Homemade Mac'n'Cheese

A recipe never  before written down... A tribute to moms and dads whose children have been dubbed "picky eaters," have sensory integration issues, or just have a plain old stubborn streak when it comes to food.

With thanks to families who so often let me bring Will's mac'n'cheese to dinner.  Your hospitality toward my pan of mac permanently seals our friendship.

With apologies to moms whose children beg for "Linda's Mac'n'Cheese" and turn their noses up at their plates of "real food."

And for Annie, who Will and Liam love, perhaps more than my mac'n'cheese...

Here's Will's favorite: Homemade Mac'n'Cheese

Bring water to a boil.  Dump in 1 cup of Prince Elbows.  While that cooks, gather 2 T. real unsalted butter; 4 slices of Kraft Singles orange prepared cheese product; and 1 1/2 T. of 2% milk and 1 1/2 T. of half & half.  I usually get a 1/4 measuring cup out and just dump in equal parts of these two.

Put colander in sink and dump cooked mac into it.  Put pan back on low heat and add, in order, butter, milk/half&half, and cheese slices.  Turn heat up a little bit and stir constantly until individual ingredients combine into cheese sauce.  Remove from heat.  Stir in macaroni.   Cover with lid.  Let set about 5 minutes (while you finish preparing everyone else's dinner...) then stir again and serve.  In a bowl with a spoon = ultimate comfort.

After years of perfecting this, I rarely veer from these ingredients.  The one addition I do of our "at-home Will & Liam-only version" is a little Benefiber in the cheese sauce.  I also occasionally substitute real Kraft orange deli cheese.  Also, microwaved leftovers just aren't the same as the fresh stuff.

 

Geraniums?

Thanks to the heat, we’ve spent the last few days indoors and the old bites are scabbed over and not itching as much.  Thanks to friends, yesterday we ventured forth with a new no-see-um repellent. DEET in Back Woods Off didn’t seem to faze them.  Skinstastic, they eat it for breakfast.  Welcome EcoSmart, an organic spray from the grocery store.   No-see-ums no like it.

The first squirts are repelling.  Honestly, you want to get away from yourself.  Initially, I felt as though I’d just had a bath in an over-sized mortar bowl after the pestle creamed geraniums, rosemary, cinnamon, and lemongrass.  Each intense in its own right, but the combination... whew.  Will’s take, “This is horrible but necessary, right Mom?” looking at me for reassurance.

The trick is to spray everyone so that no one notices.  You all smell the same.  Plus, the initial smack of this concoction calms down pretty quickly.  Then at night everyone bathes or showers – or smells like the odd man out.  EcoSmart vs. Dove.

Diversion… This makes me think of the story from my uncle who lived on a Naval submarine years ago.  With stale air circulating weeks under water, everyone smelled the same air.  After being onboard for a while, no one noticed the sub aroma until the sub surfaced; then the fresh air triggered an “Ugh, what is that!”  I think this guy on a Yahoo Q&A page probably sums up sub life pretty well, particularly the smells: What's it like on a submarine?  Pretty close, Uncle Gary?

We haven’t ventured to the beach yet to test EcoSmart on the greenheads, but on the deck with the no-see-ums, it seems effective -- albeit confusing to some: early yesterday morning a honey bee lazily lingered near my arm.  Its wings whispered, “Geranium?”

Construction Magic

Mars and Pluto are out of alignment. MadMimi, the newsletter program I use to send you these fancy letters, does not want to talk to me if I say, "Hey, let's send out some pictures!"  She was fine earlier... today she has a bug.

A cool cloud called "Dropbox" -- where you can add files and share with others "easily" -- must be caught in a thunderstorm.

Recent pictures I took of construction on the house are stuck on my cell phone.  My cell provider does not recognize my location.  And I forget to forward pictures to my email when I'm running errands in town and have coverage.

Yesterday morning, after my computer participated in an "origami yoda" session with Will, it lost contact with the mouse.  (Finally, last night Bill said, "Did you try taking the battery out to shut it down and reboot?"  Obviously, it worked because here I am...)

Amidst this technology rubble, Bill's hand is recovering nicely and construction is going as scheduled.

The house.

