Tag Archives: husband

Saga of the CPAP

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“You want me to put KY jelly up my nose?” I asked.

“Basically, yes,” the tech replied.

It was my first appointment getting a CPAP machine. The tech who fitted the mask warned me of possible nasal irritation and suggested I use a “non-petroleum personal lubricant.” Hence my question.

For those not in the know, CPAP machines are the best solution for sleep apnea, which occurs when you stop breathing multiple times during the night. It can be just as serious as it sounds. Snoring and feeling exhausted all day (which I had) are some of the symptoms, and being overweight is one of the contributing factors (which I must admit to).

I was diagnosed after going through a sleep study with assorted wires glued all over my head and body. I had to sleep like that, if I could. I brought along a stuffed bunny to help. (The tech who applied the wires quizzed me—did I know what EKG meant? Yes, I did. Did I know what EEG meant? Yes, I did. Did I know what EGG meant. “Egg,” I replied, evidently the first person ever to get it right. But I digress.)

It was thus determined that I do indeed have sleep apnea. (Or at least hypopnea, a slightly milder version, from the roots “hypo” for low and “pnea” for breathing. Think “hypoglycemia” and “pneumonia.” Now I digress pedantically.)

I was then fitted for the CPAP machine, which consists of a box and a mask. The box blows air rhythmically into your nose while you sleep, thus forcing you to breathe. The mask channels the air into your nose, along with the smell of whatever you had for dinner, if your bedroom is just above the kitchen, which ours is.

The first CPAP machine I got had a tattletale chip in it to record whether I was using it or not. They were in awe when they discovered that I used it even when napping.

Actually, my husband has the full-blown version of sleep apnea and started using a CPAP before I did. His snoring was prodigious as well. He could wake both of us when he really got going. The two of us together created a racket that would raise the dead, if we didn’t both die from sleep apnea first.

He has more trouble with his mask than I do, and his problem can’t be solved with a popular sexual aid. For some reason, probably the stress he puts on them, the straps get tangled, and the plastic parts break. He’s always asking me to untangle or tighten the straps. Sometimes I have to adjust them in the middle of the night when I can’t see well. Inevitably, I velcro the straps to his hair, which is curly enough to be the loops to the hooks.

We take our CPAPs with us whenever we travel. It’s a hassle. The air pressure machine, the hose, and the mask take up half the space in a carry-on. There are smaller ones, including one that’s no bigger than a small bandaid but is way too expensive. Besides, I’d have to go through another sleep study to get a prescription for a new CPAP. My bunny’s up for it, but I’m not.

The Joy of Napping

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Dibujo de una nia en la cama preparada para dormir, es de noche, se est tapando con una manta mientras sonrie

Robert Fulghum tells us that he learned everything he needed to know in kindergarten. I can’t go all the way with him on #1—Share everything—especially when it comes to Facebook, but I’m a solid believer in #12—Take a nap every afternoon. (Well, and #9—Flush.)

I love naps—the sensual pleasure of snuggling into my bed in a cozy little nest of pillows, sheets, and blankets; the quiet purr of the fan and the cat who perches on my hip; the knowledge that, for a time, I can let go of the cares of the day; the promise of renewed spirit and energy; the satisfaction of turning off my phone.

Two of the best ways that I know of improving my mood are having a meal and taking a nap. The one often follows closely on the other, a phenomenon I am told is called “postprandial torpor.” (I’ve often wished I could call in sick to work and claim that affliction. Or “rhinotillexomania.” They sound so serious. But if anyone at your workplace knows Latin, you’re busted. (Which they actually did at one place I worked.) But I digress.)

Naps, however, are part of the reason that I can no longer work regular hours in a regular office. I find that bosses get upset if you take the phrase “break room” too literally. In the past, I’ve contemplated keeping a sleeping bag under my desk, but that would never work. Let’s face it—I snore. Prodigiously. Someone would be sure to notice, and object. (When I was traveling with my mother, she used to beg me to let her get to sleep before I nodded off. But I digress again.)

Fortunately, I work at home, so breaks and naps are entirely my own choice, except in case of deadlines. The transition from desk chair to bed is easy. I’m usually already wearing my jammies, and the commute is just up the stairs. (I can’t nap on the couch. It’s too uncomfortable. I used to be able to nap face-down on an airline tray table. This was useful because the flight attendant, seeing me, would think I was dead and leave me alone for the rest of the flight for fear of alarming the other passengers. But I digress yet again.)

