My Ankle Needs To Get Over Itself

Seriously. I can only get around with crutches. As my daughter points out, I am terrible with crutches. I wobble, I careen around. The dogs both scramble out of my way as soon as they hear the sound of my crutches. I can't carry anything. Well, I can carry things that I can suspend from my fingers as I'm holding the crutch handles. Imagine yourself unable to walk straight and with no useful way to transport things and see what you can accomplish in a day. Plus I'm so out of shape now that my heart actually starts pounding a little when I stand up for more than five minutes. I know, I know, I'm going to work on that.

Since surgery I have repeatedly asked my husband to please do one of three things for my ankle: first choice, grab one of those Star Trek medical doodads and run it over my bones so they will knit up pronto and apparently painlessly; second choice, cross one arm over the other, blink hard and nod (like the genie in pink); or third, wriggle his nose, making that little "tinkle-tinkle-tink!" musical sound (like Sabrina). I'd go with Star Trek first because, hey, it's Star Trek, and also the other two potential cures seem to make the world jerk sideways a bit, and always go hilariously wrong for twenty minutes. His only response to my impassioned requests is to say that the late 60's clearly had a lot of wish-fulfillment fantasies. Dork. He doesn't even try.

On account of diligent practice, I can now move my hoof up and down and side to side, but not as far as it used to go. It is not far enough yet that I could walk, but I'll keep pointing and flexing. Maybe by the time the doctor says, "go," I might be able to. My foot turns beet red every time I put it on the floor. When I show him, my husband points out that I have soft tissue damage, too, so what can I expect.

I'm off pain meds, huzzah! The only real pain now is stinging from the skin being stretched too hard over the scarred areas and screws, which makes me make faces when I do my exercises, and weird twangy nerve jumping when I put my foot on the floor. To which my husband again replies that I have soft tissue damage and I should just be patient.

You can imagine what a comfort he is to me.

love,

cat

Das Boot

This is the inside of Inside Cat's right ankle. I am particularly pleased by the orderliness of the repair. You can see the plate and all eleven screws. I have so many in my thin little tibia there because I broke it in two places. As the doctor said to me, "When you do something, you commit, huh?" Yeah.

So Friday we went to the part of Pill Hill that is by the river. You know, the part you can get to by gondola. See, a long time ago someone donated the top of a westside Portland hill to the University of Oregon. The university built a medical teaching hospital on it. And a dental school. The Veteran's Hospital, too. And the Shriners built their facility on it. And the famous Doernbecher's Children's Hospital was built up there for children with cancer. And there's the Casey Eye Institute. I think there are a couple other institutions of a medical nature crammed up there, too. The whole thing is lousy with hospitals and parking garages. You drive up this steep winding road in a long line of cars to get to "Pill Hill." I know it well. Our son had four surgeries up there when he was a boy, four summers in a row. Finally, a few years ago, additional property was obtained at the bottom of the hill, by the river. Another medical center went up, and a Swiss-style gondola was built right over Interstate 5 so that people could float up and down, high over the houses and I-5, from the hospitals at the top to the medical center at the bottom. I got to ride on the gondola for my first doctor's visit, because the young woman who set the appointment for me failed to tell me exactly where my appointment was, so silly me, I went to the main hospital. I didn't see much, I was in a wheelchair and so my view was basically of sky. Rick said it was nice.

Eeeeeenyway, Friday at the bottom of the hill I got my cast/splint thing off and x-rays taken and my stitches pulled out and the surgeon came in and looked at the x-ray and declared it Fine and rattled off a bunch of instructions for me (both times I have met with him he has never touched or even looked at my actual foot. I assume he had to come into some kind of contact with it during surgery. Though he did have a resident in there with him who could have done it instead, so I suppose it is possible he has never touched my foot. I can't blame him, it is not a pretty sight).

Though my poor foot really was frightful, I was happy to see it again after three weeks. Yes, it's been three weeks; I can't believe it either. I'd show you a picture of the bruises and stitches and iodine stains with wisps of cotton stuck on but you'd just say ick and try not to look at it, so what's the point. Then the nurse came in and fitted me with The Boot. It's a fine thing, black and velcro all over. It has snazzy little air bags in it you can inflate and deflate for support, just like Air Jordans. It only weighs ten thousand pounds.

If it's been a while since you've broken anything, let me tell you how the world has changed. It used to be that doctors would use wet plaster and cotton and place a cast on you that remained for weeks and weeks. You would feel itchy underneath the thing and have to try using a long stick of some kind to get in there and get some relief. It used to be that you could not get your plaster cast wet or it would fall apart. It used to be that your cast would be signed by friends and family with snarky or sometimes sincere little get well wishes, and drawings by your talented friends. It used to be that your cast got grubby and an unfortunate smell would waft from it as the weeks went by. Then, finally, the doctor would scare you to death coming at you with his/her zippy little saw blade and the cast would be cracked open all the way down. You would get your appendage back and learn how to use the shriveled limb again.

Not any more, friends. We're well out of the Dark Ages. Now, long before healing is complete, you get The Boot. You are encouraged to take The Boot off and stretch your stiff muscles and work at regaining range of motion. You are allowed to remove The Boot to shower. You don't need to wear The Boot when you sleep. You can remove The Boot, prop your foot up and watch TV. You can scratch all you want. Seriously, it feels like a magic trick every time The Boot opens up and reveals that white cotton sock. There's my foot! I feel like I am cheating. It's wonderful.

Four more weeks of not putting any weight on it at all, though. Still a looooong way to go.

love,

cat

So, What Does Inside Cat Do for Fun?