Well, it's amazing... absolutely amazing.  Interior walls are framed; electrical and plumbing are done.  The builders are in a holding pattern waiting for all the building inspectors to give the thumbs-up so the insulation crew can start.

Pictures of the interior might make sense to a construction crew, but to the naked eye without a set of plans, it looks as thought I've taken a shot of vertical 2x4's lined up evenly like dominoes, ready for someone to push over the first one.

On the other hand, exterior shots are all about obvious progress.

Side of house before:

Side of house after -- from a different angle:

Back of house before:

Back of house during:

Back of house after:

What a facelift, huh?

Liquid Farming: Fishing & Problem-solving

We’ve been throwing lines into the Annisquam River to fish.    From the beach or the 12x15 dock, there is a lot of ducking, casting, and reeling.  Plus mid-air swinging of lead hooks.  And plunked down rods when “I’ve-got-to-jump-in-now!” hits.  Leaving baited hooks and bare feet and a griping mother on the dock.  And giggles and swimmers in the water. For the perfectionists in our house, fishing is a test of patience.  Like golf, it’s not a matter of simply swinging a club or casting a line and getting the ball in the hole or a fish on the hook.  Both are games of variables.  Of problem-solving.  Of remaining calm when the perfect cast doesn’t land 10 yards in front of you in the middle of the river channel, but 20 yards to the right of you.  Over three people and a walkway to the dock next to you.   And anchors on the seaweed-covered lines holding that dock in place.  The look of horror brought to the face of a perfectionist in this event… predictable.

Then the diagnosis of the problem.  First, good job not hooking any of the three people.  Now, gently reel in the line following it as you go.  Yank, yank, yank at the scene of the stuck bobber, weight, and hook.  And… we yanked in the direction that pulled that tooth even deeper into the line.  Looks like we need to cut the fishing line.  But it’s the hand-chosen neon yellow bobber!

What next?  I could jump in and get it.  But I don’t have trunks and the water is pretty cold.  Hey, I could cut the line and wait for the tide to go out… then get my bobber!  Yes!  And, in the meantime you get to learn how to string your own fishing line.

And we haven’t even gotten to bait  type or to depth of bait in the water, never mind the true want of catching a fish.  Every seasoned fisherman and woman creates one solely designed path for a particular spot or fish species.  The trick is weaving the path through trial and err, not as the crow flies.  Not as the perfectionists will it.

(Our first fishing expedition was on the 4th of July.  This way of life, Liquid Farming, takes some getting used to.)

Liquid Farming

Six years ago when Will and I made the 16-hour drive from Chicago to Boston to join Bill, who had already started his new job, I wondered how or if people in Mass. made a living off the land. There were acres and acres of trees in western Mass. Forestry? As the trees dispersed, cities built up. Commerce on paper. After finding our house and trying to dig a new flower garden, I was soon convinced there was no money coming from the dirt. The land is full of ledge that I have so often bemoaned. Moving from the Midwest to Northeast, I fought hard trying to think what I glued to the map in 4th grade when we were studying states and main resources.  I’m sure I found corn for Iowa, and I remember using cotton for the South.  However, I have no recollection of the Northeast.

But now, I’m sitting on the north-eastern edge of the U.S. -- on a liquid farm called the Atlantic.

 

4th of July. Fireworks. Reading. Fishing.

Last night in Gloucester, we took in the traditional fireworks display.  Driving around the loud and crazy festivities at Gloucester Harbor, we found a small, quiet park on the opposite of the harbor.  Space for the boys to run around while we waited for the first bang.   Far enough away that the bangs, swizzles, whistles, and chasers didn’t force the guys to watch with hands over their ears.  We named the fireworks: gold waterfalls, pyrite rocks, spiders, and whistlers. This morning, giving ourselves permission to simply sit and read.  (OK, there is one Leapster whispering beside me…)  Only fidgeting enough to scratch the combined 50 no-see-um bites we have from early evenings outside.  No-see-ums are flying teeth.  Tiny, tiny bugs that you can’t see or feel until they bite.  The choice is go inside or spray on a thick coating of Off at 6 p.m.  I prefer nightly baths to feeding flying teeth.