Unfortunately, I’m not able to take “cat naps”—a misnomer if I ever heard one. My cats sleep on average 18 hours a day, and invariably right where a human wants to walk or sit. One of my cats even snores—daintily, but audibly. And no, it’s not a purr. (We’ve been thinking of getting a tiny CPAP machine for her, but we think she’d object to the mask. And cats have unpleasant ways of making their objections known. If you have a cat, you know what I mean. But I digress some more.)

Short, 20-minute naps do me no good. They don’t refresh me at all. In fact, they leave me more muddle-headed than ever. But the real reason I can’t take short naps is that it often takes me 20 minutes or more, usually of reading, to fall asleep. Since that’s the case, it’s hardly worth sleeping less than an hour or two.

But some of the time, even two hours of napping doesn’t do the job. Hence I have invented the Mega-Nap, of at least four hours. Mega-Napping doesn’t usually interfere with my nighttime sleep, either. On one memorable occasion, I Mega-Napped for a good six hours, and woke at 9:30 p.m., just in time to go back to bed and sleep for another 10 hours, giving the cats a run for their snoozes. I also suffer from Nap Attacks, when I hit the wall—hard— and simply must nap, collapse into a heap, or bite someone’s head off. Napping is usually the wisest choice.

With apologies to Robert Fulghum, I do see one glaring difference between kindergarten naps and grown-up naps. Children resist them and resent them and get cranky when they have to take one. Adults seek them and savor them and get cranky if they can’t have one.

Yes, No, and OMG NO!

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Sometimes I’m like a toddler who turns up her nose at any new food. Sometimes I’m like a teenager who will eat anything that doesn’t move. But I have my rules.

“Yes” foods. I will eat (and have eaten) sushi, octopus, eel, snails, and goat. (I first ate sushi when it was impossible to refuse, hand-made by my martial arts instructor’s wife.) I even once ate a raw oyster, though it just tasted briny. Now that I’ve at least tried it, I have no desire to do it again. It was the texture I objected to, and raw oysters pretty much have only one texture—slimy. (You may say that octopus, eel, and snails all have a slimy texture, but not if they’re prepared correctly. Octopus can be gelatinous or rubbery if you under- or overcook it, but is tender and toothsome if cooked for the right length of time. Eel is great when barbecued. Snails have the texture of chicken gizzards, which I learned to eat as a child, and have a flavor just like scampi because they’re served in garlic butter. But I digress. At length.)

“No” foods. My husband trained himself to like okra just so he could say he’ll eat anything. Except veal. He has humanitarian concerns about veal. I say good for him! But not good for me. I won’t eat okra no matter how it’s cooked. I just can’t get over the combination of slimy and hairy textures of okra.

Mustard is another of my nos. I had to tell my husband a reason I didn’t like it so he would stop bugging me to “just try it.” I told him that it tasted metallic. I did manage honey mustard dressing that I couldn’t avoid on a salad, but I didn’t enjoy it. (I once had dinner at a sushi restaurant with a group of people. The high point of the evening was when a husband asked his wife, “Do you really want me to tell the kids you wouldn’t even try it?” Her glare was positively poisonous. But I digress some more.)

Brussels sprouts were a big no for me until I had them in Slovenia. I didn’t know enough Slovenian (none, that is) to ask for the recipe, but they were delicious. We’ve tried roasting them and sprinkling them with parmesan cheese, and they’re tolerable that way, but I still long for the Slovenian version, whatever it was.

Most of my aversions are governed by texture. For instance, I never cared for egg salad because it’s too often mushy. (One time I ate mushy egg salad because it was impossible not to. My sister’s MIL served the sandwiches to us as we were passing through the area. My husband finally made it agreeable by the simple technique of making it chunky rather than pureeing it with an immersion blender or, as we refer to it, a motor boat. But I digress again.)

