Best to leave that title alone whether you know how it finishes or not. I have received some awed congratulations since my surgery for how well I am coping with my new, um appliance. Those would be hastily withdrawn if you heard the decibel level at our house this morning. Luckily since today is my day off I was still in pajamas while I helped get the kids ready for school. Luckily I was also standing on the easily cleaned tile floor of the kitchen when the clip let go releasing a torrent down my leg.
As I tried to wrap the cuff of the pajama around my ankle to prevent further spillage I yelled at Sam to get me the kleenex I knew to be in the next room. He returned with one. Thanks, dude. I hobbled up the stairs holding onto my ankle and got in the shower, pajamas and all.
After sufficient decontamination and new clothes I made my way downstairs to reassure Adam who was a little freaked out by all my yelling. By now he was laughing and calling me "Poopy." Sam also christened me with a new nickname.
Mrs. Splatter.
I love all the comments on the blog. The last post is a new record. If you are wondering what my cousin is talking about she and my cousin Annie along with several of my aunts showed up at our gate to wish us farewell by staging an anti-war protest against F.R.O.G. (the Friedman liquid SWAT team). Still don't know what I'm talking about? You mean you DIDN'T READ THE LAST POST? YOU MEAN YOU HAVE OTHER THINGS TO DO? C'mon, it's not that long, scroll down and read. They all carried signs and dressed up looking as if they were going to a Mardi Gras parade at a mental institution. Someone even wore the box that the cake came in as a hat. The best get-up was Aunt Nancy. Although my mother insists that it was Aunt Martha. So to back up for a second. When Nancy was about 12 she had very long hair that she wore in two braids. When she decided to cut them off she couldn't part with them and kept them. Later, years later they were given as a gift to Martha (or was it Sally?) who for also inexplicable reasons also kept them. One of these fine and dignified representatives of the "Original Eight" strung the two braids between a piece of string and donned the braids by running the string over the top of her head and walked through the airport to send us off.
We were in fact, speechless.
Dr. Bif
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
No news is good news...
I know, I haven't posted for a while. I'm back at work and doing fine. A little busy as you can imagine. Still knitting and hoping to publish a paper in an allergy journal soon. So if you have guessed that no news is good news, you would be right. I'm still flying back and forth to Sloan Kettering on a weekly basis. It's a drag. I'm a little bored with the JetBlue terminal. Maybe the corporate geniuses did focus groups which told them blasting Lionel Ritchie loud enough that I can't talk on my phone is somehow soothing to passengers but I'm not seeing it. Nor do I understand why a rock band of kids in the central hub seemed like a good idea around Christmas time. A bunch of ten year olds singing "I see a red door and I want to paint it black..." is just wrong. It's just...wrong.
And now the entertainment portion of our show (log off now if you just wanted the news):
Liquid Warfare (pre-approved by a Moran)
I'm going to tell you a little about my mother's family.
All of the Moran siblings appear quite pleasant and intelligent. Quite a handsome group. Of course appearances can be deceiving. They are fond of family gatherings and telling stories but they are even more fond of causing hotel staff, neighbors and complete strangers to wonder, “what the hell is wrong with those people?”
Pranks were frequent in the house of my mother and her seven siblings but nothing compared to their fierce devotion to liquid combat. This is because as children, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with having a full bore water fight involving buckets and hoses at their large Victorian house in Romeo, Michigan . Indoors.
The fights started outside with the hose and Annie did her best to keep the kids out of the house but to no avail. Children would race through the house with buckets while Annie mopped the kitchen floor. “He's over there, go get your brother!” she'd holler at a kid racing past her.
New members of the family's mettle were tested by seeing how they reacted to a dousing. Kind of a baptism into the family, if you will. Aunt Joyce was treated to a little liquid greeting as was my father. He came out of the bedroom he and my mother were staying in yelling “what the hell is going on!” That scared a few of my mother's sisters but not for long.
Since the Morans clearly had a weak definition of social boundaries it was only natural that water fights would break out at family functions. The only difference was that the owner of the house under siege usually got a little more concerned than Annie did about the trafficking of ammunition through the house. There were always a few people, most notably Uncle George's wife, Joyce who really seemed to think the whole thing was juvenile and tried to disappear during skirmishes. She became a cherished target and we loved her for it.
At my cousin John's wedding, his wife to be, Susan, was extremely anxious about any liquid combat breaking out. She seemed terrified that we'd all start leaping over the pews, SuperSoakers in hand to drench the couple while they said their vows. My mother and her sisters couldn't see what the fuss was about. Just as in The Highlander they'd never battled in a church before. I wouldn't call it sacred ground, I think no one ever thought of it. Several of the cousins were deployed to spread the word that no (squirt) guns were allowed in the church. It felt like noon at the OK corral. Have you figured out yet that this kind of paranoia only eggs the Morans on? My mother amused herself in the meantime by getting some of the toddlers to run through puddles.
Rest assured, Susan and John were married peacefully although Uncle Bill's breast pocket was noted to be leaking. We were even fairly well behaved at the reception because Susan was worried about her dress. Her stern looks as she and John made the rounds of the tables seemed to quell us temporarily. However, next morning at the brunch several cousins were hunkered down behind buffet tables taking pot shots at late arriving diners. Wait staff had to be escorted out of the dining room with an armed escort. Eventually the fighting spread out into the parking lot. My mother complained that she was wearing a silk skirt and didn't want it water stained. Sally and Martha looked at her sadly, “well that was stupid.”