Since I kind of committed, let's talk about hobbies. You know how you can fascinate a baby by jingling keys in front of his/her face? I never got over that. I get drawn into just about anything - I reach for any shiny thing that comes along. My mother used to scold me, “Jack of all trades, master of none,” and tried hard to get me to focus on one thing. She didn’t care what one thing, just one, instead of wanting to know everything about everything. It didn't help her cause that I grew up in California smack dab in the center of hippy-hippie everything. I remember taking summer classes on tie-dying, Japanese paper making, basket weaving and macrame. I had long-haired art teachers who encouraged experimentation, so I made things in clay, learned stained glass, metal casting (specifically, making jewelry), a little wood carving. I love it all. I can’t help myself. Reaching for those dangling keys, I still want to know everything about everything. I've tried to stick to things that are affordable and don't take a lot of space so my family still loves me. So regretfully, I don't have a glass blowing studio, stained glass equipment, kiln and potting wheel, a shop full of woodworking tools, a loom, spinning wheel (though I desperately want one), sheep (for spinning, you know), bee hives, a printing press and all the other things necessary to turn me into a one-woman village. This actually does make me a little sad. Let's explore some of my more recent interests, just for fun:

When we were moving to Alaska, I decided I needed to give up my freshwater fish tanks. I loved the fish and frogs and the plants I had growing in each tank and I enjoyed learning about them, but I did not want to figure out how to transport the tanks. Also, I looked around online and could not find any information on stores selling fish in Alaska. I was wrong, there are several tropical fish stores in Anchorage. So now you know. But I gave up having my arm wet to the elbow and my fish went to a very deserving young man. I still miss them, even though that 50 gallon tank took up a lot of real estate in our little house.

My new hobby in Alaska was houseplants. I figured I'd need the green during the long dark winter (which actually was lovely, white and brown with pink sky, but I digress). So I bought a no-nonsense plant stand and lights and started collecting African violets and orchids and various other pretty leafy things. Anyone who saw my tiny jungle office in Portland knows I loved plants already. When we moved from Alaska back to Oregon, I gave away my lovely healthy houseplants and decided I would focus on gardening in the yard in Oregon. Which I did.

Now I am grounded, incarcerated, a big fat couch potato. I need a new hobby to drain off some of my fascination with everything. No problem. I grabbed a crochet hook from my knitting daughter, begged some yarn off her and started crocheting. I can do that easy even with my left foot propped higher than my heart. I ordered a big box of the Right Colors from the Internets for my Broken Ankle Memorial Blanket and got going. I may even have other projects on the hook (OK, I do...).

I have not abandoned the garden. My husband has kindly agreed (with only one little -suppressed- sigh of long suffering) to keep the garden alive. He loves me that much. My daughter helps me with the herbs I brought inside for the winter. I sit at the table with my brick of a foot propped up and she brings the plants and we both fertilize and water and deadhead and all that. It's nice. I am very grateful for the assistance, so the plants get to live.

I tat; I've tatted for years now. In case you are blinking at me like this, 0_o tatting looks like this. It's a kind of lace. You can scroll through the pics, if you are interested, to get an idea of some of the variety available. There's more to it, but it's my hobby, not yours, so I won't bore you. I mostly make jewelry (earrings, necklaces), beaded purses, ornaments and garlands. I've also been noodling with making wedding lace as a potential side business. All my tatting stuff is packed up in the shed at the moment. The thing that's really cool about tatting is people are just in the past couple of years developing new techniques, so it is an evolving craft.

Last Easter-ish I made the Ukrainian Eggs in the fuzzy picture above. You do it with eggs (I used brown eggs), beeswax and aniline dyes. I buy the specialized copper and birch tools I need from Powell's book store, or sometimes online. It's a Russian thing, though lately I've run into Russians who never heard of it, so I am guessing it is a Western Russian thing, as the Ukrainian in the name indicates. Russia's a giant country and I suppose it is not surprising that people at one end of the country don't know what people on the other end are doing. Getting to make the eggs in the picture was the incentive I gave myself to finish our tax forms last year. By the way, my brother-in-law made the cool wooden bowl they are sitting in.

Another sort-of-hobby all my life has been "get in shape." Except that it's more of a wish. I've never stuck with an exercise regimen for long. I've never been particularly fit, but I could generally get through a day without huffing or puffing. I realize that at the moment I am slowly deteriorating into a sack of flab. One day I will be tortured by some otherwise nice person who happens to be a physical therapist. At that point, I have already resolved that I will make peace with the Wii Fit and start using it. I will not stop until I am able to walk or even jog a 5K run. I know, my dreams are overwhelmingly big. Maybe you and I could work on it together, what do you think? Let me know. You have plenty of time to decide. No need to rush.

My new hobby/skills include brushing my teeth at the couch using a cup and a bowl, digesting while prone, learning to use crutches, um, what else? Not much. Just hanging out, surfing the 'net, watching cable tv, napping. I am becoming a world class napper. Good for healing.

What do you like to do?

love,

inside cat

On the Import of Fruit, particularly of tropical persuasion

I've been told that since I am a big baby and achood facebook, I need to update my blog more often. The word might have been "eschewed" but who really talks like that, Mary? ;) Hmm. I am chained to the living room couch for at least the next six weeks with this broken ankle. Nothing interesting is going to happen to me. What shall I write about?

I think we will all die of boredom if I chronicle my convalescence step by step. We could work on the eternal question, "Are we human or are we dancer?" for a while. Blogging through Julia Child's cookbook has been done. So today our topic is fruit.

First, cantaloupe. Our cat, Kaleo, is, to put it politely, supersized. He's a big muscular guy for a cat anyway, but he really put on weight when our daughter's kitty died five years or so ago. I must admit I did not pay attention to how Kaleo was handling the loss of his beloved. They had been inseparable and I should have expected some response from him but I just didn't think about it. I had my own sad and I was busy. So three or four days after the death of the other cat, I finally noticed where Kaleo had been hanging out: inside the 20 pound cat food bag, gorging. He gained four pounds (for a cat, that's a LOT) in less than a week. To quote Dave Barry, I am absolutely telling the truth. We had a depressed cat who tried to eat himself to death.

So we put the cat food in a container with a lid and tried to help him lose some of the weight he gained, but really ever since then he has been obsessed with stuffing his face. He steals food. He sneaks food. He begs for food (mostly "ham" because it's one of the few words he can say). He thinks about food all the time, you can tell. It came to a head last Christmas, when Rick and I came to visit. Kaleo (who stayed here with our kids) was struggling to jump up to the place where the cats were fed. His spring was sprung. I thought he might be having hip problems, like older adults sometimes do, so just in case we took him to the vet. After x-rays and various tests and such the vet told us he was overweight, charged us three hundred dollars and put him on a diet. Three hundred dollars to find out our cat was fat, which I already knew. I'm still not over it. Anyway, this three hundred dollar diet plan included a list of things he could eat and how much. My favorite item was Cantaloupe, because the quantity allowed was "as much as he wants." I suppose some cats eat cantaloupe. Kaleo won't eat fruit. Not any, not ever. But he was crazy hungry on his diet, of course, and so was sniffing mightily at anything anyone was eating. I kept a text message Steph sent me last winter that said, "Kaleo thought he might want some cantaloupe, but upon consideration, he thinks not." I am pleased to report he has lost a pound or two since then, and he has enough spring in his hind end to jump up again. He's also getting more energy - for the first time in years, he is getting playful, even. I recommend the three hundred dollar cantaloupe diet. We need to get our money's worth out of it.

