R, if you’re reading this, guess who was at the party tonight, which really was more of a reading than a party:  John, your ex-brother-in-law.  He was brought in to revamp this writers’ group.  Johnny came up to me at the break, recognized me right away and — I don’t know, it was as if he were there waiting for me.  I am so freaked out, in a good way, that — And maybe this is the part where I’m making stuff up but I’ll tell you what, I went from standing in the back because I couldn’t find the fucking place and got there late, to sitting up front with John and being introduced to all the readers.  Then I met his buddy, the new guy in charge.  After everyone had read they took me to meet the teacher whose class I’ll be taking.  Talk about dialed in.

I almost gave up and came home.  I had an address but it wasn’t where I thought it was.  They have purchased a house in Southeast, which they call the “center.”  I had been driving up and down in the dark, looking for some sort of hall.  Thank God I didn’t dress up in my costume.  I found this house, crept up to the front door because I could see people in chairs.  I was standing there, peering through the window, when John’s friend, Pat, the new man in charge, opened the door and welcomed me in.  It was packed and there were no chairs left so I stood in the hallway with Pat and we listened to the poet read. 

This was no party.  I tried to remember the write-up about it.  I remember alcohol, maybe food.  Nothing about chairs and reading. But the poets were good and the audience was 75% male, mostly my age.  At the break John appeared, and from then on it was smooth sailing.  The really trippy part about all this is that it was John.  John’s older brother is my ex-husband’s oldest friend.  He and Henry just got back from a week-long sailing trip.  When we were first married, R and John’s older brother were our best friends.  And there are other reasons this seems beyond coincidental.  All I know is I’m supposed to be there.

I can hardly contain myself; I hit the jackpot tonight.  Most Saturday nights I drive across the river to this coffee shop where they have great chocolate chip cookies and an open mic.  It’s always an unusual assortment of proud parents and budding musicians.  I think I might have mentioned the night an 85-year-old woman played keyboard. 

 

When it was still warm out I would bring Bridget, and we’d hit the dog park after.  So I didn’t stay long, usually.  Tonight was different.  In the dark, through the window, I was surprised to see a packed house but no teenagers milling around out front.  I parked and went in to find a group of men and women MY AGE.  A guy was reading poetry, and the girl who sold me the cookie whispered “they’re writers.  This is a fundraiser.”

 

I took a bite of what has to be the best cookie recipe ever and turned to survey the audience.  The men were clean and healthy, the women were wholesome and happy.  One after another, they’d get up and read beautiful, funny, clever poems and prose.  They all seemed to know and like each other. 

 

What had to be a proud parent sat in front and to the left of me, her daughter next to her.  The daughter was my age and had clogs on, too.  Her mother was wearing one of those Scandinavian ski sweaters that are unaffordable.  I bet anything she knit it herself.  I couldn’t see her eyes but she wore a permanent smile.  Everyone laughed at the funny parts, and the professor shed a tear as he read about his dead cousin.  It was like if you all showed up.  Well, it wasn’t that good, but it was nice to be around like-minded people.

 

When it was over the woman who co-sponsored it and whose work I thought best introduced herself, and we talked about the writing community here.  My radar was going nuts when she mentioned a writers group.  I ran home and looked it up. It’s FIVE MINUTES from my house and the teachers are all published.   This session is just ending but there’s a party tomorrow night.  I’m considering showing up in a bellydance costume.

 

I looked at my calendar today and remembered just a few weeks ago when I’d wondered why there was nothing on it.  Now it’s completely filled up.  So many things are coming my way lately and they all seem important.  I have this feeling like I gotta jump on this stuff.  I’m starving for information and it just keeps coming.  I want to tell you about the stock market and my financial classes but this is already too long.

I am having THE best time lately.  I don’t think I mentioned the class I took with my middle daughter, the one on growing and using medicinal herbs.  It was taught by a young man who I adore.  He is so enthusiastic, a great writer, really kind and good natured, funny and I love his looks.  Too bad he’s so young.  What is it with me and guys in their 30s?