My sister was the first of the three Friedman children to get married off. Her wedding service was unremarkable except for being lightning quick. I don't know why, it was just fast. It might have had something to do with a sporting event that day. The pastor did announce the score of the Michigan game to the relief of my mother and the groom, Doug. The reception was held at the Hanover Inn. By this time the younger cousins had gone high tech bringing in elaborate SuperSoaker back packs to the dining room. I recall one of my very large cousins seated with his back to a wall, before him a very large plate of food taking pot shots at wedding goers. He nailed me right in the middle of my back. I was after all, the Maid of Honor.
The high powered riflery was a big hit but for subtlety The Squirting Pepsi Can ruled the evening. Another cousin brought them. Uncle Bill got his hands on one and made the rounds of the reception. Sadly, the wedding video was accidentally taped over with a Star Trek episode because someone didn't pull out the little tab...but on tit was a group of reception goers who the videographer, our friend Dr. Cimis, was quizzing about Kate and her new spouse, Doug. Into the shot walks Uncle Bill, smiling and holding a drink. He moves out of the shot just as the person next to him puts his hand slowly on his chest to feel it now soaking wet. I really have no idea how this behavior went down with the rest of the wedding goers. I think Doug's family mostly took it in stride. They are midwesterners too and are used to outlandish behavior. Surprised? Look, it's not the group of kids at a table in the back wearing black with everything pierced who are going to do something weird at a wedding reception. It's the group of straight-laced looking middle aged women who will start a game of “Chuckle Belly” right on the dance floor. Some of the guests were clearly fascinated. A colleague of my parents, Dr. Vince Memoli, was seen sneaking away from the reception with some of my cousins to score himself a Pepsi can.
Most water fights were spontaneous but one at least, was carefully planned. At Aunt Martha's reunion the Friedman contingent started preparing weeks in advance. We were all issued the latest in SuperSoaker technology. We had t-shirts made up with a watergun-toating frog on the front that I designed and the logo F.R.O.G. (Friedman Revolutionary Oceanic Group-or some such nonsense). I wore a bandana and shades and cut the sleeves off my T to complete the look. Kate and Ted did the same. Happy Hal wore khakis. Granny Franny wore a Michigan rally cap, shades and several fake tatoos. We parked down by the road and then surrounded the house. Franny (or Frankie as she is known by her siblings) burst into the living room and threatened to soak down the walls. We were rewarded by a prompt emptying of the house for a full on response to our covert operation. It don't get much better than that.
There have been many other water fights. It's hard to choose from them all. I know I'll get emails from relatives telling me what I should have recounted. And probably one from Susan who is a really good sport and will now just as soon soak you down as look at ya. However, I will add that no one loved those water fights more than Bill's wife Helen although she somehow managed to remain remarkably dry. She has the honor of inspiring a water fight where no Moran ever has before.
One reunion when the fighting had penetrated indoors, Uncle Bill got one of the little kid's rain coats, hat and a mop pretending to be his mother Annie. I remember my face hurting from laughing that night and even more the next morning when Helen recounted the resultant “shrinkage.” So in her memory I'm sure somebody besides my brother Ted was thinking it, but it was Ted who actually started the water fight at Helen's wake. He went next door to borrow the hose from a neighbor doing yardwork. “Aren't you having a wake for Helen?” “Uh huh.”
Helen would have loved it.
Next time I will either get around to the Legend of Uncle Bill and the Wedding Cakes, or Grandma Friedman and the Can of Tuna.
bif
And now the entertainment portion of our show (log off now if you just wanted the news):
Liquid Warfare (pre-approved by a Moran)
I'm going to tell you a little about my mother's family.
All of the Moran siblings appear quite pleasant and intelligent. Quite a handsome group. Of course appearances can be deceiving. They are fond of family gatherings and telling stories but they are even more fond of causing hotel staff, neighbors and complete strangers to wonder, “what the hell is wrong with those people?”
Pranks were frequent in the house of my mother and her seven siblings but nothing compared to their fierce devotion to liquid combat. This is because as children, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with having a full bore water fight involving buckets and hoses at their large Victorian house in Romeo, Michigan . Indoors.
The fights started outside with the hose and Annie did her best to keep the kids out of the house but to no avail. Children would race through the house with buckets while Annie mopped the kitchen floor. “He's over there, go get your brother!” she'd holler at a kid racing past her.
New members of the family's mettle were tested by seeing how they reacted to a dousing. Kind of a baptism into the family, if you will. Aunt Joyce was treated to a little liquid greeting as was my father. He came out of the bedroom he and my mother were staying in yelling “what the hell is going on!” That scared a few of my mother's sisters but not for long.
Since the Morans clearly had a weak definition of social boundaries it was only natural that water fights would break out at family functions. The only difference was that the owner of the house under siege usually got a little more concerned than Annie did about the trafficking of ammunition through the house. There were always a few people, most notably Uncle George's wife, Joyce who really seemed to think the whole thing was juvenile and tried to disappear during skirmishes. She became a cherished target and we loved her for it.
At my cousin John's wedding, his wife to be, Susan, was extremely anxious about any liquid combat breaking out. She seemed terrified that we'd all start leaping over the pews, SuperSoakers in hand to drench the couple while they said their vows. My mother and her sisters couldn't see what the fuss was about. Just as in The Highlander they'd never battled in a church before. I wouldn't call it sacred ground, I think no one ever thought of it. Several of the cousins were deployed to spread the word that no (squirt) guns were allowed in the church. It felt like noon at the OK corral. Have you figured out yet that this kind of paranoia only eggs the Morans on? My mother amused herself in the meantime by getting some of the toddlers to run through puddles.
Rest assured, Susan and John were married peacefully although Uncle Bill's breast pocket was noted to be leaking. We were even fairly well behaved at the reception because Susan was worried about her dress. Her stern looks as she and John made the rounds of the tables seemed to quell us temporarily. However, next morning at the brunch several cousins were hunkered down behind buffet tables taking pot shots at late arriving diners. Wait staff had to be escorted out of the dining room with an armed escort. Eventually the fighting spread out into the parking lot. My mother complained that she was wearing a silk skirt and didn't want it water stained. Sally and Martha looked at her sadly, “well that was stupid.”