“OMG NO!” food. Liver-and-onions is the one food I can’t eat no matter how it’s prepared or how I try. And boy, have I tried. My mother used to serve it pretty regularly when I was a kid. She finally gave up on trying to get me to eat it when I literally (not figuratively) gagged on it, which upset the rest of the family’s dining pleasure. I feel that since I actually did try it in childhood, I’m under no obligation to try it again. I know tastes can change with age, but gagging isn’t likely to. I just hope I never get into a situation where the only polite thing to do is to try it.

Munchy Memories

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Food is one of the most powerful ways to evoke memory. Just the smell of biscuits or chocolate chip cookies can take you right back to your mother’s or grandmother’s kitchen. Food is a trigger—a pleasant one—that helps you recall warm feelings and better times. In other words, food and the past are intimately intertwined. I have lots of that kind of food associations.

When my husband’s friend John and I used to go on what we called a “hot date,” we would invariably go to a diner and then thrift shopping. Maybe a bag of M&Ms to share for dessert. (My husband knew all about this and approved. He knew we wouldn’t take “hot date” literally. He also doesn’t mind when I joke about the dancing boys coming over when he’s away or my lover Raoul. But I digress.)

There’s a very retro diner in a nearby suburb called the Hasty Tasty, so that’s where we usually went, though sometimes we’d hit Waffle House or a small, family-run Mexican place. The Hasty Tasty has booths, waitresses who don’t greet you with “Hi, I’m Amy. I’ll be your server today,” and daily specials, my favorite of which is the chicken-n-dumplings on Thursdays. I haven’t been there in a while since John died, but I remember him and our dates fondly. I miss him even more than the Thursday special.

My Aunt Thelma owned a small hotel right across from another diner in Campton, KY. This was back in the 70s, so it was authentically retro, with the counter-n-stools, jukebox devices at every seat, and a pinball machine in the corner. They made a mean burger, grilled on a flattop, of course, and their chili was amazing. Along with the penny candy in the general store that Aunt Thelma also owned, the diner features in my favorite memories of Campton.

Comfort food helps you cope with feelings of depression and loneliness. That’s the magic it wields. I have many types of comfort food. Mashed potatoes (a common comfort food for many), mac-n-cheese, and chicken fried rice all somehow make me feel better.

In this part of my life, I’ve become a semi-foodie (or at least a gourmand), but when I want a grilled cheese sandwich, I want the kind that diners serve or that my mother made for me. White bread and American cheese (even Velveeta) are what I crave. Sliced diagonally The grilled sandwich that my husband made for me recently was delicious. It featured a thick slice of ham and Havarti cheese, but it just didn’t hit the right notes the way a more humble sandwich does.

I also have fond memories of a truly non-foodie food: the do-it-yourself pizza kit that came in a box. It included a packet of what you could turn into dough with the addition of water, a long metal can of sauce, and a smaller can of parmesan. If you paid extra, you could get one with pepperoni. Throughout my childhood, this and school cafeteria “pizza” were the only kind I had.

We didn’t have a round pan for baking it, so we used a rectangular baking tray. It was too long for the pizza dough, so we had a short, rectangular pizza. We used to fight over the corner pieces. (We did have an old, round lard can lid, but it was battered and lumpy, not good for baking even the least imposing pizza. But I digress again.)

Another favorite childhood memory is watermelon in the backyard in the summertime. Unlike eating watermelon in the kitchen/dining room, at the picnic table, we could simply dispense with plates and napkins and let the juice roll down our chins and make them sticky. We could spit seeds for distance.

But there was one other aspect of backyard watermelon that made the treat even watermelon-ier. That was a light sprinkling of salt. Salt improves most foods it comes in contact with—every form of eggs and potatoes, to name just two. Even desserts need a pinch of salt in the recipe to make them dessert-ier. On Food Network competition shows, when they say a dish “lacks seasoning,” what they mean is salt.

I tried to introduce my husband to the pleasure of watermelon with salt. He tried it, but it didn’t impress him. For Dan, it wasn’t a sense memory the way it is for me (unlike his mother’s stuffed peppers, which I have never been able to successfully replicate).

We are creating our own sense memories, though, and they’ve been added to my list of comfort foods. He makes mac-n-cheese with tuna and peas, shepherd’s pie (which has the advantage of having lots of mashed potatoes on it and gravy in the bottom to soak them in), and something we call deconstructed cheeseburger mac.

These will figure prominently in the years to come when I need soothing, comfort, and memories.