Anyway, the class was held at a local farm that donated their land to the city, and they teach community ed classes, along with renting out garden plots.  We listened to a lecture with much sharing from the students who were gardeners and knew a little about herbs.  Then, after our potluck — You should have seen the food people brought — we went outside to gather herbs and berries, to make a flavored vinegar, and this root called ella campaign (that’s how he pronounced it, I’m too lazy to look it up) which he dug up to get the root.  We ran out of time so I didn’t get to see him make the tincture.  But we did have time to make lavender honey.  It is so good and we all got high off the lavender, all of us sitting around stripping the flowers, filling our little jars.

I followed this one older lady all around the farm, asking questions.  I think her name was Sharon.  She reminded me of a white-haired Buddha woman with her round face and knowing smile, wrapped in an expensive but durable looking shawl.  She hardly had any hair and looked ancient but she was the most passionate person there.  She’d read everything and made all kinds of salves and tinctures.  I wish I’d gotten her number because when I got home I looked out in my backyard and realized I was a fool to be thinking about selling an acre of organic land.  I should be growing herbs.  I should be an herbalist.  Just the word tincture turns me on.

I emailed Andy and requested that woman’s number.  He hasn’t responded.  I started fantasizing about how I could take my potions and sell them up the street at the Whole Foods place.  I could write off some of my household expenses.  Then I got online and found an accredited school here in Portland where you can get a master herbalist degree in two years.  Get this, each summer they study abroad.  Last year it was Greece, the year before they went to Provence.  It’s $1900 for classes, room and board.  She was quick to point out that included wine.  I think it was for a month.  I don’t know that I could justify that expense but I can’t quit thinking about it.  This is the first thing I’ve wanted to do since court reporting.  I just don’t know that this would be at all lucrative.  But I’d be doing something to make the world a better place and I could grow plants that were wonderful.  The school is having an open house next week.  They have a garden there and teach you how to grow the herbs as well.  My daughter says she wants to come, too.  We got all excited, she talking about the advertising and me talking about the tinctures.  I could write about this stuff, too.  And maybe I could heal my oldest.

Last night I took her to a vegetarian dessert class.  It was taught by the same guy whose tofu class I attended.  We sampled and learned how to make chocolate pudding using millet instead of flour.  Then we tried lemon pound cake with groat (whole oats) flour and tofu.  And he made chocolate chip cookies and a vanilla pudding with a hint of peanut butter.  The best was a chocolate pudding made out of wild rice, but a lot of people liked the brownies made from groats.  He put flax seed in the baked stuff which I think I’d skip.  The heat kills the good stuff anyway.

Today, this same daughter and I went to the movies.  I recommend Elizabethtown.  I don’t think that’s two words.  The sound track is great and the movie was cute. 

I have to brag.  Now that I’m keeping this house I can do things my way.  Like I can use funky colors on the walls and linoleum in the kitchen instead of fancy stuff.  I got these big pruning shears and went to town on the rhodies.  For some reason I had been intimidated by those hundred-year-old bushes but once I got the hang of it I was really glad I didn’t hire someone.  So what if this house is big and I’m just one person.  If I’m working out of it I need a little more space.  I even have a greenhouse with electricity. 

You know the really bizarre thing is that the previous owner was a dermatologist and he invented this cream.  What if he was growing the herbs and making the cream right here?  How cool would that be to pick up where he left off?

I have to be careful as I have a tendency to make stuff up.  Do any of you know an herbalist?  Do they make any money? 

Yesterday my oldest had exploratory surgery on her bladder.  Last month it was the same thing with her ovaries.  This has been going on since March and watching her go through much of the same stuff I’ve done has been difficult.  Even though she acts like she’s the toughest one of the three I feel the most protective with her. 

The fact that she’s 24, and they have this little thing called HIPPA, makes communication with the doctors almost impossible.  Pretty much the only time I get a straight answer or any information, for that matter, is when the doctor meets me in the waiting room after the surgery.  After that it’s whatever my daughter tells me.  And, because she goes back and forth between the urologist and the gynecologist and their assorted nurses and she’s on pain meds, the feedback is confusing and, at times, conflicting.