My sister was the first of the three Friedman children to get married off. Her wedding service was unremarkable except for being lightning quick. I don't know why, it was just fast. It might have had something to do with a sporting event that day. The pastor did announce the score of the Michigan game to the relief of my mother and the groom, Doug. The reception was held at the Hanover Inn. By this time the younger cousins had gone high tech bringing in elaborate SuperSoaker back packs to the dining room. I recall one of my very large cousins seated with his back to a wall, before him a very large plate of food taking pot shots at wedding goers. He nailed me right in the middle of my back. I was after all, the Maid of Honor.
The high powered riflery was a big hit but for subtlety The Squirting Pepsi Can ruled the evening. Another cousin brought them. Uncle Bill got his hands on one and made the rounds of the reception. Sadly, the wedding video was accidentally taped over with a Star Trek episode because someone didn't pull out the little tab...but on tit was a group of reception goers who the videographer, our friend Dr. Cimis, was quizzing about Kate and her new spouse, Doug. Into the shot walks Uncle Bill, smiling and holding a drink. He moves out of the shot just as the person next to him puts his hand slowly on his chest to feel it now soaking wet. I really have no idea how this behavior went down with the rest of the wedding goers. I think Doug's family mostly took it in stride. They are midwesterners too and are used to outlandish behavior. Surprised? Look, it's not the group of kids at a table in the back wearing black with everything pierced who are going to do something weird at a wedding reception. It's the group of straight-laced looking middle aged women who will start a game of “Chuckle Belly” right on the dance floor. Some of the guests were clearly fascinated. A colleague of my parents, Dr. Vince Memoli, was seen sneaking away from the reception with some of my cousins to score himself a Pepsi can.
Most water fights were spontaneous but one at least, was carefully planned. At Aunt Martha's reunion the Friedman contingent started preparing weeks in advance. We were all issued the latest in SuperSoaker technology. We had t-shirts made up with a watergun-toating frog on the front that I designed and the logo F.R.O.G. (Friedman Revolutionary Oceanic Group-or some such nonsense). I wore a bandana and shades and cut the sleeves off my T to complete the look. Kate and Ted did the same. Happy Hal wore khakis. Granny Franny wore a Michigan rally cap, shades and several fake tatoos. We parked down by the road and then surrounded the house. Franny (or Frankie as she is known by her siblings) burst into the living room and threatened to soak down the walls. We were rewarded by a prompt emptying of the house for a full on response to our covert operation. It don't get much better than that.
There have been many other water fights. It's hard to choose from them all. I know I'll get emails from relatives telling me what I should have recounted. And probably one from Susan who is a really good sport and will now just as soon soak you down as look at ya. However, I will add that no one loved those water fights more than Bill's wife Helen although she somehow managed to remain remarkably dry. She has the honor of inspiring a water fight where no Moran ever has before.
One reunion when the fighting had penetrated indoors, Uncle Bill got one of the little kid's rain coats, hat and a mop pretending to be his mother Annie. I remember my face hurting from laughing that night and even more the next morning when Helen recounted the resultant “shrinkage.” So in her memory I'm sure somebody besides my brother Ted was thinking it, but it was Ted who actually started the water fight at Helen's wake. He went next door to borrow the hose from a neighbor doing yardwork. “Aren't you having a wake for Helen?” “Uh huh.”
Helen would have loved it.
Next time I will either get around to the Legend of Uncle Bill and the Wedding Cakes, or Grandma Friedman and the Can of Tuna.
bif
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
All quiet on the western NY front.
Not much to report. I went back to work today. Endless popping of pills is going fine. It's actually 8 capsules twice a day. It beats chemo and it, um... beats dying. Really, I'd swallow a Yaris daily if you told me it would work.
My brother's culinary exploits have generated quite a few comments. Yes, growing up Ted was almost constantly eating. Usually some place he wasn't supposed to be. When taken by surprise Ted would engage in caching behavior very similar to grey squirrels and stuff his prize into the nearest orifice or dark space. Unlike a squirrel he had no intention of going back to retrieve the morsel. At least I don't think so judging by the number of mummified bagels and dried up cups of yogurt my mother found under the couch.
Of course he was not the only one to engage in clandestine eating. Let's face it we all do it. After a roast chicken my Dad would take all the meat off the bones and put it in a food saver (it was not pretty to watch --let's just say Happy Hal had all the surgical precision of a paper shredder). No chicken pot pie or chicken a la king made from that mess of meat tasted nearly as good as fishing out a nice piece of thigh while standing at the fridge and stuffing it in my mouth. Yes, you've done it. Admit it.
Here are a few other delicacies that come to mind beyond the obvious smear of icing off a cake:
-No casserole tastes as good after baking as it does waiting to go into the oven. My favorite is Mac and Cheese but I'll eat raw tuna noodle casserole in a pinch. No making faces. It's all cooked. It's just going in the oven to brown! Get over yourself.
-Licking the lid from any can of creamed soup tastes better than the actual soup.
-Handfuls of cereal taste better than bowlfuls.
-Ice cream tastes better in the carton. I got caught once and told my mother I was just "saying hello."
-The best part of a jar of peanut butter is that first swipe with your finger through the unbroken pristine surface.
You have a better one? Post it in the comments.
These tales all pale in comparison to the undisputed master of clandestine eating: Uncle Bill. That is a story so legendary, so epic, it deserves it's own entry. I will need some time to prepare...help me Obi Bill. You're my only hope!
