Bottom Line: Ward is not nearly as curmudgeonly as Andy Rooney. She actually knows how to use a computer and shop online, and she writes with clarity and wit.
I picked this book up on one of those super Amazon Kindle sale. I liked the title and am dealing with aging relatives. I have been working on creating a notebook for myself that includes all sorts of useful advice to myself for when I eventually grow old. I encourage myself to get a minimum amount of exercise and to write things down, among other such stellar wisdom. I thought I might glean a thing or two from Lyla Ward's book.
This collection of essays has its share of old-person grumbling about how things used to be simpler, and she's right. I remember when you turned on the TV without a remote and had only a few channels to turn access via the tuner dial. (I know that qualifies me as old in some people's eyes.) Now, I have to have at least two remotes or a computer to watch my shows because I stream so much of my visual entertainment. But besides the complaining, Ward includes some lovely snapshots of her life through the years.
I really enjoyed two of her essays. One was about trying to fit in with the sports/country club set. Ward is not a sportswoman, but through the judicious use of proper "outfitting," she was able to create the illusion that she either had just come from playing a sport or was about to join in a match, game, or set at any moment. Her other essay I really liked was about flower arranging. She uses satire nicely to skewer strange, artistic "individual" centerpieces for dinner parties or other occasions.
This book is easy to read and mostly fun. Ward has an intriguing mind. I enjoy essayists who present a clear voice in their work. I plan to look up more of Ward's writing.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Product Review: Paleo Bread by The Julian Bakery
I'm always on the search for good Gluten-free or Wheat-free bakery goods. When I came across Paleo Bread, I was intrigued and hopeful that I had found something that I could eat as a person allergic to wheat and that my brother, who eats no carbs, could also enjoy.
I ordered the coconut bread with 40 calories a slice. 5 grams of protein and 5 grams of fiber, combined with 6 total carbs yields a net carb value of 1. The Julian Bakery website is easy to navigate and contains two different bread varieties and some recipe ideas.
My bread was shipped two-day air because it has no preservatives. The fiber in the bread comes from psyllium, the gritty husk of a plant, touted for its colon cleansing benefits.
Taking the bread out of the package, I noticed that it is a dense bread with kind of a spongy texture. It also smells kind of weird. I have had gluten-free things smell weird out of the package but be fine once they are cooked.
I toasted a slice of the bread. One bite and I decided maybe a little butter would help. Another bite and I opted for cinnamon and sugar to maybe help with the taste. Nothing was going to conquer the still spongy texture even after toasting. Two more bites and even the cinnamon and sugar couldn't make me finish the piece.
I think the best way to sum up my view of Paleo Bread is to try to recreate the sound I made when I bit it, even after the cinnamon and sugar treatment: Uhhhahhhbluuuggghhyeecchchchchchchahdjhuggjaldmg.....
I ordered the coconut bread with 40 calories a slice. 5 grams of protein and 5 grams of fiber, combined with 6 total carbs yields a net carb value of 1. The Julian Bakery website is easy to navigate and contains two different bread varieties and some recipe ideas.
My bread was shipped two-day air because it has no preservatives. The fiber in the bread comes from psyllium, the gritty husk of a plant, touted for its colon cleansing benefits.
Taking the bread out of the package, I noticed that it is a dense bread with kind of a spongy texture. It also smells kind of weird. I have had gluten-free things smell weird out of the package but be fine once they are cooked.
I toasted a slice of the bread. One bite and I decided maybe a little butter would help. Another bite and I opted for cinnamon and sugar to maybe help with the taste. Nothing was going to conquer the still spongy texture even after toasting. Two more bites and even the cinnamon and sugar couldn't make me finish the piece.
I think the best way to sum up my view of Paleo Bread is to try to recreate the sound I made when I bit it, even after the cinnamon and sugar treatment: Uhhhahhhbluuuggghhyeecchchchchchchahdjhuggjaldmg.....
* * * * * * * * * * * *
That translates to "Horrible, icky, spongy, smelly, I never want to eat this again, and it ranks up there in the top three worst gluten-free bakery goods I have ever tried."Book Review: Call the Midwife by Jennifer Worth
Bottom Line: If you like your memoirs jampacked with graphic details of the physical act of giving birth, then this memoir is just for you.
It doesn't take the reader long to figure out that Ms. Worth is going to treat us to an immersive experience of her years as a midwife in the East End of London in the late 1950s and the 1960s. But, that's not necessarily a bad thing. She doesn't throw details around just to shock or gross us out. The anecdotes are all in purpose of demonstrating a few important key idea.
