Thoughts on ghosting, heart attacks, and the art of a finely made mojito

Okay. So.

Here I am beginning a blog post with both Okay and So. The sure sign a blogger is in a slump and feeling desperate.

Not only have I not been posting for the last, oh, two weeks or so, I haven’t been writing or reading or facebook-ing or any other social media-ing. I might have looked at my email once or twice, but that’s about it.

I’d like say the reason was because I’ve been on a far-away island with endless ceviche and mojitos served by a cabana boy named Liam, an NYU grad who couldn’t make it in the cutthroat world of teaching high school ceramics, so used his latte money to purchase a plane ticket to a far-away island where he’s now a cabana boy serving me damn-fine mojitos and ceviche.

I’d like to say that, but I can’t.

Fact is, my absence was due to a hospital stay. Not by me, but by another member of this household and that, my friends, is why this blog post begins with an Okay and a So. I assure you, had I been the one in the hospital bed, there would have been no occasion for either Okay or So.

But Husband? No. He’s not supposed to be the one in the hospital bed. That was our agreement and I really don’t understand how he missed the memo on that subject, but somehow he did.

Okay. So.

A few weeks ago, on a Saturday morning to be precise, I awake early and begin doing my morning routine, i.e. making tea and talking to myself. Then Husband walks in and says he’s having some heartburn, only he’s also sweaty and clammy and for some reason his left elbow hurts.

“Do you want to go to the hospital?”

“Maybe… I don’t know… It’s probably nothing.”

“Well, I’m going to get dressed just in case.”

Two minutes later...

“Um… yeah, I think we should go.”

“On it!”

Thankfully we live within a very short distance to a hospital and, thankfully, that hospital moved him to another hospital which, thankfully, has a top-notch cardiac unit. An angioplasty and three stents later, he’s doing well and I’m now cooking without salt and minimal fat and beginning blog posts with Okay and So.

All this is to say, when it came to writing and reading blogs, my head just wasn’t in the game. But things are going better now and I’ve got tons of things I could tell you about.

Like, I could tell you about the little chickadees visiting the bird feeder in our backyard, who I’m beginning to suspect are chirping naughty things to each other.

chickadee

Or I could tell you about the nun who visited my office the other day who I swear was in every respect the female version of Tim Conway’s old man.

old man

Or maybe I’ll tell you about the Easter vigil we attended at the convent where Husband, one week from a heart attack mind you, played trumpet and I stood at the ambo (seriously never heard that word before, have you?) and read aloud the “intercessions” and gave a reasonably half-assed impression I knew what I was doing.

Ambo
Presbyterians call them lecterns, Catholics call them ambos. Oh, the things I’m learning.

Instead, what I’ll say is this: I’m sorry for ghosting on you. Now that I’m back, you’ll be hearing from me. I just checked my email and I see several of my blogger buddies have posted… well shit, they posted a lot. I better get reading.

Hey, before I go, if by chance you should meet a cabana boy named Liam, tell him I’m shooting for next April, okay? And tell him if he muddles the mint particularly well, there’ll be a nice tip in it for him. Thanks.

Food, Glorious Food, and the Time I Couldn’t Eat, Part 2

In case you missed Part 1 of this story, start here.

All right, where did I leave off? Oh, yes — I’m on the kitchen floor, having an emotional breakdown over not being able to eat eggs, which I didn’t like anyway.

You know, I’ve always viewed myself as a fairly intelligent person, with refined tastes and more than an average amount of self-control.

hash brownsBut then one day I’m half starved — no, make that fully starved — and there are some leftover hash browns sitting on the kitchen counter. Daughter bought them at Dunkin’ Donuts.

You know the ones, right? The greasy little rounds in a small brown bag, that maybe if you bought them first thing in the morning are fine, but this was midday.

I picked one up, held it to my nose and inhaled deeply. Aaaahhhh … oh, if only … well, maybe a little bite? Just a nibble? — it couldn’t hurt, right? Just a little? Continue reading “Food, Glorious Food, and the Time I Couldn’t Eat, Part 2”

Food, Glorious Food, and the Time I Couldn’t Eat

sound.jpgDo any of you listen to podcasts? I didn’t until recently and wow, I had no idea what I was missing.

My current obsession is Radiolab, from WNYC. If you enjoy learning, just for the sheer joy of learning, check them out.

foodRecently I listened to their episode on the gut. They interviewed Jon Reiner, a James Beard award-winning food writer who wrote The Man Who Couldn’t Eat. In the interview, he recounted the time he was being fed intravenously.

As I was listening, as he described the time he plunged his hands into a chocolate cake because if he couldn’t eat it, he was darn well going to find a way to experience it, I thought, “Holy crap! THIS IS ME!” Continue reading “Food, Glorious Food, and the Time I Couldn’t Eat”