In the meantime, I'll finish by telling you I went to the grocery store today and walked by the Christmas baking supplies. The only candied fruit sold are the neon cherries or a tub labeled "fruitcake mix." I couldn't make myself buy it. I just couldn't distinguish what the bright green squares were. I will check out the other supermarket chain. If they have the pure stuff I will make some mini-fruitcakes and then I will hold a lottery. You'll need to send me your address if you want to be entered. I will randomly pick out three winners to receive a little loaf of heavenly, brandy-sodden goodness.
Dr. Bif
My brother's culinary exploits have generated quite a few comments. Yes, growing up Ted was almost constantly eating. Usually some place he wasn't supposed to be. When taken by surprise Ted would engage in caching behavior very similar to grey squirrels and stuff his prize into the nearest orifice or dark space. Unlike a squirrel he had no intention of going back to retrieve the morsel. At least I don't think so judging by the number of mummified bagels and dried up cups of yogurt my mother found under the couch.
Of course he was not the only one to engage in clandestine eating. Let's face it we all do it. After a roast chicken my Dad would take all the meat off the bones and put it in a food saver (it was not pretty to watch --let's just say Happy Hal had all the surgical precision of a paper shredder). No chicken pot pie or chicken a la king made from that mess of meat tasted nearly as good as fishing out a nice piece of thigh while standing at the fridge and stuffing it in my mouth. Yes, you've done it. Admit it.
Here are a few other delicacies that come to mind beyond the obvious smear of icing off a cake:
-No casserole tastes as good after baking as it does waiting to go into the oven. My favorite is Mac and Cheese but I'll eat raw tuna noodle casserole in a pinch. No making faces. It's all cooked. It's just going in the oven to brown! Get over yourself.
-Licking the lid from any can of creamed soup tastes better than the actual soup.
-Handfuls of cereal taste better than bowlfuls.
-Ice cream tastes better in the carton. I got caught once and told my mother I was just "saying hello."
-The best part of a jar of peanut butter is that first swipe with your finger through the unbroken pristine surface.
You have a better one? Post it in the comments.
These tales all pale in comparison to the undisputed master of clandestine eating: Uncle Bill. That is a story so legendary, so epic, it deserves it's own entry. I will need some time to prepare...help me Obi Bill. You're my only hope!
In the meantime, I'll finish by telling you I went to the grocery store today and walked by the Christmas baking supplies. The only candied fruit sold are the neon cherries or a tub labeled "fruitcake mix." I couldn't make myself buy it. I just couldn't distinguish what the bright green squares were. I will check out the other supermarket chain. If they have the pure stuff I will make some mini-fruitcakes and then I will hold a lottery. You'll need to send me your address if you want to be entered. I will randomly pick out three winners to receive a little loaf of heavenly, brandy-sodden goodness.
Dr. Bif
Thursday, December 11, 2008
A jet setter? Me?
Hello bloggers,
I've made it into the clinical trial at Sloan Kettering. I have also been randomized to the experimental drug which means I will not be on chemo and I will be taking a pill a day. My blond dye job gets to stay. In about an hour I leave for the airport to start racking up my frequent flier miles. I have to fly to NYC today just to take a pill.
This heralds my entrance back into the real world. I go back to work next week for a half day or so. I'll ramp up pretty quickly I think. The original purpose of this blog which was to keep you updated and let you know if we needed anything is probably past. I think I'll keep writing though because it's fun. Of course, the new drug may not work and I may end up getting chemo (think good thoughts now).
In other news, I've been issued a challenge by my mother. I complained that fruitcakes are too easy these days. When I was a little kid my mother would round up the three of us kids into the kitchen for the annual ritual of slicing the candied fruit for her fruitcakes. I don't know when she started baking them. It's not a long family tradition. She tried the recipe out when we were very young. Within a few years she had escalated to a small factory with us employed as child labor. Well, she has seven other siblings, one for our neighbor, some for us. I think she made at least a dozen.
My favorite job was cutting the citron. Citron is a citrus fruit that is essentially all peel. It's candied and it used to be sold in big blocks. I loved the stuff. Mom was very particular about the size. Not too small, not too big. Didn't matter to me, I ate my mistakes. We also chopped candied orange and lemon peel (not as good as citron) and cut up rings of candied pineapple which would do in a pinch if the citron was all cut up. Neither Kate nor I liked the cherries too much until they were in the cake. Even as a kid I was deeply suspicious of a neon green cherry. If you put a red cherry in green food color you get...brown. What unspeakable thing does one need to do to a cherry to turn it neon green?
Mom made the batter and monitored quality control (stop eating!). Ted would eat anything, even the cherries. That batter was good too, like liquid brown sugar. Sometimes a mixer bowl of batter and fruit would be left on the counter while another batch was in the oven. There's a reason some of those cakes were smaller than others...
After they came out and cooled (and had any large pieces of fruit sticking out removed-purely for quality control purposes, you understand) they were then prepared with all the ritual of an egyptian mummy. They were wrapped first in cheesecloth and then in tin foil. Before being sealed up in their little sarcophogi they were annointed with that blessed liquid, brandy. And plenty of it.
I actually hate brandy to drink, it's like drinking gasoline. However, a magical transformation happened to those cakes as they rested in their dark little wrappings and soaked up the amber goodness. If you don't like fruitcake it's because you haven't put in enough brandy. This ritual was referred to as "watering the fruitcake." It would be repeated several times during the fruitcakes ageing period. Even after the thing was aged enough to eat it would get a little dry. After all the thing was dense; I mean black hole dense and a whole slice was a lot to get through. Although Ted could manage it just fine. Let's face it anyone who used to eat in the shower probably wouldn't have a problem with one whole slice of a fruitcake. "Mom, the fruitcake needs watering!" It would be annointed again and sent to rest in it's cheesecloth for a day or so.