First, midwives and birthing professionals are important to women and their babies. In the case of some of these East End women, living in condemned buildings but having no other place to go, the midwives were their main and only access to pre and post natal assistance. And some of these women had a baby almost every year. Diseases were spotted and treated, abuse reported, and lives saved because of the work of these midwives. I think the opening chapter serves to show the difficulty of birthing a baby. The chapters on handling breech birth and premature babies reinforce the fact that without the midwives' assistance, both mother and baby might have died.
Second, life is hard, and bringing new life into the world is a very difficult part of it. Worth recounts the conditions under which many of these women and their young children live: poverty, abuse, decrepit and uncared for building that sometimes don't even keep out the rain. She recounts how for many of the women she visits, the only water is cold water piped into the kitchen. If there is a toilet in the apartment, it is also in the kitchen because that's where the pipes are. In America, the 50s and 60s are seen as kind of a Golden Age--think of the glamor of a TV show like Mad Men. In contrast, the East End of London was a place of brothels and bombed-out properties. Many of the large buildings were condemned and therefore not kept up with regular city services, such as garbage removal. They are written off, but at the same time, fully occupied because there was just no place else for the people to go. They couldn't afford the other parts of London.
Spoiler / warning: There is a chapter near the middle of the book where Worth recounts the story of Kate, a young Irish woman who finds herself trapped in prostitution. Worth tells in graphic sexual terms what Kate witnesses at the brothel. It is a small part of the book, but could be disturbing to younger female readers and titillating to male readers.
I liked the book and am glad to have read it, especially now that one of my friends is a Doula. I feel like I understand more about the process of prenatal care, labor, birth, and postnatal needs.
It doesn't take the reader long to figure out that Ms. Worth is going to treat us to an immersive experience of her years as a midwife in the East End of London in the late 1950s and the 1960s. But, that's not necessarily a bad thing. She doesn't throw details around just to shock or gross us out. The anecdotes are all in purpose of demonstrating a few important key idea.
First, midwives and birthing professionals are important to women and their babies. In the case of some of these East End women, living in condemned buildings but having no other place to go, the midwives were their main and only access to pre and post natal assistance. And some of these women had a baby almost every year. Diseases were spotted and treated, abuse reported, and lives saved because of the work of these midwives. I think the opening chapter serves to show the difficulty of birthing a baby. The chapters on handling breech birth and premature babies reinforce the fact that without the midwives' assistance, both mother and baby might have died.
Second, life is hard, and bringing new life into the world is a very difficult part of it. Worth recounts the conditions under which many of these women and their young children live: poverty, abuse, decrepit and uncared for building that sometimes don't even keep out the rain. She recounts how for many of the women she visits, the only water is cold water piped into the kitchen. If there is a toilet in the apartment, it is also in the kitchen because that's where the pipes are. In America, the 50s and 60s are seen as kind of a Golden Age--think of the glamor of a TV show like Mad Men. In contrast, the East End of London was a place of brothels and bombed-out properties. Many of the large buildings were condemned and therefore not kept up with regular city services, such as garbage removal. They are written off, but at the same time, fully occupied because there was just no place else for the people to go. They couldn't afford the other parts of London.
Spoiler / warning: There is a chapter near the middle of the book where Worth recounts the story of Kate, a young Irish woman who finds herself trapped in prostitution. Worth tells in graphic sexual terms what Kate witnesses at the brothel. It is a small part of the book, but could be disturbing to younger female readers and titillating to male readers.
I liked the book and am glad to have read it, especially now that one of my friends is a Doula. I feel like I understand more about the process of prenatal care, labor, birth, and postnatal needs.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe: A review with a remembrance
I chose The Chronicles of Narnia, Book 2: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe as my first book of the new year. There was a practical reason for this choice as I am tutoring a student and needed to refresh my memory of the details of the book. But, even more than that, I wanted to revisit this book that I read way back in my adolescent days.
Some 40 years ago, when I read the Narnia series, I remember not especially liking it, a strange thing in itself because I did like fantasy and science fiction. I think I found the story too heavy-handed with the allegory or the characters too stupid or too unbelievable. I couldn't quite accept Peter as a young kid able to do battle against the White Witch with no training whatsoever. At the time of my youthful reading, it was already well known that the stories were Christian allegories. I had already made my way through John Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, and strangely liked it, but LWW seemed too telegraphed, too predictable somehow.
