Days Ten, Eleven, and Twelve--Life is What Happens

I should have known that as soon as I got loud about embracing my busy-ness, something would happen to stop me in my tracks. Actually, this was more like an unexpected speed bump that threw me into the air, causing me to plunge awkwardly to the ground before regaining my composure and continuing on my way. The car still works; I just feel a little silly for not being more careful.

Such is my story. It was Wednesday, day ten. Lunch was barely tolerable for me. Steve came to terms with it, but I just couldn't. I naively thought that capers and kalamata olives would be able to dress up packaged tuna enough to make it taste good; I was wrong. I've had to let go of that meal and move on. Working out helped. Dinner, on the other hand, was a miracle. I made my very first red Thai curry at home. It had the tender crunch of just-cooked yellow bell pepper, silky mushrooms, and rich coconut milk all balanced with the spice of the curry paste. Four bites from the end, I switched from chopsticks to a spoon so as not to leave a drop of the deliciousness in the bowl. After dinner, I got to work on Thursday's lunch. Feeling practically high on the success of dinner, I brazenly pulled out the mandolin my mother had given me to slice an eggplant into perfectly even slices. Ten seconds later, I was holding my bleeding thumb under a running tap.

In retrospect, I'm amused by the thought process that occurred immediately after this happened. It was strikingly similar to the five stages of grieving. 1) Denial: Nothing happened. I can take care of this. I'll just put this piece of my thumb (hereafter referred to as "the thing") in the trash, wrap up my hand, and move on with life. No one ever has to know. 2) Anger: I cannot believe I did this! (When I realized that I was bleeding very badly.) I AM SUCH AN IDIOT! WHO USES A MANDOLIN WITHOUT THE SAFETY THINGY?!?!?! 3) Bargaining: Lord, if you'll get me out of this mess without deformity, I promise I'll never cook again without using every safety tip I've ever heard in my life. 4) Depression: I'll be deformed for life! (After I finally screamed for Steve, who was just settling into bed to get plenty of rest for his 5 a.m. wake-up call.) How can you love me when part of my thumb is missing? Oh, God, I'm a freak of nature. My thumb is never going to stop bleeding... 5) Acceptance: Okay, drama queen. It's going to be fine. (After calling Momma in Louisiana, who called her hand surgeon friend at home, who called me and talked me off a ledge and told me to meet him in the emergency room.) So after picking the thing out of the trash and placing it in a baggy (poor, poor Steve), racing to the emergency room (did I mention that Steve was already medicated?), and paying the nice lady with the clipboard one hundred dollars (which hurt almost as badly as my newly-trimmed digit), we were headed back home with lots of bandages and thoughts only of sleep.

My predominant thought as I lay in bed (besides the constant replaying of that fateful moment) was that I have way too much to do for something like this to happen. I have to cook and work out and get my classroom and lessons ready. I tried to let it all go and just go to sleep. Unfortunately, I jammed my thumb about twenty times in the middle of the night, so what sleep I got was perpetually interrupted with internal cries of pain.

Thursday morning I woke up feeling beaten up. My thumb was throbbing, and my other arm felt like it had been punched repeatedly where the nurse had come up to me without a single word of warning and injected a tetanus vaccine. I grunted out of bed and went downstairs to figure out how I was going to tackle ordinary tasks. Until my thumb heals, I have to do everything with my right index and middle fingers. I'm right-handed, of course. I look like a lobster trying to use a knife and fork. I managed fairly well, though. In fact, I managed fairly well all day. I still had double pet duty after breakfast, then I had to meet my students who were at their leadership workshop. Each year, the SCA sponsor and a couple of other school officials are invited for a meeting and lunch during the week-long workshop. Of course they all wanted to know what had happened. I ended up telling the story about four times, the final version being, "I decided my thumb was a little too big." I took a two-hour nap when I finally got back home. (By the way, lunch was not exciting. Just lettuce with Italian dressing and a little bit of what they were calling barbecued beef brisket. Steve picked up a salad from Chick-fil-A.)

I am monumentally proud of dinner, though. I managed to make a really amazing skillet of coq a vin without my right thumb. I used wings instead of breasts for a little variety and sipped a glass of the cab franc that went into the skillet with the chicken as I tended to dinner. After forty-five minutes, I had this fragrant concoction of thick, herby sauce, fall-off-the-bone chicken, and tender vegetables. I made up my mind that if I could still do that, I could still do anything. After Steve went to bed and I had finished putting together the lunch that I was trying to finish the night before, I worked out. I subbed out the hour-long stretch routine for yoga because the yoga workout puts a lot of strain on the hands and arms, but I still did something.