Not everyone had the same response to the fruitcakes. Some of my mother's sisters made cracks about them. Uncle Bill held his in a sacred place in his freezer carefully doling it out until the next one arrived. One year my mother got sick of the jokes and didn't make any. You'd have thought Frosty the Snowman had been killed by a salt truck.
Nowadays you can go to the supermarket and buy little tubs of pre-cut fruit. Where is the challenge? Where is the sticky paring knife and tacky finger tips turning green and red from the cherries? The uncut stuff isn't even there if you wanted it. That's when I told my mother it was too easy these days and she issued the challenge, "oh yeah?" I don't think I have enough time to age anything before Christmas rolls around. They'd have to be New Year's cakes but I do have a secret weapon: mini loaf pans.
Dr. Bif
I've made it into the clinical trial at Sloan Kettering. I have also been randomized to the experimental drug which means I will not be on chemo and I will be taking a pill a day. My blond dye job gets to stay. In about an hour I leave for the airport to start racking up my frequent flier miles. I have to fly to NYC today just to take a pill.
This heralds my entrance back into the real world. I go back to work next week for a half day or so. I'll ramp up pretty quickly I think. The original purpose of this blog which was to keep you updated and let you know if we needed anything is probably past. I think I'll keep writing though because it's fun. Of course, the new drug may not work and I may end up getting chemo (think good thoughts now).
In other news, I've been issued a challenge by my mother. I complained that fruitcakes are too easy these days. When I was a little kid my mother would round up the three of us kids into the kitchen for the annual ritual of slicing the candied fruit for her fruitcakes. I don't know when she started baking them. It's not a long family tradition. She tried the recipe out when we were very young. Within a few years she had escalated to a small factory with us employed as child labor. Well, she has seven other siblings, one for our neighbor, some for us. I think she made at least a dozen.
My favorite job was cutting the citron. Citron is a citrus fruit that is essentially all peel. It's candied and it used to be sold in big blocks. I loved the stuff. Mom was very particular about the size. Not too small, not too big. Didn't matter to me, I ate my mistakes. We also chopped candied orange and lemon peel (not as good as citron) and cut up rings of candied pineapple which would do in a pinch if the citron was all cut up. Neither Kate nor I liked the cherries too much until they were in the cake. Even as a kid I was deeply suspicious of a neon green cherry. If you put a red cherry in green food color you get...brown. What unspeakable thing does one need to do to a cherry to turn it neon green?
Mom made the batter and monitored quality control (stop eating!). Ted would eat anything, even the cherries. That batter was good too, like liquid brown sugar. Sometimes a mixer bowl of batter and fruit would be left on the counter while another batch was in the oven. There's a reason some of those cakes were smaller than others...
After they came out and cooled (and had any large pieces of fruit sticking out removed-purely for quality control purposes, you understand) they were then prepared with all the ritual of an egyptian mummy. They were wrapped first in cheesecloth and then in tin foil. Before being sealed up in their little sarcophogi they were annointed with that blessed liquid, brandy. And plenty of it.
I actually hate brandy to drink, it's like drinking gasoline. However, a magical transformation happened to those cakes as they rested in their dark little wrappings and soaked up the amber goodness. If you don't like fruitcake it's because you haven't put in enough brandy. This ritual was referred to as "watering the fruitcake." It would be repeated several times during the fruitcakes ageing period. Even after the thing was aged enough to eat it would get a little dry. After all the thing was dense; I mean black hole dense and a whole slice was a lot to get through. Although Ted could manage it just fine. Let's face it anyone who used to eat in the shower probably wouldn't have a problem with one whole slice of a fruitcake. "Mom, the fruitcake needs watering!" It would be annointed again and sent to rest in it's cheesecloth for a day or so.
Not everyone had the same response to the fruitcakes. Some of my mother's sisters made cracks about them. Uncle Bill held his in a sacred place in his freezer carefully doling it out until the next one arrived. One year my mother got sick of the jokes and didn't make any. You'd have thought Frosty the Snowman had been killed by a salt truck.
Nowadays you can go to the supermarket and buy little tubs of pre-cut fruit. Where is the challenge? Where is the sticky paring knife and tacky finger tips turning green and red from the cherries? The uncut stuff isn't even there if you wanted it. That's when I told my mother it was too easy these days and she issued the challenge, "oh yeah?" I don't think I have enough time to age anything before Christmas rolls around. They'd have to be New Year's cakes but I do have a secret weapon: mini loaf pans.
Dr. Bif
Monday, December 8, 2008
New York, New York it's a hell of a town...
Hi Gang,
Back from the big city. Two and a half days in Manhattan have cured any illusions I have about channeling one of the Sex and the City girls. I can't handle bumper to bumper traffic at 11pm on a Saturday night! I am absolutely not kidding when I tell you that walking down 5th avenue around midtown was like trying to get to the bar at an Irish wake (I may be Jewish but I'm part Irish too lest you find that insulting).
Ok, now the news. I saw the doc at Sloan Kettering. I saw him initially for a second opinion last year. He offered me a spot in a clinical trial this time. If I am randomized to the study drug I would be taking a pill every day and going to Sloan for weekly visits (hello frequent flier miles). The other arm of the study is a chemo regimen that is much nicer than what my local doc suggested. Just horrible rashes and cardiotoxicity, no biggie, right? I find out on Wednesday which arm of the study I will be randomized to. Cross your fingers everyone. Cross your toes, your legs and your eyes. Think happy thoughts. I want that cool new drug that could make this go away.