Beware the Sentient Cereal

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My husband hates TV commercials and other forms of advertising. There’s nothing odd about that. Most of us do.

One thing he objects to is sexism that targets men. If he sees a commercial that presents a man having trouble caring for a child or cleaning the kitchen, then a woman swoops in to solve all his problems, his head explodes. “That makes men look incompetent. That’s sexist!” he says. “You taught me that!” (Well, that’s true. I guess I did. So many commercials, even in these more enlightened days, depict women with disgusting, flimsy garbage bags and the hefty-hefty-hunk providing non-stinky bags as he ripples his pecs. But I digress.)

One of the ads that he has particular trouble with is the one where little angels—cherubs, really—manufacture toilet paper. “They’re dead babies,” he insists, “and they’re making ass-wipe. It’s bad enough putting dead babies to work, but this is demeaning.” That’s a hard argument to argue with. (It’s no use telling him that it’s a metaphor for softness. He only believes in metaphors when he creates them. But I digress again.)

Another one of his least favorites is the Pepto Bismol commercial where they sing about assorted gastrointestinal ailments. “Turn the sound down!” he yells if I have the remote. The idea is for me to mute it before they get to “diarrhea.” Somehow, singing about that bothers him more than the other ailments. (I’m troubled by the fact that they touch their hips when they say the word. I tend not to shoot from the hip, so to speak. But I digress some more.)

He also objects to billboards or restaurant signs that, for example, show a pig offering plates of pork to people. “That’s horrible!” he says. “They’re encouraging people to eat one of their own kind.” He’s right about that, I have to admit. It’s kind of creepy.

Where we seriously part ways is over one certain cereal commercial. It shows cereal squares frolicking, so I’d describe them as anthropomorphized. The cereal bits chase each other and then one eats another one. To Dan, it’s almost as bad as a B-grade horror movie. “I hate this commercial. They’re eating each other!” he cries. “That’s cannibalism!”

“It’s cereal,” I say. “At least pigs are sentient beings. Cereal isn’t.”

“It’s cannibalism, anyway. They’re being portrayed as sentient,” he says. “They walk and talk and play on slides.”

“But it’s just cereal!” I reply. That never ends the argument though, and it doesn’t prevent having the same conversation every time that ad comes on. I just have to wait until another ad comes on and hope it doesn’t trigger another one of his outbursts.

(Some would say that pigs aren’t sentient, but I’m willing to agree with Dan on that. They’re very intelligent. In my worldview (which, of course, is the correct one), most animals are sentient. They have thoughts and emotions, and not all their behaviors are instinctual. You’ll never convince me that a cat isn’t a sentient being. I’ve known ones that can engage in complex behavior like playing fetch or snubbing us. Crows are sentient; they can learn. Elephants are definitely sentient; they can grieve. I don’t know about fish and insects, though. I haven’t decided about them. But I digress yet again.)

But cereal isn’t even alive, much less capable of movement, thoughts, and emotions. It’s inert, not capable of higher functioning. Or any functioning at all, really.

We see these atrocities everywhere. Even some of the streaming services I pay for have ads these days. We don’t want to pay extra for the no-ads variety. They cost enough as is. But the cost to me is hearing Dan shout at the TV, complain about sexism, and argue with me about supposedly sentient cereal. It’s part of what I pay for.

It’s a Bargain!

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It was the gorilla mask that did it. Sure, it was after Halloween and, sure, I’m sure he got it for a very good price. But I ask myself, as my husband obviously didn’t, Why do we need a gorilla mask?

The easy answer is, we don’t. We don’t go to Halloween parties and don’t even dress up to hand out Halloween candy. Dan has breathing problems and can’t wear a full face mask for more than a minute. I have no desire to wear a gorilla mask at all (or to hand out candy either, a chore I leave to Dan every year).

The thing is, Dan works at a big box store and is in proximity to lots of things that are on sale. And he can almost never resist. (He also has a problem resisting free things, like stuff that neighbors set out at the end of their driveways. I’ve trained him to pass them by. But he expects praise for doing so. But I digress.)

There are pet supplies (in addition to the absolutely necessary gushy food for Toby). We have three cat trees, one of which sees use as a side table facing the TV. Toby only uses one level of the big one and ignores the third. He also ignores the catnip mice (though not the catnip treats). And who wouldn’t ignore the dog toy shaped like a giant t-bone steak that Dan thought Toby might use as a pillow? (Toby. Toby did. Dan did buy a nice cat bed that Toby uses a lot, so he gets points for that.)