This time as an adult reader I can appreciate C.S. Lewis's skilled writing. He captures the sensory experiences so clearly and succinctly: "But when the next morning came there was a steady rain falling, so thick that when you looked out of the window you could see neither the mountains nor the woods nor even the stream in the garden." I know what that rain looks and smells and feels like. Now I can see what a sensualist Lewis is, especially apparent in this passage: "Looking into the inside, [Lucy] saw several coats hanging up--mostly long fur coats. There was nothing Lucy liked so much as the smell and feel of fur. She immediately stepped into the wardrobe and got in among the coats and rubber her face against them." And this one from near the end of the book: "...Aslan leaped again. A mad chase began. Round and round the hilltop he led them...now diving between them, now tossing them in the air with his huge and beautifully velveted paws and catching them again...and whether it was more like playing with a thunderstorm or playing with a kitten Lucy could never make up her mind."
I also appreciate the theology more, and now the battle-ready Peter makes sense to me. In Christian theology, God equips his believers with the skills they need to battle the challenges that face them--though in the book only Peter and Edmund fight while Lucy and Susan are more of caretakers. I thought that might be sexism until I realize that Lucy and Susan had followed Aslan out of compassion the night before and were not present at the battle until it was all but over.
I liked the book, simply put. I didn't expect to and probably won't read the rest of the Narnia series, but I enjoyed Lewis' writing immensely.
Some 40 years ago, when I read the Narnia series, I remember not especially liking it, a strange thing in itself because I did like fantasy and science fiction. I think I found the story too heavy-handed with the allegory or the characters too stupid or too unbelievable. I couldn't quite accept Peter as a young kid able to do battle against the White Witch with no training whatsoever. At the time of my youthful reading, it was already well known that the stories were Christian allegories. I had already made my way through John Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, and strangely liked it, but LWW seemed too telegraphed, too predictable somehow.
This time as an adult reader I can appreciate C.S. Lewis's skilled writing. He captures the sensory experiences so clearly and succinctly: "But when the next morning came there was a steady rain falling, so thick that when you looked out of the window you could see neither the mountains nor the woods nor even the stream in the garden." I know what that rain looks and smells and feels like. Now I can see what a sensualist Lewis is, especially apparent in this passage: "Looking into the inside, [Lucy] saw several coats hanging up--mostly long fur coats. There was nothing Lucy liked so much as the smell and feel of fur. She immediately stepped into the wardrobe and got in among the coats and rubber her face against them." And this one from near the end of the book: "...Aslan leaped again. A mad chase began. Round and round the hilltop he led them...now diving between them, now tossing them in the air with his huge and beautifully velveted paws and catching them again...and whether it was more like playing with a thunderstorm or playing with a kitten Lucy could never make up her mind."
I also appreciate the theology more, and now the battle-ready Peter makes sense to me. In Christian theology, God equips his believers with the skills they need to battle the challenges that face them--though in the book only Peter and Edmund fight while Lucy and Susan are more of caretakers. I thought that might be sexism until I realize that Lucy and Susan had followed Aslan out of compassion the night before and were not present at the battle until it was all but over.
I liked the book, simply put. I didn't expect to and probably won't read the rest of the Narnia series, but I enjoyed Lewis' writing immensely.
Friday, September 14, 2012
Sweet Dreams are Made of This: Elegy on Lost Loves, Part 2
Gentle readers of any persuasion, I present to you the most perfect cookie in the world: Petite Ecolier by Lu!!!!
The bottom portion is a perfectly formed butter biscuit in the European tradition. Just sweet enough to count as a dessert, but not gooey or too sweet like so many American cookies. And on top of that perfectly formed butter biscuit sits a slab of chocolate, embossed with the portrait of a schoolboy from an earlier century. They make a milk chocolate version, but I prefer the dark chocolate Noir version with 45% cocoa.
My favorite way to eat them was to nibble a small bite, feeling the snap of the crisp butter biscuit, and letting the cookie and chocolate melt and blend together before a small mash (I wouldn't call it chewing really) prior to swallowing. All of the flavor is released the moment the chocolate reaches the liquid point, so letting the cookie melt in the mouth is the only way to experience its greatness.
Le sigh!