Mango. I've been thinking about diet because it occurred to me a day after surgery that if I eat "normally" while laying on my back doing nothing, I am going to have to go on the cantaloupe diet myself. I like cantaloupe but I like mango even more. Given the choice, I will take mango flavored you-name-it over any other option. (My second choice is peach.) Guess what I found out? Mango is not good for people who need to diet. If fruit can be fattening, mango is fattening. This is true of most everything I like to eat. I think learning to walk again in a few months will be hard enough without extra weight straining my joints. So I'll have more cantaloupe, less mango. Portion control is my new watchword.

Bananas. There are two things about bananas. One is that I like them very much and tell myself they are very good to have because they are one of the few foods containing potassium, which I miss when I don't have enough in my diet. However, bananas have a well-known -um- binding quality that is not helpful to me at this time. I am on a steady (but decreasing) dosage of oxycodone, which has the same trick of putting a stopper on the human digestive throughput system. I was eating a banana to take my pills a couple of days ago and suddenly realized that I have a problem... Rick went to the store and got yet another pill for me to take, and now all is well again. But I should probably go easy on the bananas.

The other thing about bananas is that they confuse our dog Snickers. Our daughter will ask, "Bananas?" at those moments when Snickers is soulfully nose to nose with her, and invariably it causes Snicks to tilt her head sideways, as if she is trying to get her brain in a better position to understand. Lately our daughter has discovered that "Papaya?" is as perplexing a question to the dog. Now, Snickers, like Kaleo, won't eat any fruit or vegetables voluntarily. None of our animals like fruit. I thought for a while our son's dog would eat grapes. But though I briefly fooled myself into believing he was eating them, Shinobi just licks grapes, takes one bite to break them open and leaves them on the ground for one's toes to discover later. So who knows why Snickers is so curious about bananas, since no one but the humans eat them. Perhaps she'd like to know more about potassium.

Winter is coming. Right now pumpkins are ripe, of course. Unfortunately I've never been a fan of pumpkin, except the roasted (salted) seeds. Did you know the only native American fruit that provides potassium is the pawpaw? This is true. I have some seeds planted in our backyard right now. They have to be exposed to a winter before they will even think about growing. In fact, it could take up to two years for the pawpaws to sprout. I will have to be patient.

That's enough about fruit, though no doubt the subject of patience is going to be a theme for me. Next time (possibly): Inside Cat's various hobbies.

love,

cat

An Important Decision

So, amazingly, I went home yesterday at 5:30 from a surgery performed at 2:00 pm. And I remember both pre- and post- op. I am very impressed with the precision of the anesthesiology team. By the way, has anyone else had surgery lately? What did you think of the little air blower that pumped warm air into the front of your surgical "gown"? Discuss.

Rick got to see my xray pictures. I had told the doctor to do a good job with me, and he said he'd do his best. Apparently he followed through: I have eleven screws in my ankle, and a titanium plate. To compensate, I say I should be allowed to take one pound off my scale weight from now on. The resident who assisted in the surgery came to see me after and said he was sure they couldn't fit another screw into my ankle. They buttoned me up good and tight.

I was sent home with a list of things I must watch for and things I must do. On that list was, "Do not make any important decisions for the next 48 hours." Come on.

Dana came and babysat me today, and did what all good babysitters do: she kept me company, helped me to the potty and made a nice lunch. She also fed me applesauce and rice crackers. We both napped. A good day. :)

I also had Nurse Chloe with me. She has several jobs: she makes sure I am comfortable, makes sure I stay still and watches the tube that runs from the nerve block box to my body. Of course, you need to understand the emphasis. She is not making sure **I** am comfortable; it is more like, "Am I comfortable, Chloe?" As you can see, she does an awesome job making sure I stay still. As for the shiny tube full of novocaine she watches, as long as it has no sharp teeth marks in it, we are all ok.

This lazing around stuff is not working out to be quite so easy as I'd dreamed. I am saddened to report the nerve block is wonderful but has limits: it only works for the right side of my leg. The left side of my leg, I am told, is served by a different nerve. I admit half a numb ankle is better than none of a numb ankle. But my leg keeps cramping from being stuck in the same position all the time, and my ankle swells and gives me lots of not fun sensations when I get up and then yells nasty things at me when I put it up again. I pant and grit my teeth and bear it for about ten minutes after every excursion off the couch. So I've made an important decision. I am never getting up off this couch again.

love,

cat

Couch Potato Salad

Except for periodic waves of nauseating pain (and I do admit, that is a negative) and not being able to move, it occurs to me that I am in an ideal situation. I am waited on hand and foot and completely excused from every adult responsibility. I can't cook, clean, do laundry, buy groceries, or scrub the toilet. When I drop something, someone else has to pick it up. All I have to do is try not to be cranky, and practice patience. I can nap, watch TV or movies or play video games - anytime! I can read uninterrupted. I never have to change out of sweats. I can craft to my heart's content (I have decided I will crochet a Broken Ankle Memorial Blanket. I already picked out a cool pattern). As we all do, I have the tubes of the internet to delight and inform me from all corners of the globe. Lap o' luxury, I'm telling you.

Wednesday at the civilized hour of 11:00 I will report to the orthopedic surgeon to have my ankle screwed back together. I'll have many incisions. The doctor will hand me back to Rick, slightly the worse for wear but with my foot properly attached, late in the afternoon. I am told that for me it will go like this: I will remember entering the doctor's office, and then I will find myself at home on the couch at night with my leg propped up, saying something along the lines of, "Wha' happen'?"

I am also told I won't be in pain because I'll have a cool techy "nerve block" attached to the back of my knee. It's this plastic thing that will inject some kind of novocaine into my leg for two or three days and numb me down to my toes. When it runs out, we just take it off and throw it away.

I appreciate the help we have been offered, very much. You are all wonderful. Thank you! :)

Since I won't be ambulatory for weeks and weeks, I attach this dancing video for our (marginal and slightly horrified) mutual entertainment: solid potato salad. Keep watching until they get past the vocal portion of their presentation and start doing the wacky circus things. If physical therapy is anything like that, count me out.