Some of his finds are more like presents. When a sweater or tunic in my size goes on sale, he’ll snap it up and bring it home like it’s some kind of hunting trophy. (I don’t think he ties it to the hood of his car, though.) They don’t always fit, of course, and he says he’ll take them back if they don’t, but he never does. I need a separate section in my closet for them.

He’s also fond of clearance china. He brings home large soup mugs with appropriate sayings on them, like “Official Cat Mom” or “Looney Tunes” or less appropriate ones like “Merry Christmoose.” He also likes platters and sandwich plates that don’t always go well with our china pattern. Sometimes they’re at least in the ballpark, or completely neutral white. (Yes, surprisingly, we do actually have a pattern—Pfaltzgraff Yorktowne. I chose the paint for our newly rebuilt kitchen—blue—to harmonize with it. This is something I never thought I’d ever do (have a pattern), though I never thought I’d ever get married either. Life is surprising. But I digress again.)

The bargain food tables are also irresistible. Not that he always knows what he’s getting. We’ve ended up with spices like togarashi and galangal (which I always thought were martial arts), plus pickled banana leaves. Our cooking repertoire runs to things like grilled chicken breasts and ground beef, seasoned with Mrs. Dash, garlic, and oregano. He also buys bargains that really aren’t. Olive tapenade in EVOO isn’t cheap, even at half price. We still have lots of odd culinary experiments just a-waiting for us to be brave or tipsy enough to try.

I can’t really complain, though. Last night he brought me Graeter’s black raspberry and chocolate chip ice cream, which was on sale for some unknown reason. It’s good to have someone watching out for me. I don’t even have to share (much) with him, since it’s not sugar-free. (My theory is he’s trying to keep me fat so other men don’t hit on me. My last digression for this week. I swear.)

Lest you think this all goes one way, I buy weird stuff for Dan, too, though I’m pretty much limited to shopping on the internet. One of my recent finds was a Mr. Natural Keep on Truckin’ t-shirt. I’ve also gotten him a Funko Pop Jerry Garcia. (Can you tell what era he grew up in?) We hardly ever save these surprises for Christmas. Instead, we give ourselves a treat. This year, we’re getting matching tattoos—one gift that I hope isn’t a slight irregular!

R-E-S-P-E-C-T: Find out What It Means to Everyone

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“Hello, Marvin,” I said, as I stepped to the front of the line at the polling place.

“Hello,” he said, looking puzzled. “Let’s see if I can remember your name.” He thought a minute.

“Janet,” I said. No light went on in his eyes. “Coburn,” I added.

“I know I must have seen you around somewhere.”

“Actually, no. I just read your name off your name tag and wanted to be friendly.”

“I forgot I was even wearing it,” he said.

* * *

My husband was working in the electronics department of the store. He saw a customer looking at the merchandise. She was apparently transexual or in transition.

“Hello,” Dan said, with a friendly expression on his face. “Is there something I can help you with?”

The woman seemed taken aback.

* * *

Dan also sees many customers from Arabic-speaking countries. He greets them the same way, then helps them as best he can, holding up items and doing his best at understanding heavily accented English.

Those customers always come back. Sometimes, late at night, they talk to Dan, compliment him on his full, lush beard, and introduce him to their friends.

* * *

I was walking through the university’s Student Union building, leaning on my cane. Tired, I tried to take a seat on a convenient chair, but missed my landing and fell to the floor.

Instantly, a group of young women appeared at my side, expertly hoisted me into the chair, and offered to get me juice or a hot, comforting beverage. (I was a bit shaky after my tumble.)

When I assured them I was fine, they returned to the juice bar or went off to class, with no fuss or fussing. It was a big deal to me, but seemed just another event to them.

* * *

Not so long ago, there was a vogue for “random acts of kindness” – helping unknown recipients by putting a coin in an expiring parking meter or paying for the next person in line at the toll booth. And these were indeed nice things to do. They did add a little kindness to the world. Largely, they were anonymous.

What I would like to see in the world, however, are random acts of respect – using a person’s name, waiting on all customers with an attentive expression and welcoming word, helping a fallen stranger.