My favorite way to eat them was to nibble a small bite, feeling the snap of the crisp butter biscuit, and letting the cookie and chocolate melt and blend together before a small mash (I wouldn't call it chewing really) prior to swallowing. All of the flavor is released the moment the chocolate reaches the liquid point, so letting the cookie melt in the mouth is the only way to experience its greatness.
Le sigh!
Captain! I Don't Know How Much More the Ship Can Take!
Eleven years and twenty days ago, my mother passed away from complications associated with stage-IV ovarian cancer. For the five years preceding her death, my siblings and I faced a constant string of challenges concerning her care and quality of life.
The seemingly endless undercurrent of stress cut through my life in a unique way, affecting my ability to do my full-time job and then my home schooling responsibilities, and my communication and relationship with my husband and children. It was the first time I found myself in the role of child and caregiver. At the time, I didn't know how I was going to make it through the maze of sorting out the constantly changing details of her care and finances, and the completely unchanging fact that she had terminal cancer unless God intervened in a miraculous way. I muddled through, doing what I could and feeling guilty for everything I didn't do, whether I could actually have performed the task at hand or not.
Now, so many years later, I find that my mother's illness and death were just the beginning of the learning curve for me. In the past four years, I have picked up two other parents, my mother-in-law and stepfather-in-law, as people to whom I am required to give some level of care and attention on a weekly, if not daily, basis. I was managing, mostly, to do an adequate job there and still keep up with my own chosen/homegrown family of husband and two boys. Though, if you ask those I live with, the stress was showing in my fatigue and "stress temper."
This past month, I have accelerated into full overload, and this time, it's not a case of how I am going to make it through, but IF.
My uncle who live 10 hours away by car, through a series of unfortunate events, years of semi-care by medical professionals, and lack of ability for us to be more present fixtures in his life, arrived in front of death's door one Tuesday in late August. We headed out to see what we could do, preparing for the worst. I wrote a rough draft obituary on the plane. The doctors didn't offer much hope and encouraged us to follow his wishes on his medical directive to remove him from life support. Yet, as this was happening, he grew in strength every day, though at a minimal level. We decided to give him a fighting chance.
After a little over three weeks in ICU, he has transferred to another section of the hospital to a lower level of care. But, he still isn't entirely out of danger. He just isn't on life support any more. Every minute of every day, no matter what else is happening, I can't pretend that I don't know his recovery hangs in the balance and that I, as one of the agents on his Medical Power of Attorney and the primary contact for the hospital because I am able to answer my phone during more hours of the day, am somehow tied to this event in an inescapable way.
The stress is having its way with me. My life is different now, much more full, than it was sixteen years ago when we went through a similar journey with my mother. I don't want to whine. No one is shooting at me. My nation isn't in the midst of a violent revolution. I can go to church or not as I please. I have enough money to go to the grocery store and buy what I want from the myriad of choices in each department. But that's all rationality talking there. Stress gets in where the mind fails. It attacks on a deep emotional, physical, and spiritual level.
The usual cures for stress aren't working. Rest: sure, if I can escape the horrific dreams. Exercise: sure, except I've been sick and slightly feverish since returning from the five-day trip to see him in the hospital and direct his care. Diet: sure, when I feel up to eating, which when the hospital calls as I'm cooking dinner seems to ruin my appetite for the evening. Talking to family and friends: sure, and this one has helped a bit, except when people need to hear enough of the story to understand my uncle's plight and then I just don't want to go into all the details again because it sets my heart racing. Finding time for myself: sure, except the older folks in my care have a crisis and there is no one else to help. I can't just let them suffer. Taking it one day at a time: sure, except that rationale only keeps from adding more stress; it doesn't alleviate the stress already bubbling under the surface.
I have hope for many things but it is hard to hold on to.
It's been just under a month, and I am already done in. I don't think I can survive five more years like this.
The seemingly endless undercurrent of stress cut through my life in a unique way, affecting my ability to do my full-time job and then my home schooling responsibilities, and my communication and relationship with my husband and children. It was the first time I found myself in the role of child and caregiver. At the time, I didn't know how I was going to make it through the maze of sorting out the constantly changing details of her care and finances, and the completely unchanging fact that she had terminal cancer unless God intervened in a miraculous way. I muddled through, doing what I could and feeling guilty for everything I didn't do, whether I could actually have performed the task at hand or not.
