and pain, they’re almost sisters.

Today I’m feeling a little calmer. I have drops to put in my eye each night and I go back to Dr. H in a month to see how they’re working. Other than that, there isn’t anything I can do. This isn’t something that diet and exercise will fix. This isn’t something that requires major lifestyle changes.

Oh, gee. I wasn’t expecting this.

So Maybe It Was a Little Excessive

Sunday morning I went to the emergency room. It wasn’t anything life or death. I had sliced my finger the day before while making lunch. (My husband’s first question was, “Was it one of our new knives?” They aren’t really new; we had simply sent them back to the factory to be sharpened, but I was able to reassure him that yes, they are really, really sharp.) It took some time and many, many paper towels before I was able to get two bandaids on it. I decided if it was still bleeding in half an hour, I’d go to the urgent care clinic, but half an hour later the bandages were clean. I had an appointment for a checkup  on Monday (actually today), so I figured I’d be okay letting it wait. 

But as the day went on, any pressure on it made it bleed and hurt. Ochsner’s urgent care clinic hours were over by then. I finally found their website’s guide to when to seek emergency care, and realized I didn’t know when I’d last had a tetanus shot (one of the indicators to seek care under “Lacerations”) and hadn’t been able to bring myself to look at the cut so I had no idea how deep it was. That night I had a hard time sleeping with the pain and felt some nausea, not to mention throbbing, signs of possible infection. So at the crack of dawn, I told hubby I was going to the ER. He offered to drive me.

As it turned out, the cut wasn’t as bad as I feared. I had missed the six hour window for getting stitches, although Dr. B wasn’t sure I would have needed them anyway. There was no infection, but she prescribed an antibiotic just in case. They dabbed on some ointment and slapped on a regular bandaid, except it was 1” wide instead of 3/4”. They wrapped it looser than I had with my bandaids, eliminating most of the throbbing. I left with instructions for wound care, the rest of the ointment, and prescriptions for the antibiotics and some pain pills. I was only given those after I paid my $100 copay.

Note to self: next time you slice an appendage, do it on a weekday.

Since I was apparently not dying, I was able to go ahead with my plans for the day, making cornbread for the Chili Cook-Off. I made chili for the Chili Cook-Off one year, and won third place, with my version of Chili Blanco. I replaced the chicken with pork tenderloin, slathered with cumin and slow cooked the day before. The recipe requires a lot of slicing and dicing however, not to mention the one-day head start, and I am feeling a little off that sort of thing right now.

So instead I decided to tackle a nice, simple recipe: Yeast Raised Corn Bread. The only cutting it required was snipping the 2/3 cup of chives. Most of the kneading is done by a stand mixer with a dough hook (which I just happen to have.) We also had a box of vinyl gloves which my husband uses when he’s staining wood projects, so I could protect my hand while not risking the lives of people with latex allergies.

The recipe calls for fresh chives and fresh or frozen corn. I had actually picked the recipe out two days before, and since John was going to the store anyway, had him buy frozen corn and chives (otherwise I had planned to use canned corn and freeze dried chives, which we had on hand).

The first snag I ran into was with the chives. By the time they were all snipped, what looked like 2/3 cup turned into more like 1/3. Then there was the corn. The only frozen corn my husband could find was corn in butter sauce. I wasn’t sure how the butter sauce would affect the recipe, so I decided to use the canned corn after all. Once drained, the 14 ounce can was closer to 1.5 cups instead of two, but I decided that was close enough.

The recipe is really easy, although time consuming as yeast recipes are. Almost all the work is done by the mixer. I ran into yet a third snag, however. I added the flour/salt mixture until the dough left the sides, but not the bottom, of the bowl, just as the recipe said. Then I turned the speed up to medium, just as the recipe said. At that point, the dough, which had been behaving perfectly, began sticking to the sides of the bowl again. All I can think of is that the higher speed caused the canned corn to begin secreting liquid. I added a little more flour. When it was time to turn the mix out on a board and knead it a few times, I covered the board about 1/8” thick with more flour. By time I kneaded it a few times, it was perfect: easy to form into a ball and put aside to rise. I use a trick I learned from the Farm Journal Book of Breads: put the bowl with the dough into a cold oven and put a pan of hot water on the lower rack. Dough rises perfectly every time.