Just like an astronaut going around the back side of the moon, I'll see you on the flip side... (sample picture below)


love,

cat

The Bigger They Are...

Apparently, I am one of the bigger, because I fell hard. Yesterday (and I apologize if this is like the third time you are hearing about it…) I got tangled up in the Most Evil canvas and wire chair on the planet. I was just walking into the kitchen, minding my own business, and it reached out and grabbed me. Please skip from here to the next paragraph if you are grossed out by abnormal things happening to the human body. Right now, dear friend. OK, for those of you still here, the horrifying details: I wrestled with the chair, lost, and found myself on the ground, in an amazing amount of pain in my right leg. My right knee was bent to the right but uncomfortably overextended. And my foot, my poor foot, (really this is gross, feel free to skip ahead) was backwards. Flat against the ground, pointing 180 degrees in the wrong direction. Aaaa! Did that make you shiver? I shivered, and possibly moaned. I don’t think I’ve seen many scarier things in my life. I turned my foot back around with my hands. There were some really crunchy sounds. I was too startled to even use any inappropriate language.

Welcome back, if you skipped ahead. Suffice it to say I twisted my ankle so hard I was pretty sure I had broken it. I crawled to the couch, got my cell phone and called Rick. I felt I had to move quickly, before I passed out or something. But apparently the pain I was feeling was about as much as I was going to feel. Chris rushed Rick home and Rick took me to emergency, where I was swept right into the back and then left sitting there forever, as usual. But then they gave me morphine, so all is forgiven.
There are three bones you can break in your ankle. Turns out I broke all three. Next Wednesday, I am going in for surgery. I won’t go into details, but pins and plates were mentioned, as well as a loooooong recovery time. Two weeks on the couch with my foot elevated for sure, and then four to six weeks hopping around on my left foot. Six more weeks of only putting my foot on the ground, no weight, then physical therapy. In six months, the orthopedic surgeon tells me, I will be feeling pretty much able to do most of what I could do the day before yesterday.
I am grateful to God for many things today: my family and their unquestioning willingness to take care of me; medical insurance; God’s grace that I didn’t break open my fool head. Couches and pillows. Oh, and percocet. Wonderful stuff!
Thanks for listening. All is well. You can see the picture of my huge cast. It’s not gross unless you are scared of elephants. If you ask me, I am totally rockin' the paper pants.
love,
cat

Facing up to Facebook

OK, I quit Facebook. I'm sorry if this bothers anyone, but my entirely personal and grown up opinion is that Facebook is yuck. I never could make heads or tails out of what was supposed to be happening there. And then I had this huge horrible guilty feeling every time I thought of it, like, "You should go to your stupid Facebook page and figure out how to be sociable. Your friends must be wondering what is wrong with you and why you never talk to them, you loser." This has not helped my stress level or my self esteem. So, forget it. I looked up how to make the account go away, made it go away, and now I do actually feel better. I'm not rejecting any of my friends, just that weird website.

It's fine with me if you like Facebook. I still like you and pretty much everything you stand for. It's just my particular quirk. I have lots of them. Here's a short list:
* I don't like shredded coconut baked into anything - it has the taste and texture of cereal box. I have to believe that it does not taste that way to normal humans, because nearly every cookie bar ever made has coconut stuck in it.
* I don't like movies about WWII.
* I'm not thrilled by SUVs, even though I own one - in the parking lot, they look to me like so many hippos lined up at the river's edge for a good wallow.
* Black and white Mary Jane shoes. Fine with me if other people wear them, but I had some once and ended up hiding them in the back of the closet until I outgrew them.
* Naked mole rats. Ewwww.
* I don't like standing there sucking it up on the Wii. Video games should be played as God intended, from a comfy chair. Please, for the love of heaven, just let me sit down.
* Don't get me started talking about Twitter - even more random and weird than Facebook, WAYYYYY beyond my comprehension.
I'm quite happy if you do like these things. It's not you, it's me.

What do I like? Lots of stuff, way more than what I don't like. Good dirt, for one thing. Know what my wonderful husband got me for my birthday? Five yards of topsoil for the garden. Isn't that romantic? (No? Oh, but yes!) I was so excited, and he knew I'd be excited and he kept the secret and teased me with the impending arrival of my gift and then there it was, a dump truck full of chocolaty brown goodness pulling up to our house. It had either rotted horse our cow manure in it, I'm not sure which. And then when Rick came home, he also had a big bag of coffee grounds from Starbucks to add to it. All for me! We spent my whole birthday weekend hauling wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow from the driveway to the backyard. :) I already have garlic and shallots and leeks and spinach and beets growing up in it, and clover all over the rest of it to do its magic with nitrogen and make the soil Even Better, and Rick made me a little fence around the whole expanded "farm" area. It is the most beautiful thing. I already have all sorts of plans for the spring.



What I really want now is a little plastic farm set: a barn, a cow, a little pink pig, so when people come over and I ask if they would like a tour of the farm, I won't look so ridiculous when it turns out to be a little vegetable plot in the backyard. That'll do it, right?

Caramel Macchiato, extra Caramel and other regional and cultural foods of note

Our son turned 21 on Monday. We officially have two adult children. w00t! For his birthday, I took elements of cakey-ness that I know are good and made a homage to our son's favorite Starbucks drink, using chocolate mocha cake, caramel glaze (used as filling) and mocha buttercream. Then our daughter made it perfect by putting whipped cream on top and drizzling it with more caramel. The fun part was I made it all from scratch, except the "birthday letters" we put on for fun. Man, was that one sugary cake. But good, especially warmed up a little. I was going to put a picture of it but you wouldn't understand. It looks like a mess, like it melted. But that's what the drink looks like. Oh, forget it. Here's the picture and you can think what you like.



I've been busy doing everything but making money lately, mostly eating. Let's see: Steph and I went to a "Sock Fest" in Portland (when she invited me, I said, "Excuse me, did you say 'suck fest'?"), where we wandered around a Sock Museum (I kid you not) and marveled at all the wide variety of fibers and colors you can knit with, and the wide variety of materials and colors and shapes you can use as knitting needles, too. We didn't win anything, even though I TOLD the man at the front door that he was to give me a WINNING raffle ticket. The day did include good food, specifically burgers: we met up with some friends and had lunch at Red Robin, where somehow Dawn managed to pick up the tab for everybody. So it turned out I spent no money at all the whole day, got lunch and had fun. Can't beat that.