Now, so many years later, I find that my mother's illness and death were just the beginning of the learning curve for me. In the past four years, I have picked up two other parents, my mother-in-law and stepfather-in-law, as people to whom I am required to give some level of care and attention on a weekly, if not daily, basis. I was managing, mostly, to do an adequate job there and still keep up with my own chosen/homegrown family of husband and two boys. Though, if you ask those I live with, the stress was showing in my fatigue and "stress temper."
This past month, I have accelerated into full overload, and this time, it's not a case of how I am going to make it through, but IF.
My uncle who live 10 hours away by car, through a series of unfortunate events, years of semi-care by medical professionals, and lack of ability for us to be more present fixtures in his life, arrived in front of death's door one Tuesday in late August. We headed out to see what we could do, preparing for the worst. I wrote a rough draft obituary on the plane. The doctors didn't offer much hope and encouraged us to follow his wishes on his medical directive to remove him from life support. Yet, as this was happening, he grew in strength every day, though at a minimal level. We decided to give him a fighting chance.
After a little over three weeks in ICU, he has transferred to another section of the hospital to a lower level of care. But, he still isn't entirely out of danger. He just isn't on life support any more. Every minute of every day, no matter what else is happening, I can't pretend that I don't know his recovery hangs in the balance and that I, as one of the agents on his Medical Power of Attorney and the primary contact for the hospital because I am able to answer my phone during more hours of the day, am somehow tied to this event in an inescapable way.
The stress is having its way with me. My life is different now, much more full, than it was sixteen years ago when we went through a similar journey with my mother. I don't want to whine. No one is shooting at me. My nation isn't in the midst of a violent revolution. I can go to church or not as I please. I have enough money to go to the grocery store and buy what I want from the myriad of choices in each department. But that's all rationality talking there. Stress gets in where the mind fails. It attacks on a deep emotional, physical, and spiritual level.
The usual cures for stress aren't working. Rest: sure, if I can escape the horrific dreams. Exercise: sure, except I've been sick and slightly feverish since returning from the five-day trip to see him in the hospital and direct his care. Diet: sure, when I feel up to eating, which when the hospital calls as I'm cooking dinner seems to ruin my appetite for the evening. Talking to family and friends: sure, and this one has helped a bit, except when people need to hear enough of the story to understand my uncle's plight and then I just don't want to go into all the details again because it sets my heart racing. Finding time for myself: sure, except the older folks in my care have a crisis and there is no one else to help. I can't just let them suffer. Taking it one day at a time: sure, except that rationale only keeps from adding more stress; it doesn't alleviate the stress already bubbling under the surface.
I have hope for many things but it is hard to hold on to.
It's been just under a month, and I am already done in. I don't think I can survive five more years like this.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Sweet Dreams Are Made of This: Elegy on Lost Loves
Hot. Fluffy on the inside. Crispy on the outside, especially around the hole, Just the right amount of sweetness in the yeasty dough mixing with the warm taste of clean oil. Fresh from the fryer and rolled in granulated sugar. Melting in my mouth with goodness. The umami reaction of satisfaction merging with the sweet sugar. The smells of the doughnut shop: batter, oil, sugar, fruit fillings, cream, coffee. The knowing how wonderful that first bite is going to be even before I turn off the car and enter through the door.
I dreamed of doughnuts for the whole first month I became gluten free. I haven't dreamed of them for quite a while now, but last weekend, Mr. Saurus made a stop by Golden Donuts in Azle on the way to other errands. I took one step inside the store and came to a complete stop. I haven't been in a doughnut shop for years, and instantly I was transported back to my old life.
I have always loved donuts, even as a child. In grade school my mexi-american classmates would tease me about my name, calling me doughnut. I didn't mind so much. Doughnuts are wonderful things, and if they want to give me the name of a wonderful thing, I'd take it. My dad used to occasionally make doughnuts by dropping canned biscuits into hot oil. Despite their humble origins, I'd eat those just as readily as the shop-made kind.
My last meal, if I ever were to find myself in that situation, would be a plate of HOT doughnuts, just out of the fryer and rolled in granulated sugar, delivered approximately 4 hours before I was scheduled to depart this material world. I would get to experience one of the world's most glorious creations as my last memory, and by 4 hours, the migraine would be so bad that I would see death as a relief.
This weekend when the Mr. wanted to stop by Golden Donuts I agreed to come along for the ride, but decided not to go in. The loss is still too fresh and the longing too strong. I was sad after last week, actually sorrowful. I didn't realize until then how much I still loved and missed these simple fried breads. I have been sad all week.
I miss you, Doughnuts.
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