With threatening clouds overhead, the river is quiet and the tide is in.  After meeting a retired commercial fisherman earlier this week on the beach, Liam was ready to throw in a hook.  Liam didn’t flinch as he watched Ed work the hook through the eyes of an 8-inch herring he was using as bait.  Ed missed a couple good bites while chatting with us, so we didn’t actually see a fish from the river.

The next day, we had a lesson from a very knowledgeable and patient Dick’s Sporting Goods manager on rigging up a fishing pole and what bait to use.  The Malcolms now own four fishing rods.  The boys cast their first lines later that same day.

Apparently, there are 28-inch striped bass – “stripers” – and blue fish in the Annisquam River.  I fear catching a fish, particularly since I can only identify Caribbean reef fish and Iowa bull-heads.  According to Ed, blue fish are swimming teeth – they should be easy to ID.  Ed showed me the needle-nosed pliers he uses to remove hooks from the mouths of blue fish.  Consequently, we bought a multi-purpose tool at Dick’s: needle-nose pliers/line cutters.

On the first visit to the dock, it was soon apparent that nothing would be hauled in: it was a casting, reeling, and untangling session.  I was relieved.  While this practice was going on, a small boat pulled up to the dock and we met the neighbors across the street.  Rich information was gathered during this brief introduction:  the woman who has lived here 50+ years knows how to clean and fillet fish.  So…

On the second visit, Bill and I lugged a big blue bucket with us.  I also took a heavy beach towel to use as a lid, should we catch a big fish.  With a cast on one hand and a pick-line-low-weight-lifting restriction on the other, Bill was not going to be the one to haul it in or take it off the hook.  (Actually even if he had two fully-operating hands, there’s a good chance I would still be the one to fight the fish.)  On the walk to the dock, I checked out the shade tree where I could leave the bucket of fish as I dashed up to the neighbor’s house to plead for help.  All for naught.  Yet again, a practice session with a lot of boat traffic.

Today, with a quiet river and high tide, I’ll take the bucket again.  And hope there is movement across the street at our neighbor’s house.

Fireworks.  Reading.  Fishing.

A quiet 4th of July.

Unless we catch a fish…

(More about Liquid Farming: Fishing & Problem-solving.)

Fireworks. Reading. Fishing.

Last night in Gloucester, we took-in the traditional fireworks display.  Driving around the loud and crazy festivities at Gloucester Harbor, we found a small, quiet park on the opposite of the harbor.  Space for the boys to run around while we waited for the first bang.   Far enough away that the bangs, swizzles, whistles, and chasers didn’t force the guys to watch with hands over their ears.  We named the fireworks: gold waterfalls, pyrite rocks, spiders, and whistlers. This morning, giving ourselves permission to simply sit and read.  (OK, there is one Leapster whispering beside me…)  Only fidgeting enough to scratch the combined 50 no-see-um bites we have from early evenings outside.  No-see-ums are flying teeth.  Tiny, tiny bugs that you can’t see or feel until they bite.  The choice is go inside or spray on a thick coating of Off at 6 p.m.  I prefer nightly baths to feeding flying teeth.

This morning, with threatening clouds overhead, the river is quiet and the tide is in.  After meeting a retired commercial fisherman earlier this week on the beach, Liam was ready to throw in a hook.  Liam didn’t flinch as he watched Ed work the hook through the eyes of an 8-inch herring he was using as bait.  Ed missed a couple good bites while chatting with us, so we didn’t actually see a fish from the river.

The next day, we had a lesson from a very knowledgeable and patient Dick’s Sporting Goods manager on rigging up a fishing pole and what bait to use.  The Malcolms now own four fishing rods.  The boys cast their first lines later that same day.

Apparently, there are 28-inch striped bass – “stripers” – and blue fish in the Annisquam River.  I fear catching a fish, particularly since I can only identify Caribbean reef fish and Iowa bull-heads.  According to Ed, blue fish are swimming teeth – they should be easy to ID.  Ed showed me the needle-nosed pliers he uses to remove hooks from the mouths of blue fish.  Consequently, we bought a multi-purpose tool at Dick’s: needle-nose pliers/line cutters.