Today, day twelve, I woke up with even more pain and a gigantic knot in my tetanus arm. Thankfully, today was much more relaxing than the rest of the week has been. After the pets were taken care of, I basically had an entire day of scheduled social activity: visit my friend Jeanette, whom I've known since high school and who just had her second baby, a quick stop at home to eat lunch (roasted eggplant slices rolled up with a heavenly cheese mixture, then topped with grilled shrimp and homemade red pepper pesto) and change into my swimsuit, then to the home of Susan, one of my favorite co-workers, to sit by her pool and catch up with her and Renee, another fabulous co-worker. Too soon I had to head back home to prepare for my brother's arrival for a dinner of grilled steaks, baked potatoes, and my favorite salad. Rob had a date tonight, and I wanted to help take the edge off. We had a couple of drinks (my Skinny Girl Margarita had an umbrella in it), watched a little baseball, and discussed dating strategy. I hope it's going well.

Despite the pain in my arm, I was determined to work out. After Rob headed to Ghent for his date and Steve went to a friend's for a little poker/fantasy football planning, I dragged myself upstairs, donned my workout wear, and sweated my butt off for the next hour. It's a small thing, but I'm really proud of myself for not missing a workout or a good meal. It reminds me that if I keep doing well with these little things, maybe one day I'll be entrusted with more.

Days Eight and Nine--The Business of Being Busy

I had every intention of blogging about each day individually, but honestly, the past two days have seemed the same to me. The only distinguishing characteristics have been what I've worn and what I've eaten.

I decided that, while Steve is tutoring, and even some days when he isn't, I need to go to my classroom and get organized for next year. I haven't been teaching long enough that I have my lessons ready for next year. I'm still doing major overhaul from one year to the next. I'm also the SCA sponsor for the second year, so it's time for a giant do-over where that's concerned. So my schedule for the past two days has been as follows: heave myself out of bed as if trying to loose myself from the clutches of death, have breakfast, shower, drive to my parents' for pet duty #1, drive to Steve's parents' for pet duty #2, drive to school, work until about 3:00, drive home, work out, drink protein while trying to make the sweating stop, drive to my parents' for pet duty #3, come home, make and eat dinner, piddle with Steve for maybe an hour before he goes to bed, then make lunch for the next day and blog. If I'm lucky, I have the energy to watch a couple of episodes of Weeds before slipping into a coma and starting again tomorrow. I'm tired.

Thankfully, food has been a welcome relief to me during this cyclone of activity. Breakfast... well, you know. Mouth watering. Moving on. Yesterday's lunch consisted of curried chicken salad with grapes and almonds (no mayo--just Greek yogurt) over a salad of that beautiful purple lettuce, cucumber, and bean sprouts. I'm trying to use them before they go bad, so I put them in everything. They add this fantastic crunch to salad that I can't get enough of. It was all topped with a light citrus vinaigrette. As I ate, I hoped that no one would get nosey and pop into my classroom because I'm pretty sure I had curry on my face.

Dinner was inspired by a dish that Helen first introduced to me, pho, pronounced "fuh". Hip Vietnamese restaurants like to call themselves things like, "What the Pho?" A local restaurant sells t-shirts with "It's Pho King Good" printed on the back. Believe everything you hear. Pho is this amazing, steamy, aromatic bowl of noodles and chicken (if you order pho ga) and the best broth I've ever had in my life. You pile on Thai basil, jalapenos, bean sprouts, and sriracha at the table and dive in head-first. My version was more Japanese, but the spirit was still there. Last week I poached some chicken for lunch in chicken broth, ginger, and garlic. I saved the cooking liquid for noodle bowls and added udon noodles, chicken, shrimp, sugar snap peas, mushrooms, and bean sprouts. I love how noodle bowls are built: noodles go in the bowl first without the liquid, followed by the protein, and finished with the veggies. Finally you pour the broth over everything and toss on the garnishes. I don't know what it is about this process that's so appealing. I told Helen once (or fifty times) that I was going to become Asian. Maybe I see the creation of an authentic noodle bowl as a good first step.

So yesterday's meals were two more notches in my belt. Time to move on to today. And that's really how it feels. As soon as dinner is cleaned up, it's time to start making tomorrow's lunch. It's a never-ending cycle of food, which, for me, is kind of like heaven on earth.