Katie and I made a weekend of it. We stayed at Le Parker Meridien and paid an exhorbitant amount for a room. The bed was a little slice of heaven though. We ate at the Modern at the Museum of Modern Art. Very pricey. Very good. Katie and I split a half bottle of the best french chardonnay I've ever had. Their cosmos left a little to be desired though. Pretty much straight vodka with the Cointreau and cranberry just waived over the glass. Why do I talk about booze so much? I confess, I love cocktails. I like the history of the recipes, the different glasses, the big shakers, the sense of festivity it lends even to a dinner at home (let's face it, having a glass of wine from a half drunk bottle isn't all that exciting). Lest you all think this is an AA blog I dislike getting really trashed. Ugh. Hangovers are just brutal with me. My intestines pay the price and I just want to be taken out back and shot. I won't lie, it's not like I've never tied one on. I've got a good hangover story but I'll save that for another time.
So back to Manhattan. We ate expensive food and then we went to the expensive spa. Everyone should have a massage and a facial once in their lives. Every person on the planet needs one. If we had just sent Arafat and Sharon to the spa together the middle east wouldn't be such a mess. You can't be pissed off at anyone when all your muscle fibers are simultaneously saying, "aahh!"
Now I have some friends who are very concerned about that particular issue so I'm gonna just back off...
Before I sign off for the day I want to thank everyone so much for all the kind thoughts and deeds. Somehow I feel funny putting your names down here but you know who you are. Thank you for the flowers, cards, little gifts, donations in my name and food. It has all meant a tremendous amount to me. Hey, my family has to do this kind of thing; you don't. I am very grateful to have so many friends and I love you all. This blog thing feels very self-centered. I'm enjoying writing the stories and at some point I'll stop updating you all on the cancer thing because I don't want that to become the focus of my life. We all have crap to deal with. Mine just lends itself to drama. My recovery is going well and if there is something I can do for you please let me know. It'll feel good to get my life back into balance. Right now everything seems to tip towards me. God knows we don't need to make me any more of a ham than I already am.
Last thing, if you leave a comment on the blog and don't put your name down I have no idea who you are!
Dr. Bif
Back from the big city. Two and a half days in Manhattan have cured any illusions I have about channeling one of the Sex and the City girls. I can't handle bumper to bumper traffic at 11pm on a Saturday night! I am absolutely not kidding when I tell you that walking down 5th avenue around midtown was like trying to get to the bar at an Irish wake (I may be Jewish but I'm part Irish too lest you find that insulting).
Ok, now the news. I saw the doc at Sloan Kettering. I saw him initially for a second opinion last year. He offered me a spot in a clinical trial this time. If I am randomized to the study drug I would be taking a pill every day and going to Sloan for weekly visits (hello frequent flier miles). The other arm of the study is a chemo regimen that is much nicer than what my local doc suggested. Just horrible rashes and cardiotoxicity, no biggie, right? I find out on Wednesday which arm of the study I will be randomized to. Cross your fingers everyone. Cross your toes, your legs and your eyes. Think happy thoughts. I want that cool new drug that could make this go away.
Katie and I made a weekend of it. We stayed at Le Parker Meridien and paid an exhorbitant amount for a room. The bed was a little slice of heaven though. We ate at the Modern at the Museum of Modern Art. Very pricey. Very good. Katie and I split a half bottle of the best french chardonnay I've ever had. Their cosmos left a little to be desired though. Pretty much straight vodka with the Cointreau and cranberry just waived over the glass. Why do I talk about booze so much? I confess, I love cocktails. I like the history of the recipes, the different glasses, the big shakers, the sense of festivity it lends even to a dinner at home (let's face it, having a glass of wine from a half drunk bottle isn't all that exciting). Lest you all think this is an AA blog I dislike getting really trashed. Ugh. Hangovers are just brutal with me. My intestines pay the price and I just want to be taken out back and shot. I won't lie, it's not like I've never tied one on. I've got a good hangover story but I'll save that for another time.
So back to Manhattan. We ate expensive food and then we went to the expensive spa. Everyone should have a massage and a facial once in their lives. Every person on the planet needs one. If we had just sent Arafat and Sharon to the spa together the middle east wouldn't be such a mess. You can't be pissed off at anyone when all your muscle fibers are simultaneously saying, "aahh!"
Now I have some friends who are very concerned about that particular issue so I'm gonna just back off...
Before I sign off for the day I want to thank everyone so much for all the kind thoughts and deeds. Somehow I feel funny putting your names down here but you know who you are. Thank you for the flowers, cards, little gifts, donations in my name and food. It has all meant a tremendous amount to me. Hey, my family has to do this kind of thing; you don't. I am very grateful to have so many friends and I love you all. This blog thing feels very self-centered. I'm enjoying writing the stories and at some point I'll stop updating you all on the cancer thing because I don't want that to become the focus of my life. We all have crap to deal with. Mine just lends itself to drama. My recovery is going well and if there is something I can do for you please let me know. It'll feel good to get my life back into balance. Right now everything seems to tip towards me. God knows we don't need to make me any more of a ham than I already am.
Last thing, if you leave a comment on the blog and don't put your name down I have no idea who you are!
Dr. Bif
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Good news, bad news...
Well hi!
So the good news is that I saw my oncologist today and she told me the resistance assay she sent off on the badness she removed from my belly is not resistant many chemo regimens. That means there's a lot of chemo to choose from. The bad news is that she has picked one that I know and loathe. She wants me to go back on the original regimen I started with which I didn't enjoy much. I was also bald. Goddammit, I really like this haircut! I hate wigs. I will not wear one. Well, maybe I will. No sense freaking out my patients.
If we start this regimen as planned next week I will be admitted to Highland on Wed. for a desensitization protocol because I am allergic to the stuff and they have to trickle it in. It also means a crazy dose of steroids which Dr. Angel insists on even though I, the allergist, tell her it is unnecessary. There is no arguing with the lady. Hey, she's a surgeon. I wouldn't say she eats her young because she's really very nice but I'll bet she puts the heads of her defeated foes up on her spear.