Then Rick and I went to the Beaverton Farmer's Market a couple Saturdays ago, where I was completely unable to not spend money. I got a plethora of live herbs in little pots for my garden. So now I am the proud owner of parsley, rosemary and thyme, but I didn't buy sage. I don't use sage for much other than singing along with Peter, Paul and Mary. I've already snipped at the rosemary to make a focaccia. I've never made focaccia before - it was really good, if I say so myself. Among other herbs as well, I got a lovely ornamental oregano with bell-type green and purple flowers, and a huge fuzzy Cuban oregano plant which I have put out by the front door. I love it. We also bought dinner fixin's, featuring baby red potatoes, maitake mushrooms and fresh salmon with organic vegetables and strawberries. I'm afraid to cook fish, I've no experience, but Rick grills it amazingly well. Very fun, local and it made a delicious meal.

Last Saturday Steph and I spent part of the afternoon wandering around a "cultural fair" which was really a fundraiser for the local Orthodox churches - I didn't know there was an orthodox church on Walker Road, but there it was - and we enjoyed souvlaki and Russian pelmeni and Greek coffee while watching teenage Greekies dancing traditional dances. Opa! "Why don't we eat like this every day?" my daughter asks. Well, child, because it takes HOURS to prepare this stuff. But I could make pelmeni once in a while. Really, I could. I will. Eventually. You have to work yourself up to such things, you know. And I'm going to make her help me.

I've had many lettuce salads from the garden, nearly one every day for lunch. Good eats and emotionally satisfying. Something other than me is munching on the cabbage. I don't care too much because I'm not sure even why I planted cabbages, except they do well in the winter. I ate enough cabbage as a child to last my whole life. Though I do like a little of it in my borscht. I have an ambition someday to be able to make and eat borscht that comes entirely from my garden, except for the meat and sour cream. This winter I'll have about half the veggies I need from the garden: beets, parsnips, carrots, cabbage (if it survives). Garlic is going to be planted but it won't be ready until next summer, and onions and potatoes have to wait until spring planting, too. Did you notice borscht is basically all root vegetables that grow well in cold weather? Well, it's from Russia. Makes sense.

It doesn't fit in any way to this post, but for fun here is a Japanese clip of a little chimp being more amazed and entertained by magic tricks than any little kid I've ever seen: magical. I particularly like that, since I don't speak Japanese, I hear pretty much what the chimpanzee hears, and I can see how the animal follows the visual clues he is given, not the words. And I do hope they kept the rest of his day predictable and comfortable, after all those shocking surprises. :)

love,

cat

Greenish

I am a greenie in pretty much the same way some people are Christians: I am green when it is convenient, doesn't cost me anything and I feel like it. I'm greenish. I want to be green. I agree with the idea that we should be good stewards of the earth God gave us. I just want to have an Easy Button for it. A big, red, plastic Easy Button.

In Alaska, it was easy for me to feel very green. Green is not a popular concept there. Alaska has no weekly pickup of recyclables, no bin to toss your stuff in. Many people don't even bother with garbage service. They use burn barrels and a trash pile out on the back of the property. Businesses don't bother with recycling paper, even. You can have all the plastic Fred Meyer bags you want, no one talks about banning them, and no shop I saw posted that their coffee is served in compostable cups and lids. They wouldn't dare.

Rick and I found the recycling center, which is run by nice, graying volunteers who looked to me like they might have been hippies since it first became hip to be one. They were only able to accept certain items for recycling (no glass, for instance). It was kind of like going back in time for us, to about twenty years ago when our kids were little and we'd take our recycling down to the center on Denney Road and toss it all into the labeled dumpsters.

Last year, we quickly found it prudent not to talk much about recycling and such to our huntin', fishin', truck drivin' friends and neighbors. Alaskans blame greenies for ruining everything from the local fishing to the economy. In fact, I found that making a statement like, "Look at how much garbage we created from this one fast food lunch," after church on Sunday would get my friends, people I love and who love me, asking me if I am a greenie, in a carefully neutral tone that didn't fool me one bit. I figured it prudent to say with perfect honesty, "Not very." I didn't have to explain that I'm ashamed of my green failures. It's perfectly legal for Alaskans to carry concealed weapons. In fact, several times over the year we lived there someone would point out to me in church on Sunday morning that in a crowd this size he/she could guarantee me that at least five people had guns on them at that very moment. This was in the way of reassuring me that we were safe in case a crazed gunman rushed in, threatening people. Hmm.

As we were leaving the great state of Alaska (which really is a great state and I do miss it a lot, guns, trucks and all), I heard on NPR that San Francisco has passed a law making it illegal to throw compostable materials in the trash. No more eggshells, coffee grounds or carrot tops in the garbage cans, folks. I was intrigued. Both my grandmothers lived in The City (that's what you call San Francisco if you live in the Bay Area) and I know one of them definitely would have taken to this law easily because she never threw anything away if it could possibly have some use. She saved everything, and I mean everything. If someone had shown her that you can turn lettuce leaves and old wet paper into good soil for the garden, she would have taken to it. I think. As long as you made it clear it had nothing to do with hippies. Anyway, kind of in honor of San Francisco's new law, when we got to Beaverton I made a worm bin for our kitchen scraps. And then the Big Hot came and made us all miserable for a week and probably killed the worms. I still have to check to see if I need to start over or if the little guys were able to hibernate or something until the weather cooled off. I fear they're cooked, though, so I haven't looked yet. Do you do that, put off finding out if the worst has happened? I do it all the time.

Anyway, the picture I've attached demonstrates my current state of green: my first garden salad! It was a three-bite salad and it was delicious and beautiful in a bowl my daughter made. The lettuce will grow along with my greenie-ness. 'Cause in Portland, man, you had BETTER be green. Thankfully guns aren't legal here. No way Portlanders have the restraint of Alaskans when it comes to strong convictions.

love,

cat

Watching TV Can Do Strange Things to Your Mind

When we get tired of gardening and writing and looking for work, one of the things we do is watch TV. And we have lotsa cable now, so it is amazing the things we find. Our most recent find, last Sunday afternoon, is Cake Boss on TLC. Seen it? Ha-larious New York Italian family baking amazing cakes. They had me at "Forget about it."