Today we dined on Asian pork and cabbage slaw. This particular slaw is dressed with soy sauce, sesame oil, honey, and rice vinegar. It's incredibly light and refreshing with little bites of pork mixed in. I toasted some sesame seeds to throw on top along with sliced scallions. For the second day in a row, I hoped that no one would catch me eating lunch. I almost feel a little guilty, knowing that ninety percent of the teachers and office staff working summer school are either eating fast food, a dry sandwich, or nothing for lunch. I've been there, and it sucks.

Dinner tonight was the piece de resistance. It's always the simplest meals that I enjoy the most. We started with a salad of artisan lettuce, homemade balsamic vinaigrette, and grated parmesan. This is my very favorite salad on earth. No muss, no fuss. Just perfectly salty and sweet and crunchy. Second course, wild salmon filets with a balsamic-citrus glaze perched atop a bed of lemon rice pilaf. I haven't eaten rice in a really long time, and this was phenomenal. It was made with chicken broth, thyme, white wine, vidalia onion, and lemon zest. I'm a carb junky, which partially explains why I demand that phase one of P90X not be an exercise in torture. When I only get one serving of bread or rice or potatoes a day (and I split that serving between two meals), every bite has to count.

During meals, I've had some time to reflect on how I've chosen to spend my days this summer. I fluctuate between two predominate emotions: the first, that I should stop all working and wile away the days doing frivolous things; the second, that all time spent planning now will pay big dividends later. It's a very grasshopper and ant approach to the summer. Knowing myself, I believe that the ant has it right. Though I'm incredibly busy, I get to call the shots. As Julia Roberts, in the character of Vivian Ward, once said, "I say who, I say when, I say how much." And I know that my life will be much easier in the fall if I prepare myself now.

So, with a resigned shrug, I commit myself to several more days of the same. But first I lit some candles and turned on the lights in the china cabinet and in the curio cabinet where I display the dishes that Helen brought me from the Nam. Just because I don't have a lot of time doesn't mean I can't be busy in good atmosphere.

Day Seven--The Day of Rest

Sunday dawned cool and refreshing. It was one of those rare summer days when the mercury doesn't rise above 80 and the tingle of fall is in the air. August 1: Momma and Daddy's anniversary, Kelley's birthday, day two of pet patrol, and a day of respite from working out. On P90X, just like in the Bible, every seventh day is a day of rest.

Before breakfast, I went to feed and love kitties. I have this vivid memory of sitting in Momma's chair, all of the tasks completed, with Hadley purring on my chest. Closing my eyes and rocking, I felt every bit of anxiety melt out of my mind and muscles. It's amazing, really, that this little bundle of fur and warmth can have such a healing effect.

The feeling of fall seems to make everything more beautiful to me. There are certain places that always feel like fall: Nana and Grandaddy's house, my kitchen, and TJ Maxx. I can't explain it; it just is. This day was the embodiment of crispness, leisure, and solace. That's not to say that I wasn't busy, because I certainly was. But I never felt overwhelmed by the business.

Breakfast, my P90X phase one usual, was delicious, of course. I just can't say enough about a toasted english muffin with strawberry all fruit and a latte. My mouth waters for this simple delicacy. I knew that when the last crumb had been licked off of my fingers and the foam had been daintily wiped from my lips, it would be time to get to work. That's probably why I savored each delectable morsel so much.

Because I'd been putting off planning menus, today I had to finish that project, then turn the plan into a grocery list, go with Steve to buy groceries, then put everything away and clean and prep the produce. Somewhere in there we also had to eat lunch and dinner, and I had to make and pack lunch for Monday since Steve would be tutoring and I would be going to school to do some work. A year ago I would have piddled and pouted and procrastinated, rationalizing that we could wait one more day. On this day, I picked myself up and followed the advice I often give but seldom practice: just do something, and then you'll probably feel like doing more. It turns out I give excellent advice. A couple of hours later, I had the meal plan on the fridge, grocery list on the counter, and lunch to make.

At some point during my planning it had begun to rain, so lunch was perfect: Stracciatella alla fiorentina. So effortless to make, and so gratifying to eat. It's basically Italian egg drop soup with parmesan mixed in with the eggs (or egg whites in this case) before they go into the hot chicken broth. This recipe has spinach, and I also added chicken for protein. There is nothing like a bowl of soup on a pseudo-fall day.

After lunch, we headed out into the drizzle. TJ Maxx for glass lunch containers (do NOT heat anything in the microwave in plastic), then Farm Fresh and BJ's for food. Finally back home to unload and grab a quick snack of fruit and off for final pet patrol of the day. By the time we were ready to start on dinner, I was famished.