On the first visit to the dock, it was soon apparent that nothing would be hauled in: it was a casting, reeling, and untangling session.  I was relieved.  While this practice was going on, a small boat pulled up to the dock and we met the neighbors across the street.  Rich information was gathered during this brief introduction:  the woman who has lived here 50+ years knows how to clean and fillet fish.  So…

On the second visit, Bill and I lugged a big blue bucket with us.  I also took a heavy beach towel to use as a lid, should we catch a big fish.  With a cast on one hand and a pick-line-low-weight-lifting restriction on the other, Bill was not going to be the one to haul it in or take it off the hook.  (Actually even if he had two fully-operating hands, there’s a good chance I would still be the one to fight the fish.)  On the walk to the dock, I checked out the shade tree where I could leave the bucket of fish as I dashed up to the neighbor’s house to plead for help.  All for naught.  Yet again, a practice session with a lot of boat traffic.

Today, with a quiet river and high tide, I’ll take the bucket again.  And hope there is movement across the street at our neighbor’s house.

Fireworks.  Reading.  Fishing.

A quiet 4th of July.

Unless we catch a fish…

Live from Gloucester, MA!

I have a new computer, and all of my old stuff is on it!  Even those 30 shots of an English rose -- clear, blurry, and/or questionable.  Love digital, but I don't sort out the good from the bad.  I just dump them on the computer to store.  You know... so they're safe. Bill's hand is recovering nicely.  As of Friday, no more twice daily hydrogen peroxide baths.  We've passed the two-week mark on daily antibiotic infusions.  Two to four weeks remaining.  Unfortunately, with the pick-line in, that means Bill can't get wet.  (In case you missed the beginning of this story, here it is -- in a round-about way...) In February, we planned the summer with water in mind.  Since the 24th of June, we've been waking up to kayaks, fishing boats, lobster boats, and motor boats on the Annisquam River.

With construction progressing on our addition, we moved out of our house as we flew to England on May 26th.  Literally.  We threw wet towels and toothbrushes on top of a 2-foot high pile of stuff on the dining room table as we scrambled out the door at 6 a.m. to catch a plane.  Everything from the kitchen and living room, which are being renovated, has been shoved into the dining room and toy room, which will remain unchanged.

We came back from England and checked into a hotel for two weeks, including the last week of school.  While in England, the builders took over the house, gutted some of the rooms, and put up framing that now marks the new rooms inside.  Now, it looks more like the architectural drawings than it looks like our old house.

In the three houses we have owned, we have had add-on plans for "some day."  Twenty years later, this is some day.  With the scope of work, we couldn’t try to live in the house.

We decided to rent a house for the summer on Cape Ann in Gloucester, a town about 40 minutes or so from our house.  It feels like it’s a flight away: watching lobster boats with seagulls chasing them early in the morning, seeing the Annisquam lighthouse flashing at night, structuring our days around high and low tide.  It has a bit of an island feel to it.  Really, we are living unstructured days around the tides.

We could have chosen to rent an apartment inland, but we chose something different.  A summer adventure.  After all, today is some day.

 

 

I Crashed the Gate Doing 98

Leaving the hospital (MGH) in Boston Friday, after my monthly visit, I plugged my paid ticket into the machine inside the garage.  Then I drove to the exit 100 yards away.  The barrier lifted as I slowly drove up to it. From there we went down the road to the Museum of Science.  I was chatting with the boys about where to park.  We like parking on the roof for the view of the city, but it was 98 degrees.  During the decision-making discussion, I rolled up to the barrier.   We talked about the impact of the sun on the heat index in the van.  Knowing full well the bright yellow barrier would open, I kept moving – right through the loud popping noise.  In my peripheral, I saw a long, yellow bar tumbling off the hood of my van.

Popped it off the hinges.   I didn’t scream.  I gently braked, muttering the line “…crashed the gate doing 98, saying ‘Let those truckers roll, 10-4…’ from the old “Convoy” song.

We were not doing 98 mph.  We were doing 98+ wpm.  Words per minute.

Subconsciously, I was waiting for the barrier to rise like the one at MGH.  I got out of the van and looked around.  The gentlemen cashiering came toward me, saying nothing.  “I’m so sorry!  I was talking to my kids and drove right through the barrier.”  Still nothing as he picked up the barrier from the ground.  “I’m sorry.”