And I am so jealous of everyone who gets to be on Yard Crashers. This landscaper named Ahmed hangs around at home improvement stores, looking for someone who is trying to fix something with their backyard with too few resources, convinces them he really wants to help (which is apparently hard to do - lots of people turn him down) and then he follows this lucky person home and completely remodels their whole yard. I AM SO JEALOUS!

But the hardest part of TV for me right now is the new series of Prius commercials. You know, the ones where weird people are dressed up as nature and dance around or whatever it is they do? All I can think is, "Soylent Green is people! Tell everyone!" And then I shiver. Go here if you really want to know what I'm talking about - but be warned: this is 1970's sci fi at its most ...umm... horrifically cheesy. There are certainly many things to miss about the 70's. :) Do you know the secret of Soylent Green? (Hint: I already told you.)

And if that was too weird for you, here is a video of a pug pushing a pink baby stroller around Portland: click here. Don't say I never gave you anything wonderful.

I made hot dog buns today. They look amazingly terrible. I was scared of them at first but now I love them. How are you doing?

love,

cat

Five degrees of Rick

A couple nights ago, Rick got a message that his friend Carl was in the hospital. Rick knows Carl because years and years ago Carl managed a book store near our house that I went to frequently and we got to know each other. Carl used to ask me to come work for him, since I was so clearly a book fanatic. I was never really in a position to say yes to that, so I played coy. A couple of years into our casual friendship, Rick needed a job and I went to Carl and said, “Hey, would you hire Rick instead?” and he did. They became friends. The person who let Rick know about Carl’s hospitalization is Brent, his son. Rick and Brent are friends as well because Rick started a guy’s Bible study – oh, years ago – and Brent was part of it.

Rick went to the hospital, where he sat with Randy’s parents, waiting for Carl to get out of surgery. Rick knows Randy’s parents because Randy was one of his students years and years and years ago when the world was young, back when my brother also hung out with Rick, back in the days when Rick was trying to catch my attention. (Naturally I played coy: it's what I do.) Randy’s parents were there because Carl’s wife and Randy’s mom happen to be sisters. Someone there tried to introduce Rick to them and they were all like, “Oh, no, we’re old friends.”

So then Rick was waiting for Brent (Carl’s son, remember?) to come up to the room. Brent finally does so and Rick asks, “What took you so long?” Brent says, “I was talking to Becca’s dad, ‘cause her grandmother is recovering from surgery here.” Rick says, “Vergene is here?” Brent and Becca are dating, which was one of those pleasant surprises for us when we heard about it. I remember shaking my head and saying, “Brent found Becca? What a small world…” See, Becca’s kin are people we have known for many long ages. Dave and Vergene, her grandparents, were pillars of our church for many years, and friends of ours. Kind people. Our kids ran around their farm growing up. As Rick stepped into Vergene’s room, Lori, their daughter (Becca’s aunt), greeted Rick with surprise. She was part of his volunteer youth staff team, also years and years ago. Rick visited Vergene, caught up with Lori for a while, and then came home.

Tomorrow, Rick is meeting Jordan and Amanda for premarital counseling. Jordan has been a friend of my son’s since they were both about five years old. And, you shouldn’t be surprised by this point, Jordan’s wonderful family lived next door to Dave and Vergene.

If we were in Alaska, all this interrelated stuff would not be surprising at all. Alaska's like that, just one giant small town. I used to have to remind myself to be extra careful and not talk about stuff I knew about people because like as not the person I wanted to mention would be the brother of the person I was talking to, or someone they used to babysit.

But we’re in Oregon, current population 3,559,596 (I assume that number includes us, if not: 3,559,598). We didn’t introduce any of these people to each other. I know, right? We're not good at stuff like that, but apparently it happens anyway, so it's ok. It had better be, 'cause you know us... If you haven't already, clearly you are going to fall into our vortex eventually.

We’re praying for Carl, that he recovers well. Be strong, Moose King.

love,

cat

The Quest

I have been on a quest. Around the beginning of July, when we first arrived in Beaverton, disoriented, the TV happened to be on. Martha Stewart was poking holes in cupcakes with a fork. Martha is generally inscrutable to me. (This means I don't get her at all.) But deliberately disfiguring fresh cupcakes was intriguing enough that I turned up the sound and started paying attention. She was making tiramisu cupcakes. Ah, tiramisu.

The first time I heard of tiramisu, I thought it must be some Japanese dish made with tofu and seaweed (isn't that what it sounds like?), so I didn't inquire. But then on one of our visits to California before she passed, my mother mentioned that tiramisu was her very favorite dessert. She must have come into this love later in life, or she kept it a deep secret from me, because I swear I never heard of it growing up. Anyway, we went somewhere and had some and now it stands up there with my other favorites, which is pretty much everything on the Olive Garden dessert menu, and creme brulee.

So here's Martha, dabbing espresso and rum into her little ladyfinger cupcakes and I suddenly need tiramisu. Out of the blue, just like that. I can't explain it. As I expected, the recipe on her website looked like a lot of work. If I'm going to labor anyway, let's make the real thing instead of messing around with tiny cupcakes. I found the recipe I wanted, and The Quest was On. I needed marscapone, rum and ladyfingers.

Martha said you can find marscapone cheese at Trader Joe's. How fortunate I now live within two miles of a Trader Joe's! It took about a week, what with moving and boxes and a few other matters, but to the store we went. Marscapone, check. They did not have ladyfingers. "That's a seasonal item," the checker said. It wasn't until we got out the door that I asked Rick, "When is it ladyfinger season?" The question gnaws at me.

I figured I could solve the cookie dilemma later. Now what we needed was rum. I could not for the life of me think of where a liquor store is. There used to be one in frumpy, tired Beaverton Mall, years ago, but now it's Cedar Crossing and thinks it's cool and the liquor store is gone. Alaska has giant Liquor Barn stores, can't hardly miss 'em, but Oregon doesn't trust anyone with the responsibility to sell alcohol but themselves. Therefore the stores are unadorned, matter of fact and unobtrusive. Rick knew where one was. I looked at him with narrowed eyes so he explained, "It's right next to Starbucks." Oh. No wonder, then.