In fact, these shouldn’t be random acts of respect. Ideally, they should be everyday occurrences, practiced by everyone. We know that’s not going to happen, or at least not anytime soon.

So for now, let’s concentrate on “random.” Just try it whenever you think about it, or once a day. Use a person’s name – even if it annoys you when a server tells you hers, don’t summon her by saying, “Hey, waitress!” Say “Thank you” to the baggage attendant that just lifted your 50-lb. suitcase, even if you’re furious that you had to pay extra for it. Smile and nod at the worker who cleans your hotel room as you pass her in the hall. Shake hands when you’re introduced to the young person with blue hair and sleeve tats.

Do it because it will surprise someone. Do it because it will make someone feel good. Do it because you’re a good person. Do it because your mother told you to be polite. Do it because it’s the only lift a person may get all day. Do it because the people you meet every day deserve respect and too often don’t get it. Do it because we’re all human beings, sharing the planet.

And say “thanks” or nod and smile when someone shows respect to you. You deserve it too. Then keep the chain going.

Practice won’t make perfect. But it will make better. Help. Greet. Smile. Thank. Look at someone when you talk to them. To quote a well-known song, “Little things mean a lot.”

A Marriage Made in the Kitchen

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Flour, eggs and LoveI think it all started with the naked Julia Child impressions. We were newly married and everything was fun. We weren’t entirely naked while cooking, of course – aprons were a requirement and oven mitts (worn strategically) were allowed. There were other rules, too – no deep-frying, for example, for obvious reasons. Using plummy, authoritative voices we would do a fictitious play-by-play of dinner preparation: “Place the turkey in the oven for 350 minutes at 120 degrees. Oopsie! [take slug of wine].”

Of course, at that stage it wasn’t really a turkey. We were the newly married poor and subsisted on mac-n-cheese, frozen burritos, and anything else that cost $.27 or less. Cooking was simple, fun, and entertaining. Not that we could afford to entertain. All of our friends should be grateful for that.

We didn’t get serious about cooking until years later when friends of ours came up with a recipe they called “Experimental Chicken.” It was wonderful and was wonderfully different every time they cooked it. “By God,” I said, “if Tom and Leslie can cook, so can we!”

At the time, we weren’t foodies. Either they didn’t exist yet or hadn’t made their presence known to the likes of us. Our early attempts at cooking were really “modifying” existing products. We’d take Hamburger Helper “Beef Stroganoff,” substitute stew meat for hamburger, and use real sour cream instead of the packaged powder that was supposed to morph somehow into a sauce. It may not have been actual cooking, but it was an improvement over the boxed version. We also improved mac-n-cheese by adding tuna and peas to it. Protein and veggies! What a great idea!

Then we branched out into original one-pot meals. (We still prefer one-pot meals. Both of us hate to do dishes.) “Cowboy beans” was one of our specialties: ground beef, pork-n-beans, and cheese. Call it minimalist cooking if you want to be kind. As we became more adventurous we began to add ingredients like refried beans, tomatoes, chiles, green peppers, onions, and assorted spices, then serve them with tortillas and salsa for do-it-yourself burritos. We never went back to the $.27 frozen ones.

At last the Food Network came into our lives. Stuck at the time in severe depression, I watched the shows endlessly for the calm voices and helpful tips. I finally learned the term “flavor profiles.” Our cooking life was revitalized. I became the chef and my husband was the sous-chef.

We seldom used recipes. The experimental nature of the original chicken inspiration had stuck with us. We belonged to the look-in-the-fridge-and-pantry-and-go from-there school. “Cut that chicken into bite-sized pieces,” I would say. “No, my bite-sized, not yours. Now pass me the paprika, please. The smoky paprika. Now, everyone into the pool! Mixy-mixy!” We developed our food repertoire to include a killer ratatouille and something that resembled a quiche.

Then came a bigger change – my back wouldn’t allow me to stand at the stove and the tremor in my hands made me dangerous with a knife. So Dan took over as head chef, and I became the food consultant. His first attempts were a little sad. “A casserole needs some moisture in it – milk, stock, or something – to hold it together, especially if there’s rice or noodles involved,” I would gently suggest.