When you have breast cancer you are the driving force of “the team.”  You choose your treatment, and your feedback is taken seriously.  I forgot how at the mercy of the system you are with the rest of the medical community.  And that is why, with the exception of my oncologist and surgeons, I stick with Eastern medicine.

My daughter was hoping he would find something yesterday but he didn’t.  When I told her the news she wept.  I suspect it’s the scar tissue growing back on the outside of the bladder but I didn’t say anything because there’s nothing she can do about that.  The gynecologist cut all of it off but it can grow back. 

I would be curious to know if any of you have had a similar experience or know of someone who has.  This child’s appendix ruptured when she was 11.  They couldn’t figure out what was going on with her and she almost died.  Because there was so much infection and it took so long to heal she developed lots of scar tissue.  When he got in there he found her entire abdomen was covered.  All her organs were encased with this scar tissue.  They also found some endometriosis.  The confusing part to me is that in our little meeting after her surgery he didn’t say one thing about finding or removing any of the endometriosis.  He sent her home with lots of pain meds and hormones that will prevent her from ever having a period again.  You can imagine my concern as I and my mother and my grandmother, my ex’s mother and his mother have all had breast cancer.  Last week I saw a patient after her mastectomy who was just my daughter’s age.

Yesterday’s surgery was all the more frightening to wait through after writing about my “Worst Experience Ever.”  Especially when I got a look at her anesthesiologist.  I’m sorry if any of you out there is one or is married to one but why are they always so creepy looking?  Yesterday’s guy just looked ghoulish and I came so close to saying, “If you give my daughter anything weird I will make your life a living hell.”

Mostly I’m supposed to be the driver and keep my mouth shut.  I should be playing nurse but it’s Tuesday so I’m off to the hospital.

My Worst Experience

 

It’s taken me several days to get up my nerve.  We’ll see if I can manage to get through the telling of something that still scares me to think about.

 

It was 1998 and I was still married.  I had had my first mastectomy just months before, and back then they were still putting in the expander at the same time they took the breast.  That’s if you chose reconstruction, which I did.  I came home from the hospital and instead of a breast I had a plastic balloon in my chest and every week I’d go to the doctor for a fill-up.  They’d inject so many CCs of saline into the balloon, slowly stretching out the taut skin.  Believe me, this was painful.  I’d have to lie on my back the first couple nights with pillows on my side so I wouldn’t roll.  Finally, after weeks of these fill-ups, I was a C cup.  All that remained was to get this balloon out and put the real implant in.  We scheduled the surgery and my husband decided he’d just remain at the hospital, this being an in-and-out day surgery.

 

I was really excited to get my implant and be done with all of it.  I didn’t need chemo and all I could think of was that I would finally be able to fill out those bellydance costumes.  I’d had a lot of surgery over the years and wasn’t at all worried about the anesthetic.  My plastic surgeon did most of the breast jobs at this hospital and I knew he did good work.

At 7:30 they wheeled me into surgery and when I came to it was 9:30.  I know because I was lying in a hallway and the clock was above me, across the hall. 

 

Something wasn’t right.  I’d never woken up in a hallway before.  I was supposed to be in my room.  Something else wasn’t right, things were spinning.  It was an intolerable sensation but I couldn’t talk to explain.  I was fully conscious but my mouth didn’t work.  And I found being conscious something I wasn’t going to be able to handle. 

 

Do you remember when you were a little kid and you rode on the – It wasn’t the merry-go-round because there were no painted horses or zebras.  But you stood and hung onto the bar and someone bigger pushed it.  It was a round metal platform and if you stood out, close to the edge, it was thrilling.  That is until someone’s big brother decided to scare my little friend and me.  I was going so fast I almost fell off.  But what I remember most was the feeling like I’d lost my balance and couldn’t get it back; that I was spinning out of control, unable to get my bearings.