We headed to the state-run store. I don't know about Rick, but I was trying to look like I have a clue. It must have worked because the guys behind the counter barely gave us a glance. So there we're standing, looking at a whole wall of rum. Light, dark, spicy, clear (clear?), kiwi, mango. Apparently you can do a lot of weird things to rum. Naturally we chose based on the coolest bottle. We made a show of checking them all out, but once we saw the one with the pirate on it, it was all over. I hesitated only because some small rational part of me was suggesting rum with a jolly pirate on it might not be top quality, but it had a quality price, and come on, it was a pirate, so we bought it. The stupid boys behind the counter didn't even card me. I ask you.

Anyway, yesterday was the day. I figured (rightly) the marscapone probably has a "use by" date and Rick would give me an earful if I ended up throwing it out. But the ladyfinger problem still loomed. So I found a recipe online and made them. They're pretty much whipped egg whites and sugar. I couldn't find the beaters for the mixer, so I ended up doing it by hand. I couldn't be having with the mess of a pastry bag, either (and mine is in a box somewhere anyway), so I made a solid sheet, like a jelly roll and cut it into strips afterward. Came out great, but those ladyfingers sure slurped up the rum. I gave Steph a bite of ladyfinger after it was dipped and she made an awful face. "Man, that's strong," she said. Worrying. But I followed the recipe. It wasn't until later I realized I probably should have accounted for an absorption difference, since my cookies were fresh and most ladyfingers are dry. Maybe Martha knew what she was doing, dabbing rather than dipping. Shoot.

I assembled it anyway. Couldn't find a 9 x 9 baking pan, so I grabbed a round cake pan. When the first layer filled the pan to the brim, I realized I might be in a little trouble. No problem, use foil to make an extension for the towering tiramisu. Afterward, I realized I could have used a springform pan. Martha would have thought of that. Shoot.

I took my beautiful mess to Vic and Dana's last night: if you can't experiment on your friends, who can you experiment on. We sliced it up. A certain alcoholic odor was wafting up from my demure looking tiramisu. "Oh, dear," I thought, but handed the pieces round, anyway, my eyes watering slightly. We bravely bit in. The cream part was great, but then those drunken ladyfingers asserted themselves. They had given up dancing with the pirate and were prone, overcome, swooning and woozy. They were probably at the blubbering "I love you, man" stage of inebriation. They definitely wouldn't pass a breathalizer test. We kept eating, though. Suddenly we were laughing a lot more.

My quest is fulfilled, though I don't know how long it will be until I live down the "drunken dessert" incident. Martha never would have let Captain Morgan kidnap her like that. She'd have whipped him into shape in no time.

love,

cat

What a Difference a Day Makes

Wow - air conditioning is nice. Really, really nice. So nice I could keep talking about how nice it is for about an hour. Though I'd be repetitive.

Portland's all time record high temperature is 107 degrees. The news stations all went on about how we were going to hit that record Wednesday. Portland news stations are like that. In Alaska, the wind would be howling around the house and I'd search all over the news to see if it was safe to go to work, and they'd finally say something like, "It's gusty in the valley this morning. It's pretty slick, too." Winds to 60 mph and more on an icy day and that's all I'd get. In Portland, every year at least once all regular programming stops for hours because two inches of snow fall, with reporters standing ankle deep in slush in an intersection, pretty much saying, "Yep, look, snow!" except with a lot more words.

And don't laugh so hard about two inches of snow, Alaskans. I say this with love, but I've seen how you drive. Portland has, like, two snow plows, and most of the vehicles on the road are rear wheel drive with regular tires. Portlanders aren't complete babies.

So back to summer - sorry I got distracted. It's easy to do when you are sitting in air conditioned bliss (it's SO nice). So Wednesday the weather doesn't even bother to get up to 107. We got 106. It's miserably hot, who asked Portland to turn into Phoenix, and it doesn't even hit the record high. We hit the high for July 29. Oh, and we hit the all time high night time low, if you can follow that. Lame.

Monday evening I ventured out to the vegetable garden to water my seeds, and amazingly, I had sprouts! And after all my whining about how it was all going to shrivel up and die on me, here are seeds coming up in less than a week. I had to show everybody. I nearly ran out into the street and dragged pedestrians to the back yard so they could see, too. My theory is that the ground is so hot the little guys wanted to throw their jackets off and pop out of the ground. I definitely need to remember this for spring planting. Those warming pads for seed trays could make a big difference. And so far, the seedlings are doing just fine. I'm watching over them like a mother hen.

The vet didn't buy my "my son made the dog sick" story. But he did prescribe her Robitussin DM and Benadryl. I kid you not. He took pity on our unemployed state and did some conversion math in his head so we could use OTC people medicine on our dog. She doesn't like the taste of Robitussin any more than I do, but I don't make near as much fuss. I don't think. No, I'm sure I don't make that much fuss.

Rick applied for a job with the FAA (seriously) and I sent off my soon to be famous children's story, "The Moose Ate My Broccoli." We'll keep you posted.

love,

cat

Hot Expectant Summer

We are melting. Ridiculously high temperatures this week. But we love our friends! We have been offered two portable air conditioning units so we can survive the week. What a gift! Just yesterday afternoon I asked Jesus for an air conditioner. Within a few hours, we got a call from our friends offering not one but two! See how well we are cared for?

My son was born in heat like this, in late August. You have never seen a more miserable pregnant woman than me that summer. Our doctor actually kept us both in the hospital an extra day when he was born just because it was so hot outside. I blessed him repeatedly for the kindness, for that extra day of cool air bliss.

I’m working hard to keep the newly planted bed moist. We have a nice little wire fence around the area to prevent trampling by clueless tongue-lolling doggies and Rick suggested we put a tarp over that when I found my “brilliant” sheet idea didn’t work. Perfect! Now the seeds have a fighting chance. I’m misting several times a day and waiting. It’s a little like that hot pregnant summer, waiting for Chris – the seeds are incubating in the ridiculous heat, too, and I wonder how they will fare. Chris was in trouble while I was pregnant with him. I had to stay still for nearly three months while he was growing, because my body kept trying to be done with being pregnant and go into labor. So they made me lay (lie? – English major in college, but that lay/lie thing still confuses me) in bed day after day after day. After day after day after day… Three stinking months. I was thoroughly sick of reading all the time but daytime TV was worse. And then toward the end, when I could get up and we all thought Chris would come early, he just nestled in to my overheated belly. Nearly ten pounds when he was born, full term. I think it was 102 degrees that day. He’s always hated hot weather. I can’t imagine why.