Admittedly, this meal would have been better on a warmer day, eaten on the patio under the sunshine. That's okay, though. It took about twenty minutes to make, which is exactly what I needed right then. Steve grilled Omaha Steaks burgers and toasted buns on the grill while I made a quick salad of tomato, basil, ricotta, and homemade balsamic vinaigrette (next time I'll use plain balsamic vinegar instead). This to me is the supreme summer meal. With the salad and veggies on the burgers, it's fresh and light, but the burgers have the char and smokiness from the grill. Mmmm...

After dinner I whipped up Monday's lunch, then sat on the couch to sip a glass of wine and watch some Weeds courtesy of Netflix on the PS3. It was no night at the theater, but it was welcome rest for my weary bones. An hour later, I laid my head on the pillow knowing that today I had accomplished everything that I set out to do. Nothing makes me feel more rested than having my ducks in a row, my eggplant washed and ready for use, and my lunchbag ready for whatever tomorrow holds.

Day Six--The Ghosts of Ghent

It' s that point in the summer when I'm losing track of the days of the week. I'll mentally ask myself what day it is, then respond with a spazzy, overzealous "Who cares!?" I did not know this day as Saturday. I knew it as the day I was haunted more acutely by old ghosts than usual.

Immediately upon waking, I was already feeling frazzled. I had a lunch date with former students at noon, and I wanted to have breakfast and work out before getting ready. The workout didn't happen. Not before lunch anyway. After breakfast, I surfed the interwebs for a little while, then resolutely went upstairs to pretty myself up before heading to Ghent for lunch.

Ghent is one of my favorite neighborhoods on this earth. It feels like a small, artsy town in the middle of a big city. If you live in Ghent, you can easily walk to the grocery store, any number of eclectic restaurants, Starbucks, or Naro Expanded Cinema, a local video store that has everything on DVD. There are trees and charming, old apartment buildings as far as the eye can see. The best thing in the world is in the spring and fall when it begins to warm up or cool down outside and you can open the windows to the fresh air and sounds of feet running on the pavement below. I love this place. A couple of years ago I was chased out unceremoniously.

I met Paul and Becca at Nazef, a Mediterranean restaurant and hookah lounge. I ordered a Greek salad, Becca had tzakiki with pita wedges, and Paul requested a hookah. Sierra Mist in the base. Cherry limeade shisha. Good times. We chatted, ate, and smoked, and I tried not to think about living in Ghent and owning my own hookah. But the ghosts do as they will, and I was thrown periodically into a melancholy reverie about days long gone. At the end of two hours, I hugged my friends goodbye, thanking them for treating me to a lovely time, and began the return trip through Ghent and back home.

The route I chose carried me close by one of the apartments I lived in. The last apartment I lived in. I thought of my walks "into town" (which is what we called it when we went a few blocks up to Colley Avenue) and gazed at the circle where I used to park when all of the spots in front of the bulding were taken. I could literally feel and smell the breeze that used to waft into the third-floor apartment and make me feel like life was truly beautiful. Waves of nostalgia and sorrow swept over me and still haven't completely receded.

The ghosts stayed with me for the rest of the night. Dinner, cooked after the last workout of the week, provided a morsel of relief. Chinese meatballs over couscous with bok choy. The bok choy alone wasn't stellar, but eaten with everything else it provided just the right amount of tender crispness with the flavorful meatballs and rich, sweet and tangy sauce. This was definitely a do-again meal.

After dinner, I had my first shift of pet duty. Steve's parents and my parents all left for lengthy vacations, and we're in charge of the animals while they're gone. Steve goes twice a day to visit, feed, and walk Zack, the German Shepherd. I go twice a day to visit, feed, and scoop litter boxes for Hadley, Soldier, and Trooper. Hadley greeted me at the door, and I wondered if she could see the ghosts that were latched firmly to my shoulders. I suspected not. She was too hungry to care about much else. I mentally checked off my list of duties, thinking about the kitties that I had once loved and lost when I had to leave Ghent. Nearly an hour later, babies fed and tucked in for the night, I got in the car to return home, ghosts in tow.

The rest of night was uneventful. Just me, Steve, and my ghosts. There are many times when they fly away for days and weeks at a time, offering me the chance to heal a bit more and steel myself for their return. I realize more and more that grief and joy are inextricably intertwined, and that my ghosts pull me in more closely to the pulse of humanity. In a strange way, I'm grateful for the pain that I live with because it reminds me of my responsibility to be a kind, loving, forgiving person. I figure if I can fulfill that responsibility, then mine will not be a wasted life.