When it came time to shape the dough into balls and put them into muffin tins, I ran into my final snag. I have old muffin/cupcake tins, dating back to the 1960’s and 70’s. I don’t know if the recipe’s inventor uses larger muffin tins or if the extra moisture/flour caused a problem, but there was just too much dough for 18 muffin cups, something I did not realize until I had cut the dough into 18 pieces. So I grabbed two cookie sheets, rolled the pieces into balls and placed them on the cookie sheets to bake.

They wound up flattening out a little and looking like hamburger buns, but they tasted great. There were enough chives to give a nice sprinkling of green, but not enough to give a true chive flavor, so they really needed the 2/3 cup, but the amount of corn seemed sufficient.  Most of the rolls disappeared at the chili supper, but I managed to snag two of them to bring home and we used them tonight to make pulled pork sandwiches with leftover pulled pork I found in the freezer. Toasting brought out the corn flavor even more.

If I make them again (which I probably will because hubby loves them), I’ll either make 24 rolls in the muffin tins or make 15 hamburger buns-sized rolls on the cookie sheet. Then I can freeze them and pull out as needed for pulled pork, beef, or chicken sandwiches. 

So maybe my trip to the ER was a little excessive. Maybe making a yeast version of cornbread which takes four hours instead of the Jiffy Mix version was a little excessive. It’s a great recipe, though. My recommendations would be to use the full amount of chives and use either fresh or frozen corn, not canned. Also, don’t slice your hand while chopping celery the day before, but you probably figured that one out already.

Better and Better

I went back to see my foot doctor again today. My foot continues to heal well. I was a little worried about it because it has been sore the last few days, but the bone is almost healed. I no longer have to wear the soft cast! I have a beefed-up insole in my shoe instead. This means I can take baths and showers and get really clean, and I can scratch my foot when it gets itchy. It's amazing how much small pleasures mean.


I still need to wear the walking boot part time, but in a week or two if my foot feels well enough to me I can give up the boot. In three weeks time I should be completely healed if my recovery proceeds the way it has been. That's when my next appointment is.


I'm sure I will feel grateful for my healthy foot for a month or so before I go back to taking functioning feet for granted. That's been my history with health issues: foot surgery, back pain, my few episodes of flu. While I'm ailing I swear that when I'm well again I will appreciate my good health, and I do, for a while.


Tomorrow I'm going to drive my car down to the gas station and see how it feels to work the clutch. I miss driving. I've had a small foretaste of how it's going to be in not many more years when I am not fit to drive any more. Where I grew up there was almost always a late August day when the temperature dropped into the 60's, giving a foretaste of fall, a kind of reverse Indian Summer. I'm reminded of those days. I hope I can be gracious when the time comes, and grateful for summer days that were.

On the Mend

At my latest doctor visit, I got the happy news that my foot is mending well. I'm allowed out of my boot and in regular shoes for several hours a day, starting with two hours and working up to six by time I next see the doc in August. I'm also allowed to be on my feet on a fifty-fifty basis, half an hour up and half an hour resting, so I am now able to do my share of the laundry, cooking, and cleaning. I still don't feel ready to drive my car, which has a clutch, so I am housebound unless I get a ride, but hubby is good about that. I also don't feel ready to carry anything much heavier than the laundry or my iPad or dishes to and from the table, but other than showering, driving, and exercising, I've resumed normal activities. The wheelchair went back yesterday.


I've been thinking about a plan for resuming exercise. I had been meeting with a friend at the mall once a week to walk, and once my foot is completely healed, I think I'll resume that first, maybe starting with just one lap. Little Old Lady Exercise Class is going to require a few modifications, too, starting with going just one day a week, not two, and avoiding the moves that require me to be on my toes, or on one foot unless I'm leaning against the wall. The instructor won't complain; she expects us each to adapt the moves to what we can do safely. I'll work my way back up to two times a week as I feel ready.


Weight lifting will probably be the last thing I add, starting with lifts I can do sitting down, like overhead presses, biceps curls, seated flies, maybe even seated good mornings. It will probably be many more months before I'm deadlifting again.


Despite my lack of activity, I have as of today lost close to six pounds since May and seven since March. At this rate, it will take me about a year to get down to the mere overweight range, but one thing experience has taught me is that no matter what you are doing, in a year's time a year will have gone by, so you may as well make the most of it.