Next month he turns 21. Outrageous. I’m inclined to refuse to believe it’s been that long.

How is he now? Our house has become the House of Hacking, thanks to him. Chris was home sick all last week with a dry cough. Two days after he started coughing, our dog started in with the same dry cough. Chris says he could not have made the dog sick because she is a different species. To this I said, “Swine Flu, buddy.” He had no answer, but he coughed and then the dog coughed. I win.

And we’re trapped in the house today. I had planned to go to Powell’s or somewhere equally cool (in both senses of the word) today to hang out, but of all days, this is the day the county chose to repave our street. The big roller trucks are driving back and forth in front of our house right now. So we can’t get out. Even if we tried to walk, we’ve been warned the asphalt will stick to our shoes and ruin them until it’s had some time to ‘cure.’ But I can wait. At least I’m not pregnant. And there are a couple of air conditioning units out there waiting to come live at my house. Oh, yes. I can wait.

love,

cat

Starting over

So I planted seeds tonight. I found myself feeling rather stressed about it as I leaned over the vegetable bed I made. Wondering why, I realized that my past experiences with vegetable seeds are affecting me. I know what can happen, you see. I have had seedlings die because I didn't water them often enough in the heat. I've had our dog trample the bed and kill everything. I've had the mystery seeds that just didn't come up. I've had bugs arrive and chomp down everything. And I've had little plants that just didn't thrive, just sat there sickly and pitiful, hating me. I want to feel hope and joy as I plant. But then the past sticks its tongue out at me and mocks me, telling me I am going to lose again.

But then I realized that past experience is not necessarily any indicator of the future. There's nothing wrong with trying again. And that is what I did, doggedly continuing to plant and telling myself that I am trying again and it is ok.

I'm glad about that, since trying again is what Rick and I are doing in ministry, particularly. It is hard to "love like you've never been hurt." But we're trying.

I know it will be a challenge to get those seeds sprouted and growing well in this summer climate. I think I'm ready.

love,

cat

Just Like Wuthering Heights

I don't know when Helena Bonham Carter got into our backyard and scattered seeds around, but I know it must have happened... See, I decided to plant a fall/winter vegetable garden. I actually decided before we moved, and I thought about it while we were driving down the dreamy Alcan. I want to plant leeks, spinach, beets, kale and other things that will handle our winter pretty well. I was daydreaming about making spanakopita (you're on the Internet; look it up) and Olive Garden's Zuppa Toscana with vegetables from our own back yard. I knew where I'd start: the 8 by 8 foot square I planted with flowers and herbs a couple of years ago. It's gotten weedy since - because I didn't maintain it or even plant it very well - and it's right by the back door. I'd just have to clear the bed and prepare it for my shiny new kitchen garden.

So we got here and we've been moving boxes around like ants in the rain, no time for gardens yet. But recently I actually got outside for a bit and started ripping up the garden area. You know what was growing there? Three foot tall thistles with inch long spikes all over the leaves, belladonna (deadly nightshade) and morning glory - sweet name and pretty flowers paler than the most ivory complexion, but morning glory is a vine that has roots that go down to China, and it creates a net that covers and chokes to death every plant within reach. I designated it the Goth Garden and started wondering if Tim Burton and his dear Helena would like to pull out deck chairs and sit under a black parasol to admire it.

I also thought I could probably pot up the little monstrosities and sell them on the streets in Portland. Would probably go like hotcakes until the Goth community realized they'd have to let light into their apartments if they wanted the plants to live. So I filled the yard recycle bin with it all instead.

With it cleared, my next step was to smother the garden area. Smothering sounds like the sort of thing Tim Burton probably approves of, at least in theory. Speaking of, are you ready for him to take us down the dark, twisty rabbit hole? I admit I am looking forward to Alice in Wonderland, though we have to wait until next spring for it. That's probably good. Maybe by then we will have jobs and can afford to go to the movies. :)

I covered the weed roots with a thick layer of cardboard, newspaper and old towels. I found free topsoil on The Great River of Stuff (Craigslist) and Rick and I moved it to the house in 5 gallon buckets in the back of the Subaru. Then we got a free load of wood chips from a tree trimming service, so my driveway is inundated and I've been moving those, mulching all over the place. It's about 10 yards of wood chips! And I'm still digging the rest of the garden. Ever toiling like an ant...

In honor of the demise of the Goth Garden, please feel free to watch this You Tube vid about the plight of those who loathe the Daystar: Goths of Summer

I'll write again soon.

Love,

Cat

We Cover the World

So what have I been doing lately? So glad you asked!

First, on our way from Wasilla, Alaska, to Beaverton, Oregon, we drove up to the Arctic Circle, so as to say we've been there. I'll say it now: we've been there! It was two days before summer solstice, when the sun does not set at all. It did not get dark. That part was very cool. The mosquitoes - the swarming fogs of mosquitoes - were not cool. We therefore spent an uncomfortable"night" under the midnight sun and jetted out of there at 6 in the morning.

We drove all across Alaska and into Canada. We drove across a huge corner of Yukon Territory. We drove deep into British Columbia. We drove for days and days and we were tired. We looked at our map and were dismayed as we realized we were barely halfway. For a while there we though we'd never get home.

We enjoyed our trip immensely. We saw a lynx hunting a ground squirrel. We saw elk and buffalo and lots of bears - even a grizzly mama with her two little 'uns. We drove through a forest fire no one seemed to be worried about. We looked at glaciers and waterfalls and lovely mountain vistas. We found a ghost town called Silver City. We drove through Smithers, BC, which turned out to be a remarkable place. We met interesting people. For the last leg of our wilderness journey, we had a wonderful couple of days wandering around civilized Vancouver and Victoria and then got off the ferry in Port Angeles, Washington. And finally, after 3700 miles on the road exactly (according to our odometer), we were home.

It's very surreal to be back. It's been a year since we lived here, and we did not expect to come back. I couldn't figure out where to put the plastic grocery bags we'd accumulated on the trip, and then in the laundry room, I looked up and saw bags stuffed in the same place I've stuffed them for over twenty years. It felt weird that I'd forgotten. I watered the front lawn in the evening, and when I stepped out the door to shut off the faucet, it was such a familiar summertime evening thing I felt almost dizzy. This confusion will wear off as we engage and reestablish our presence.

I'll write again soon.

Love,

Cat