 

I looked at the clock.  Something had woken me again.  It said 10:00.  My doctor was standing over me.  He leaned in and put his hand on my leg.  This was not good.  This made it worse. 

           
            “Don’t touch me.”

            “Are you okay?”

            “No.”

            “What’s the matter?”

            “Can’t talk.”

 

He left me alone after that.  But just that much contact – It was like he and the hospital surroundings were moving at one speed and I was in another dimension whirling out of control at a another speed and his touch accentuated my awareness of the distance between the two.  I couldn’t cry out for help.  I had to get back to sleep.  I desperately wanted to leave my body.  

 

I had taken a drumming class the week before and learned a new rhythm.  For some reason I started playing the rhythm over and over in my mind.  This seemed to help keep the panic at bay.  I had the feeling that I was dangerously close to losing my mind; that it would whirl out of control at this same dangerous pace, the one I couldn’t keep up with.  Over and over I said the words Dum, Dum, teck-a-teck, Dum, teck-a-teck.  It’s pronounced doom.

 

The next time I came to it was 11:30.  The really horrible part was that I knew it typically took me five hours to come out of an anesthetic.  A nurse was trying to rouse me and I pretended to go back to sleep but I was overwhelmed with nausea.  I didn’t dare throw up.  It would be like the doctor touching me.  Then the nurse would be trying to deal with me.  No, I had to get back to my safe place.  I had three more hours to go.  Tears started rolling down my cheeks.  I had to get myself together.  Just one more hour.  If I could make it to 12:30 I would be more than half-way there. 

 

I shouldn’t have let up on the drumming.  I knew if I didn’t stay on top of it my mind would fall back into what was happening.  I had to keep myself distracted and go to that other place.  I could make it last a whole hour and not be conscious.  The next time a nurse bothered me it was 1:30.  I only had one more hour to go but the nausea was still bad.  I took a chance and opened my eyes when she talked to me.

 

Big mistake.  More tears.

           

            “Prudy, are you feeling better?”

            “Nauseous.”

            “Can I give you something for it?”

            “Can’t move.”

            “You could use a straw.”

            “Okay.”

           

I knew it was a gamble but the spinning wasn’t as bad as the nausea at this point so I went for it.  As long as I didn’t move or talk or think.  She put it in my mouth and held the straw and I swallowed. 

 

            “Let me sleep for one hour.”

            “Do you want to be moved to your room”

           

More tears as I panicked at the thought of my bed moving even a centimeter.

 

            “No movement.  I’m spinning.  Can’t talk.  Must sleep.

              Please.”

 

Christ, I shouldn’t have opened my eyes.  Now I can’t get back to that place.  I’ll have to lay here counting the minutes, trying not to throw up.

 

Somehow I made it and they let my husband come get me.  The next time I saw my doctor he told me it was the strangest thing, it was like I was in a trance.  He thought it was amusing that I “hissed” “don’t touch me.”

 

I told him I’d had a reaction to the anesthetic and explained what it felt like.  He said it might have been because he sat me up a bunch of times to see how the implant laid.  Then he ended up taking the smaller size out and going with a bigger one.  How he got me in a sitting position while I was unconscious I don’t know.

 

It wasn’t until I was diagnosed with breast cancer a second time and had to have the other breast removed that I found out what really happened to me.

 

It was the night before my second mastectomy and I had been flipped out since they’d told me I’d need another surgery.  I could not face another five hours like that again.  I didn’t have it in me.  The anesthesiologist called and I was explaining about what had happened.  He assured me he would look up my chart from the time before and not give me whatever that was.  The next morning when he came in to introduce himself he sat down and told me that I had been given an anesthetic that hundreds of women had had a bad reaction to.  He described it as psychotic reaction these patients had.  Yeah, I could imagine the screaming and carrying on people might be inclined to do.  And all that time I thought it was something wrong with me.  I had them take the left breast off and the implants, too.  I was done.  No more.