Finally, “You’re not the first.  Pull ahead and I’ll get the ticket for you.”  It was that Nemo character’s voice – the one that has to go deflate the puffer fish, AGAIN.

By the time we left four hours later, it had been reattached and was functioning properly.  No damage done.

We have a membership at the museum.  We get to take a few friends in with us; we have discounts on the store and cafeteria and the Butterfly Garden, etc.  And at least one free “bust the barrier” day?

I imagine any mini-van full of kids gets that perk – without being a member.

Have a Happy Barrier-free Hump Day!

Computers and Clouds

Sigh. I’m writing from a strange computer. At my 10th request to close out of Cool Math 4 Kids , Liam did so with an abrupt closing of my laptop. Accompanied by a strange sound of something breaking. Alas, the computer I have been meaning to replace for a few months – the one I talk to and convince to continue on – broke. Unable to resuscitate it, my mood dampened.

Nothing backed up for six or more months. Stories not quite ready to be told. Stories about to be published – including Friday’s “Crash the gate doing 98.” Photos from January through the last day of school. Photos and in-process articles for the school's website.  All now in question.

Commence one trip to the big store with a yellow and blue logo. Give me a cavity filling and a mammogram in one day over a trip to this store. I struck out early Saturday morning and there was no wait in the meet-the-geek line. I picked out another computer like my old steadfast, but three years younger. I entered the modern age with a hotspot, big hard-drive back-up, and a new Microsoft Office package. I said, “I want to turn it on and use it when I get home.” I had great service from the sales guys, particularly when I said I was a blogger. That really seemed to speed things up. Particularly when I mentioned the appointments I would rather go to than to come here.

Easily, my computer would be ready that afternoon. But no call yesterday from the geek who would be transferring all my data from the old to the new.  I’m thinking no news is not good news.

When I go in to pick up the new computer, I’m getting advice on how to set-up automatic back-ups to the hard drive. 

I’m thinking, ‘Why didn’t I learn my lesson when my 3rd grader lost his whole outline in May after not saving it?’

I’m thinking, ‘Never again.”

I’m thinking, ‘I’ve said that before.’

 Is a cloud the answer?  Is there an automatic  back up to some memory cloud in the sky?

Maybe for the next computer. 

Ahhh, I just noticed that this draft was automatically saved.  I did not know that my blog entry point is a memory cloud!

Hoping for a silver lining later today... filled with all left undone on my old computer.

Uncovering the Real England: Cream

Hello from Salad-Land… North Shore, Massachusetts. I wrote the following a couple weeks ago while I was in the land of English Cream. Oh, the decadence of it. On vacation in England, sitting in the sun in Bill’s mum’s English garden, drinking a cup of coffee with a big glug of English double cream in it. Double cream pours out of the tub like a thick crepe batter.

In England, cigarette wrappers are prominently marked, “SMOKING KILLS.” I wonder how many more decades will pass before double cream, clotted cream, single cream, and any other full-fat cousins, will have a similar warning.

Still, in the Malcolm house in England, a lighter version of cream is now in the fridge: Elmlea. Elmlea can be purchased as a single cream or a double cream, but the dead giveaway that it’s a fraud: it doesn’t float to the top of the coffee when poured – at least the single version didn’t when I poured it into my coffee. I read the ingredients to see how Elmlea is lightened: Added vegetable oil. Processed. I can’t remember the exact grams and what the serving size was, but this is an exaggerated, approximated ratio: 3,000 to 2,500. To which I ask, why bother? So, the last half of the trip, I used the real thing.

Double cream has multiple purposes, in addition to floating on coffee.  When eating trifle, Yule log, and most other spoon-eaten desserts, cream is slathered over the top. Nowadays, I try to get to the distribution point to stop this pour – with the exception of the Yule log.

On one of these pourings, which initially felt over-the-top, I had a couple déjà vu moments. Growing up, Dad poured milk over every cake dessert, and as kids, we used to break up graham crackers, sprinkle sugar on them, and reduce them to mush with milk. Then there is the famous cookie that loves milk: Oreos. This smothering of milk products over food was not as foreign to me as I initially thought.