To make a short story long (what can I say, I have a gift) Alain might need a casserole next week. If you are planning on dropping one off please leave a comment on this blog so we don't get inundated with mac & cheese (although that would make Sam very happy).
The only caveat to this whole scenario is that I am going to Sloan Kettering on Friday for a second opinion. I'll still need chemo no matter what but maybe they will suggest something different than taxol/carboplatin which make me sick like dog.
I'm going with my sister if you're curious and we're going to make a weekend of it. Originally we thought of going to a show. It turns out neither of us are really broadway babies. Katie finally had the bright idea to go to a spa. Bye bye Broadway! Ooh, I'm into this. I'm a little nervous though. Frankly I'm intimidated by Manhattanites. Hopefully we will be promptly put into lovely bathrobes so no one has to look at the tacky stretchy pants I have taken to wearing in my post-op phase. I know what you're thinking, screw them. Ok, everyone think that at once now. C'mon use the force. Here I go, I'm clicking my heels three times and saying "I will not be intimidated by fashionistas, I will not be intimidated by fashionistas..."
Shortly after I graduated from college (ah, here comes the story) I decided I hated the book publishing world. It hated me right back. My mother once again swept in to save the day with some sage advice. She said, have you ever thought about applying to medical school? That fit the bill. I not only hated my megalomaniacal bosses who wanted me to sell book club rights, do marketing, answer the phones and clean the warehouse but I grew increasingly aware that if I were to get struck by a bus on the way to work no one outside of my immediate family and friends would give a damn. Some days the only human beings I saw were my boss and the UPS guy. I needed to feel useful.
Ok, enough Mother Theresa stuff. So I was going to medical school. I had to study for the MCAT's and was doing so when my sister invited me to Long Island with her for a weekend at a timeshare she shared with some co-workers. I didn't really get the whole Hamptons thing. How stupid does it sound now for a young single woman to go the Hamptons for the weekend and bring her biochemistry to study, her knitting and a speedo?
Katie's friends were true Long Islanders. They had big hair, they wore little swim suits that never touched water and said things like "oh my gawd, I am not going out thay-er, there is a bee by the pool." Honest to god, that girl never set foot outside except to go get a really expensive dinner. What they must of thought of me.
All for now.
Dr. Bif
So the good news is that I saw my oncologist today and she told me the resistance assay she sent off on the badness she removed from my belly is not resistant many chemo regimens. That means there's a lot of chemo to choose from. The bad news is that she has picked one that I know and loathe. She wants me to go back on the original regimen I started with which I didn't enjoy much. I was also bald. Goddammit, I really like this haircut! I hate wigs. I will not wear one. Well, maybe I will. No sense freaking out my patients.
If we start this regimen as planned next week I will be admitted to Highland on Wed. for a desensitization protocol because I am allergic to the stuff and they have to trickle it in. It also means a crazy dose of steroids which Dr. Angel insists on even though I, the allergist, tell her it is unnecessary. There is no arguing with the lady. Hey, she's a surgeon. I wouldn't say she eats her young because she's really very nice but I'll bet she puts the heads of her defeated foes up on her spear.
To make a short story long (what can I say, I have a gift) Alain might need a casserole next week. If you are planning on dropping one off please leave a comment on this blog so we don't get inundated with mac & cheese (although that would make Sam very happy).
The only caveat to this whole scenario is that I am going to Sloan Kettering on Friday for a second opinion. I'll still need chemo no matter what but maybe they will suggest something different than taxol/carboplatin which make me sick like dog.
I'm going with my sister if you're curious and we're going to make a weekend of it. Originally we thought of going to a show. It turns out neither of us are really broadway babies. Katie finally had the bright idea to go to a spa. Bye bye Broadway! Ooh, I'm into this. I'm a little nervous though. Frankly I'm intimidated by Manhattanites. Hopefully we will be promptly put into lovely bathrobes so no one has to look at the tacky stretchy pants I have taken to wearing in my post-op phase. I know what you're thinking, screw them. Ok, everyone think that at once now. C'mon use the force. Here I go, I'm clicking my heels three times and saying "I will not be intimidated by fashionistas, I will not be intimidated by fashionistas..."
Shortly after I graduated from college (ah, here comes the story) I decided I hated the book publishing world. It hated me right back. My mother once again swept in to save the day with some sage advice. She said, have you ever thought about applying to medical school? That fit the bill. I not only hated my megalomaniacal bosses who wanted me to sell book club rights, do marketing, answer the phones and clean the warehouse but I grew increasingly aware that if I were to get struck by a bus on the way to work no one outside of my immediate family and friends would give a damn. Some days the only human beings I saw were my boss and the UPS guy. I needed to feel useful.
Ok, enough Mother Theresa stuff. So I was going to medical school. I had to study for the MCAT's and was doing so when my sister invited me to Long Island with her for a weekend at a timeshare she shared with some co-workers. I didn't really get the whole Hamptons thing. How stupid does it sound now for a young single woman to go the Hamptons for the weekend and bring her biochemistry to study, her knitting and a speedo?
Katie's friends were true Long Islanders. They had big hair, they wore little swim suits that never touched water and said things like "oh my gawd, I am not going out thay-er, there is a bee by the pool." Honest to god, that girl never set foot outside except to go get a really expensive dinner. What they must of thought of me.
All for now.
Dr. Bif
Monday, December 1, 2008
It's a good thing that kid is cute...
Happy Thanksgiving!
I hope you all survived your respective gatherings. The Leblanc division survived intact. I am doing ok. However I may have gotten a stomach bug from my nephew. As I said above, good thing he's cute...I'll put out the call for a casserole or two if I'm laid up with this. Right now a cup of coffee and a bottle of gatorade seem to have improved things immensely.