 

If you know someone who has had a mastectomy and is considering reconstruction, my advice is don’t do it.  And not because of this horror story.  But that’s a whole ‘nother story.

Yup, I did it.  Last year, my first, I was reluctant but for different reasons.  This year I know what I’m getting into and realize how much of a commitment it is.  But this year I have last year’s novel under my belt and this year’s a third of the way done.  I just can’t wait to see that blue bar again.  Last year I ceased worrying about getting the full 1600 words a day done and let myself edit.  Not sure how I’ll operate this year.

I have been attending financial classes on Wednesday nights, and I can’t tell you what a c__t this teacher is.  I went tonight, even though it was about mutual funds, which I have no interest in now, just to see her in action again.  First, take into consideration that she’s a broker.  Then figure in that she’s way smarter than the average.  Add to that a big weight problem and you have an ultra-aggressive person with a chip on her shoulder.

Her goal is to confuse, along with making investing seem really hard and scary.  Another thing she does is discount other firms and shows like “Mad Money,” my new favorite.  TonyTovar, if you’re reading, what show do you recommend?  I can’t seem to get up at 5:00a.m.  Anyway, one of the husbands (there are lots of husband/wife teams) called her out on some of this and — This was the most interesting thing she did — she perked up.  Maybe I’m psychic but I swear it was like she knew something was coming and she was glad to have it over with.  She sailed right on by it and you could tell she blithely deals with pissed-off people all the time; doesn’t pay any mind to it.  She digs the power.  I bet she gets off on people’s anger.  Yeah, maybe that was it.  The guy WAS a pretty big asshole, the way he went about it.

Sooo, that’s about all I’ve been up to.  My ex is engaged ( yeah, Marcie, he popped the question while they were walking on the beach.  I’m dying to know if he’s having her sign a prenup)  I’m meeting with him to sign the final papers on the beach lot in two weeks and for some reason I’m wanting to look my best.  Up to now he’s been leaving all the paperwork in his mailbox so we haven’t seen each other for a year or so.  I’ve been dreaming about him lately, the way he used to be.  I wouldn’t be surprised if he were dreaming about me, too.  Because I’m getting a lot of energy coming from his direction.

Go sign up for Nano.  The fun begins at the stroke of midnight on Halloween.

About the dog.  The male dog who found his way into my yard was a brief encounter.  When it came time to look for a puppy I tried to buy another Brittany.  I found the perfect litter and had my heart set on the last remaining male.  But some little shit beat me to it.  He was ten.

That’s when I saw the ad for German Shorthairs and remembered that cool dog.  Kathy is the only reader I know of who has had a G.S. and knows what I’m talking about.  They are like no other dog I’ve known.  They think they are on equal footing for some reason.  Literally.  Bridget is almost as comfortable on her hind legs as I am (on mine)

When I go into the kitchen to make something she is right there with me, standing side by side, with her paws on the counter, using them like hands.  I tell her time after time to get down but I have to admit I am amused by her always wanting to get into the act.  She loves to watch me cook.  And it’s not because I feed her any of it.

It just about kills her when I don’t let her go with me in the car.  My Brittany sat in the back and if it looked like I was going to stop the car she’d sit up and take note of where we were but otherwise she never looked.  Bridget STANDS on the front seat with her head on the dash, navigating from her side.  I don’t think she trusts my driving.  

At home she watches my every move.  When I’m at the computer, the minute I take my glasses off she is at my feet waiting to see what’s next.  At first it drove me crazy but I’m getting used to it. 

  When she knows she’s coming with me she sits by the door, barely able to contain herself.  While I fetch my keys and coat, these desperate whimpers become a full cry as she bolts through the door.  She races through the driveway but instead of getting into the car she tears through the front yard, which is roughly half an acre, speeding from her favorite bird-watching spot under the wisteria tree at the far edge of the yard, back across to the opposite end, inside the neighbor’s hedge.  This goes on, back and forth, until I start to get irritated with the wait.  Then instead of dashing into the hedge she circles the car and hurls herself into the backseat, crashing into the back of what she considers her seat, nimbly jumping into the front.  Rather than sitting, while she waits for me to start the car, she does a half sit with her butt up against the back. 