Gradually Dan came into his own. I only had to answer questions about whether I wanted my fish baked or broiled, or whether sage or lemon pepper was needed. Once I explained them, he instantly caught on to shepherd’s pie and frittata. They’re now his signature dishes, so lovely that we could post pictures on the Internet if we were into food porn, and tastier than many a restaurant meal.

I still fondly remember those days of naked Julia Child impressions, though I have no particular desire to recreate them. But since then, our cooking partnership has evolved just as our marriage has – for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, with laughter and spice, and a willingness to let each other take the lead at different times. All in all, a tasty recipe for two.

Fish Tales From the Midwest

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It’s not as hard as it used to be to find sushi here in the Midwest. It can be hard finding good sushi. Fortunately, I live in a community that contains an Air Force base and a university with programs such as bioengineering that draw a diverse and sophisticated population. It is no longer impossible to find good sushi. The variety may be less than what’s available on either coast or in bigger cities, but someone (like me) with a taste for the Japanese delicacy can find satisfaction, along with sashimi, sunomono, and low-sodium soy sauce.

But it hasn’t always been easy. Here are some fish tales from my journey from doubter to aficionado.

___

The first time I tried sushi was in one of those social situations where it is simply impossible to refuse. (Not unlike the time I first ate egg salad, which I loathe, at my sister’s mother-in-law’s. Since then, I’ve come to tolerate my husband’s version of egg salad. But I digress.)

I belonged to a martial arts club, and one weekend we were invited to the sensei’s house to help answer mail and do some other dojo-related paperwork chores. His wife, a lovely Japanese lady, served up a plate of sushi. That she had made by hand. Using seaweed from her family’s farm in Japan. Short of a deadly fish allergy, there is no conceivable way to refuse such an offer. So we all gulped a little and then gulped a little.

I don’t know what everyone else thought, but I found it odd yet somewhat pleasant. I believe I acquitted myself well. And I decided that if the opportunity ever came up again, I would certainly indulge.

___

That opportunity came on our fifth wedding anniversary. We got dressed up and went to a tony Japanese restaurant about 45 minutes away. (Sushi had not yet penetrated the local market. Now it’s available in the local supermarket and we have a standing order for Wednesdays. But I digress again.)

We ordered a sushi appetizer and tempura entrees. I informed my husband that under no circumstances was he allowed to ask for a knife and fork. The sushi portion of the meal went swimmingly until Dan noticed the little pile of green paste on his plate and scooped up a healthy mouthful. Of course, it was wasabi, and of course, the top of his head blew off. A fan of horseradish in all its forms, he still likes wasabi, but now in more judicious quantities. The pickled ginger is much more forgiving.

(Later in the dinner I complimented him on how well he was doing with the chopsticks, despite his lack of practice. He replied, “Honey, I’m a compulsive overeater. I’d eat with my elbows if I had to.” But I digress some more.)

___

Not everyone is enthusiastic about their first encounter with sushi, or compelled by circumstance to try it. But sometimes another person can be convincing and compelling.

I once dined with a husband and wife at a Japanese restaurant. The wife passed on the sushi.

The husband turned to her and said:

“Do you really want me to tell the children that you wouldn’t even try it?”

Bam! Emotional judo for the win. She had no response possible, aside from the most profound of dirty looks and a small bite of the sushi.

___

I have no problem with people who actually don’t care for sushi – once they’ve tried it. My friend Tom was a case in point. We were dining at an excellent sushi bar and he expressed a desire to give it a try.

It was beautiful sushi. Gloriously dark red tuna reposed on a pillow of sticky rice. Of course, when Tom asked to try a piece, I had to say yes. If he was ever going to like sushi, this was the piece he would like (aside from oshinko or other non-raw-fish varieties, of course).

And he didn’t like it. But I was so proud of him for trying. Without even the threat of disappointed kids.

___

My husband’s coworkers were not so brave. They had a tradition on birthdays of letting the celebrant choose the restaurant. Dan chose a local sushi bar and had to put up with the disgusted faces and the gagging noises they made as he ate his way through a platter of assorted delights.

Of course, when sushi became trendy a few years later, all the fellows were bragging about how much they loved it. Dan refrained from reminding them that they were raving over what they had once considered – and derided – as bait.