I'll be seeing my oncologist and the good folks at Sloan Kettering this week to find out how my life will be made better with chemicals (aka a chemo regimen). I can't wait.
Thanksgiving at the Friedman's was every bit the food orgy promised. Everyone made it there safe and sound. I think the Friedman/Tehrani contingent had the most stressful trip. Mixing connecting flights from Little Rock with a 10 month old with diarrhea is one of the ultimate tests of marital vows. This was my first time seeing the little spud and he is, as promised by the photos, ridiculously cute. Unfortunately his condition made him a little cranky. His poor Mom and Dad had to cart him around almost continuously.
I managed to put in some really good couch time and worked on a sweater I've been knitting on and off for two years. I call it the cable nightmare. I will finish it, I will finish it... Sam put in some couch time too watching Spongebob. Katie hauled her brood off to the ski store multiple times. We used the neighbors house for the price of walking their dogs. In an effort not to neglect them we walked the pups so much those dogs will remember this holiday ever after as the Thanksgiving Death March. They will cower whenever they see my Dad and whimper, "no mas! no mas!" Guilt overwhelmed many and the treadmill in the basement was in continuous use. I was not one of the guilty.
You wondering about that 3 Mile Island comment in the last post? Ted and I usually hollow out a well in our mashed potatoes, fill it with gravy, cap it with more potatoes and simulate a reactor core meltdown. Ted was too busy shoveling food into his pie hole to be bothered this year. My reactor core breach was delicious.
That other comment about the association between caramel corn and trash bags? Several years ago Doug undertook an afternooon project of making caramel corn from his mother's recipe. Apparently the recipe is only good if you make it in bulk. Doug made a Sam's Club quantity of this stuff. There was no bowl big enough to put it in, hence a small trash bag was employed. My mother was miffed at the time because she was on a diet. She stood in the kitchen with one hand in the bag putting fistfuls into the front of her turtleneck. "Goddamned you Doug!" she snapped as she carted away her haul to go watch football.
Now, of course many of us being physicians at the house we have rationalized this "snack" as a healthful, whole grain bowel cleansing regimen.
And now, a few things for which I am grateful this season:
I am not dead. Hey, it sucks to have the cancer back but it could have killed me a long time ago. I still got plenty of fight left in me.
A really cute little nephew, even if he was a big poop machine. We all have our moments.
Portable DVD players and headphones. You parents know what I'm talkin' about.
Regularly spaced rest areas on I-90.
Gummy worms, the perfect car snack.
The invention of the cocktail (this season's was the Brandy Alexander).
That's all for now. My cousin Susan has suggested I report on the history of child labor and the making of fruit cakes at the Friedman house. I think that's a winner. See you next time.
Beth
I hope you all survived your respective gatherings. The Leblanc division survived intact. I am doing ok. However I may have gotten a stomach bug from my nephew. As I said above, good thing he's cute...I'll put out the call for a casserole or two if I'm laid up with this. Right now a cup of coffee and a bottle of gatorade seem to have improved things immensely.
I'll be seeing my oncologist and the good folks at Sloan Kettering this week to find out how my life will be made better with chemicals (aka a chemo regimen). I can't wait.
Thanksgiving at the Friedman's was every bit the food orgy promised. Everyone made it there safe and sound. I think the Friedman/Tehrani contingent had the most stressful trip. Mixing connecting flights from Little Rock with a 10 month old with diarrhea is one of the ultimate tests of marital vows. This was my first time seeing the little spud and he is, as promised by the photos, ridiculously cute. Unfortunately his condition made him a little cranky. His poor Mom and Dad had to cart him around almost continuously.
I managed to put in some really good couch time and worked on a sweater I've been knitting on and off for two years. I call it the cable nightmare. I will finish it, I will finish it... Sam put in some couch time too watching Spongebob. Katie hauled her brood off to the ski store multiple times. We used the neighbors house for the price of walking their dogs. In an effort not to neglect them we walked the pups so much those dogs will remember this holiday ever after as the Thanksgiving Death March. They will cower whenever they see my Dad and whimper, "no mas! no mas!" Guilt overwhelmed many and the treadmill in the basement was in continuous use. I was not one of the guilty.
You wondering about that 3 Mile Island comment in the last post? Ted and I usually hollow out a well in our mashed potatoes, fill it with gravy, cap it with more potatoes and simulate a reactor core meltdown. Ted was too busy shoveling food into his pie hole to be bothered this year. My reactor core breach was delicious.
That other comment about the association between caramel corn and trash bags? Several years ago Doug undertook an afternooon project of making caramel corn from his mother's recipe. Apparently the recipe is only good if you make it in bulk. Doug made a Sam's Club quantity of this stuff. There was no bowl big enough to put it in, hence a small trash bag was employed. My mother was miffed at the time because she was on a diet. She stood in the kitchen with one hand in the bag putting fistfuls into the front of her turtleneck. "Goddamned you Doug!" she snapped as she carted away her haul to go watch football.
Now, of course many of us being physicians at the house we have rationalized this "snack" as a healthful, whole grain bowel cleansing regimen.
And now, a few things for which I am grateful this season:
I am not dead. Hey, it sucks to have the cancer back but it could have killed me a long time ago. I still got plenty of fight left in me.
A really cute little nephew, even if he was a big poop machine. We all have our moments.
Portable DVD players and headphones. You parents know what I'm talkin' about.
Regularly spaced rest areas on I-90.
Gummy worms, the perfect car snack.
The invention of the cocktail (this season's was the Brandy Alexander).
That's all for now. My cousin Susan has suggested I report on the history of child labor and the making of fruit cakes at the Friedman house. I think that's a winner. See you next time.
Beth
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