She is the strongest, fastest dog I have ever had.  To see her in the field is a sight to behold.  She leaps through brush like a rabbit, running just to run.  She will go full tilt for the whole hour our walk takes and not tire.  I’ve yet to see a dog outrun her.  But when I take her to dog parks and she gets into these running matches it pisses some of the dogs off.  And then she gets competitive.  Kathy, if you’re reading this, is that typical?  My dog can get really aggressive.  And when I get crazy and dance around with her she gets really worked up and starts doing body slams into my legs.  She’s a wild thang.

The gusto with which this dog lives life makes me laugh, and the way she always wants to snuggle melts my heart but when she starts walking around the kitchen on two legs like she does, it’s just weird.  But that’s my Bridget.

Maybe you saw; eneventure, who I’m fond of, has tagged me to do the five-weird-things-about-you thing.  I’ve seen those on other’s sites and enjoy a chance to better get to know people but each time thought I wouldn’t want to think about my weirdness for other’s entertainment.  The other problem being I tell you every damn thing so I’d have to dig to come up with five things you don’t already know.  But I’ll try.

I’ve noticed a compulsion to neaten the cards throughout a card game or straighten my papers, in meetings where people have their stuff in front of them.  Even though my house is a mess.

I have no concept of money or what I should or shouldn’t be spending.  I mean I am diligent lately about watching my stocks go up and down and I stay away from stores and restaurants but the minute someone asks me to go someplace or I need something, money seems to be no object.  And the weird part is that I can’t tell if I’m spending too much.  I can’t bring myself to come up with a budget. 

I’m pretty sure I need a brake job on my car but I’m pretending I don’t.  It’s like I’m waiting to see if they just go out one day.

I have this dog now that I’m stuck with for life.  I can’t figure out what our deal is.  I know I’m supposed to have her because one day a German Shorthair appeared in my backyard.  I have a fenced backyard.  How he got in there I don’t know.  And he was quite skittish.  You remember my old Brittany, Bella.  Well she was thrilled to have company but this dog was even standoffish with her.  Regal he was, but lost.  I sat down on the forest floor and waited, Bella at my side.  And ever so slowly he approached.  He wanted the contact but didn’t trust me.  Finally he rested his hip against my shoulder and looked the other way.  When he turned to stare at me I saw a presence in his face that I’d never seen in a dog.  And that’s why I have Bridget. 

I’m the most sexual person I know yet I don’t give a hoot about having a man now.  Why?  I’m 55, it’s not like I have a lot of years left where I can still wear lingerie.  But I have this very strong sense that now’s not the time.  What am I waiting for?  Who am I waiting for?

That’s five.  I don’t know that I’d classify them as weird but I’m aware that other people don’t operate like I do.  And I broke out in a sweat at one point so I guess this was productive.

Fun, fun, and more fun.  I don’t know what’s going on but something’s shifted.  I’m more engaged with life, with people.  First Anthony came to town and on his way to the beach he stopped to spend the morning.  Then — And this part wasn’t fun — I spent the day with my oldest who spilled hot tea in her lap while she was driving.  Had to pull over to the side of the road and rip her skirt off.  With it came the skin.  Yeah.  Emergency room for five hours.  Whew, that was gut AND heart-wrenching.  That kind of pain, especially when it’s your child’s, is just awful to witness.  But with 30 Percuset she’s making it through.

Back to the fun.  Then Anthony came back and spent the night.  It was the first time he’s done that because he’s always had this girlfriend living in Salem.  So he’d stay with her.  We had the best time.  I took him to the wine bar, the only place I thought he might be comfortable.  He can’t deal with cigarette smoke and they don’t allow smoking.  The guys I’ve dated or hung out with lately have all had allergies.  Then I took him for a late-night walk in the neighborhood.  We’d eaten at the Peruvian place and the food was a little on the heavy side.  Good though.  After the walk he watched sports and I got on Xanga.  So comfortable.