___

And what of fugu fish, the potentially deadly blowfish that, unless properly prepared, can kill with an insidious neurotoxin? Am I brave enough to try that?

Fortunately, I don’t have to answer. There are, to the best of my knowledge, no properly qualified fugu masters in our area and so no fugu on the menu anywhere around.

But suppose I ever get into a social situation where eating fugu is the only possible option. In that case, I like to think I would smile, say, “Domo arigato gozaimasu,” and dig in. It might be the last thing I ever did, but I would die politely.

The Ultimate Fashionista – Not Me!

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I guess you’d call me a victim of fashion. Or actually, a victim of no fashion. No fashion sense, at least. Fashion nonsensical, maybe.

I’ve always been this way. Being the second child, I always had hand-me-downs, which is probably why I never learned to pick out my own clothes. Also, my mother chose my clothes, which I was okay with until junior high, when I was mortified to see myself on videotape wearing saddle shoes and anklet socks. Quel faux pas!

It was at about that time that people started taking me in hand and trying to fix me up, sartorially at least. (Apparently, the other kind of fixing up was not even an option until I was properly decked out.) My first fashion consultant was a friend who told me that the main thing I should invest in was a pleated plaid skirt with a large gold safety pin. I did not, and thereby missed my chance to be stylish.

When I did develop my own sense of style, it was based entirely around Banana Republic. Khaki and olive drab were my color palette. I lived for the day each month when the new catalog came out with all its exotic descriptions of the clothes and tidbits of travel writing.

Only once did I ever shop in an actual Banana Republic store, in La Jolla. I hyperventilated, which is something I ordinarily do only when shopping for amber jewelry. I made several purchases and used the leopard print wrapping paper as a background on my bulletin board at work. (A co-worker once brought me an empty Banana Republic bag as a gift. “Won’t she be offended?” someone asked her. “She’ll love it,” Marie replied.  And I did. But I digress.)

Later I learned that Banana Republic had an outlet store about 45 miles from my house. Of course, I had to go. This was before outlet malls became a Thing. The BR outlet was in Erlanger, KY, a few miles from the Cincinnati airport (which is in Kentucky, for some reason). Keeping with either the travel theme or the airport theme, the outlet store was housed in a large, hangar-like warehouse, where I could make a proper expedition of shopping. I was crushed when BR stopped publishing their catalogs and again when they were bought out by The Gap. The outlet store was just no fun anymore.

Still, I wore my khaki and O.D., with occasional accents of camouflage. (This was also before camo became a Thing for anyone other than soldiers and hunters.) My mother, perhaps in atonement for all the hand-me-downs, sewed me spiffy camo vests and scarves. Once she even found some camo flannel and made me a floor-length granny-style camo nightgown, which I adored. (She also made me a forest green cape and Robin Hood hat, which I wore to my college archery classes. But I digress again.)

Another friend took me in hand and tried to eliminate the jungle look from my wardrobe. She introduced me to colors outside the neutral spectrum and accompanied me on shopping trips where she picked out my clothes and dressed me up like a Barbie doll. Well, not like a Barbie, really. I didn’t have the figure for it and my feet aren’t permanently shaped for heels. At least I looked respectable enough for work and dressy enough for social occasions, which for some reason I hardly ever got invited to. When she was no longer able to go shopping with me, she thoughtfully kept me supplied with more hand-me-downs from her own extensive and colorful wardrobe.

Gradually, I developed enough color sense to boss my husband around. (“Let me try on the teal jacket. No, the teal jacket! Not the navy blue! Lady, can you show him which is the teal jacket?” “Of course I can’t wear the knit sweater that I wore to the last business meeting! It’s long-sleeved and it’s August. Oh, and it’s not white; it’s cream. Which goes nicely with the coffee stain on it.”)

Now, of course, I’ve abandoned all attempts at fashion. I work at home in my pajamas and keep a year-round wardrobe of nightwear ranging from sleep shorts to men’s flannel pajamas. I buy them on sale out of season. This nabs me cutesy designs (“Feline Sleepy” “It’s Meow or Never”) and nightshirts that look like hospital johnnies. But no one except my husband sees me anyway, so it hardly matters.

And if I do have to go outside, I’ve developed my own special signature collection of clothing in my own style. I call it “Retro Boho Hobo,” and it suits me fine.