Thursday I went to my oncology appointment.  And she got my vein first try.  Woot, as they say.  But the big excitement is that my blood work was great.  The reason I’m pretty excited is that IT’S BEEN FIVE FUCKING YEARS.  Yeah, count ‘em; 5!!!!  So it’s been eight on the right and five on the left.  My odds just went WAY UP.

Then I went to weight watchers and I’d lost two pounds.  Marla and I and maybe two others we hang with there are talking about planning a Christmastime dinner out where we all wear something special.  I’m going to wear this suit I bought for the divorce, in case we went to court.  It doesn’t look much like a suit you’d wear to court but it was so beautiful and marked down 50%.  Gorgeous, eggplant, brocade jacket and gabardine slacks — The pants came long, unhemmed and I’ve been afraid to choose a length.  But now I’m ready. 

Today, I decided to move all the winter stuff back into my bedroom closet and take all the summer stuff out, over to the little bedroom closet.  But this year I put all my good clothes, the stuff I’d wear to shows, in there, too.  I went to my acupuncturist this week and he said something to me about choices and choosing what kind of person we want to be.  I decided I was ready to be the elegant kind, again.  I’m dressed up now, waiting for my middle daughter.  We’re going out to dinner.

This morning she and I took Bridget for a walk down by the river and I could tell my daughter loved it there.  She balks at the drive over but I’m halfway between the oldest-one’s apartment, where the middle one is staying, and the oldest-one’s boyfriend where my oldest has been living, unbeknownst to my ex.  Well, I think he knows.  She keeps asking him for permission and he always says he’ll cut her off if they get a place together.  Thank God he’s looking the other way and kept her apartment, so the middle one has a place to sleep.  She doesn’t want to live here or with her dad and I don’t think she would have moved back here without her sister’s apartment being available.  My kids are probably going to be fucked up for life with all the choices they’ve had.

 

Ohhh, yeah.  Coconut oil is some goooood shit.  I opened the jar and was hit with the same sensation I had upon opening my first coconut.  But I was a kid so I guess it wasn’t “I.”  It said to use 1 T and in that I sauteed one carrot, one half of a yellow onion, and 1/2 of a large, red bell pepper, all sliced.  Actually I put the carrot in first, with a cut-up chicken breast and then added the rest.  When it was almost cooked I put in a couple cloves of garlic and salt and pepper.  Then I added 1/2 T curry powder, let that brown and deglazed with enough chicken stock to make a very thin sauce.  I had some leftover, cooked noodles and threw those in to absorb the stock and let that simmer a few minutes.  The noodles thickened it a little and absorbed most of the stock.  This isn’t good enough to save as a recipe but it gives you an idea of how to use it.  Normally, I use flour and milk with a curry but I’m trying not to use milk these days.  I’m going to try yogurt next time.  The important discovery I made tonight was how good the coconut oil was with the curry.  I’ve never had curry taste this good.  The two marry and become a third taste.

About olive oil.  Anam asked, and I will tell you what I read.  Extra- virgin olive oil is 78% mono-unsaturated fat, with 8% poly- and 14% saturated.  It is unrefined and high in antioxidants and polyphenols that decrease the bad cholesterol (LDL) but don’t decrease the good (HDL).  It should not be stored near the stove as it will go rancid.  Get your pan hot first, and then pour the oil in and immediately get the food in there.  It’s best to buy “cold pressed.”  Don’t get “light.” 

Olive oil is low in omega-3s, though, so I am going to try using canola and get organic, which is less refined.  You can get it hot, it’s bland, it’s cheap, and it has a longer shelf life.  It must taste bad. 

The walnut oil I bought and was so excited about I didn’t know I was supposed to refrigerate.  Even in the fridge it only lasts three months.  It’s almost as high as flaxseed in omega-3s, though.  But flaxseed oil can take no heat.  Have you ever tried drinking that stuff?  Blech!