But back to cream.

For the first 18 years of my life, I drank raw, whole, straight-from-the-cow milk. I remember pulling 2-quart pitchers from the fridge in the morning and being disgusted by 1 ½ inches of cream on the top. We would ladle it off and dump it down the drain. Every single chunky bit needed to be gone before we would pour it on our cereal.

Fast forward 23 years to cream tea.  It's up for discussion which is spread first on the scone: jam or clotted cream, but either way, the combination of sweet and rich atop a fresh scone and accompanied by English tea... mmmm.  That's a "cream tea."

Clotted cream originates from Devonshire in England and it spreads like butter. The most memorable cream tea I’ve had was next to a clapper bridge on the Dartmoor in Devon. Scones & jam served on paper plates with tubs of clotted cream: ¼ pound per person.  Fortunately, as I sat down on a rock next to a clapper bridge, my tub rolled into the stream, so Bill and I shared one.

Since first having clotted cream in 1989, I’ve browsed recipes trying to work out how it’s made. One specified, “First, go to a local farm for fresh milk, preferably from Jersey cows.” I love it when a recipe is an adventure.  Some day.  Probably not in Iowa.  Most dairy cows I see there are Holsteins. Probably not in England. I don’t know any farmers. Perhaps Vermont, known for its small dairies and friendly community. And, home of Ben & Jerry’s: the frozen American cousin of clotted cream.

...

The rest of the summer I write about salads and fish. However, I still sip coffee with half & half every morning and think back to that double cream rich coffee morning in an English garden.

P.S. This recipe for clotted cream looks pretty simple and true to recipes I found in English cookbooks, but I haven’t tried it myself. I’m afraid to. Honestly, it’s in my best interest to let clotted cream remain on English soil... with goose fat.

My Warrior Prince

Journal from yesterday, June 14th... I’ve been keeping small, tidy, realistic lists this week.

Today, meet with builder at 7 a.m.  Go with Bill to follow-up hand appt. at 9 a.m.  Go to Lowes to find light fixtures at 11 a.m.  Get Will to gymnastics at 4:30 p.m.  Go with Bill at 6 p.m. to finalize plumbing fixture selection.  Get Will from gymnastics at 7:30 p.m.

A famous person once said the only thing you can plan for is a picnic.  Insinuating everything else will be rearranged.  He was right. Today’s juggle started at 7 a.m.  Get plumbing valves before the lights.  Clean out LEGO structure closet by Monday so drain pipe can be built in.

At Bill’s doctor’s appointment, Lowes, plumbing valves, and the LEGOS closet got pushed to back burner.  Bill has a staph infection in his hand.  Based on the x-ray, the ortho doctor/surgeon thought it was deeper than the pin entry points.  (Pins were removed Tuesday.  At that point, she saw the infection and booked an operating room for today on the very, very outside chance she might need to clean up Bill’s hand.)  Bill’s surgery was on for 1:30.

As Bill sat with the open wound, she reviewed the possible scenarios, including two or three days in the hospital with intravenous antibiotics – at which point a bit of blood spouted from Bill’s hand.  The doctor and nurse gave a little scream. Bill didn’t know what was going on.  I thought, “Wow, the thought of a hospital stay pushed his blood pressure up a few points and blood shot right out of the hole in his hand!”  Cool science.

The doctor explained that it was only a drop of blood.  “It’s a girl thing.  You’re OK, it’s just a drop of blood, but we don’t want it to drop on your pants.”  Bless them, murmured the Laundry Maven.

Pre-op at 12:00 p.m. through post-op endpoint at 7:20 p.m. felt a bit like a Saturday Night Live skit.  Nurse Betty came in talking about installation of a “pick-line” while the infectious disease (ID) doctor – with a pocket protector and a stack of binder-clipped 3x5 note cards – explained, numerous times, how infection works, how a nurse would be coming to our house once a day for four weeks to administer IV antibiotics and change dressings, how Bill wouldn’t be working for a few days.

Bill and I are throwing looks back and forth.  Finally, I said, “This is all a bit of a surprise to us as this wasn’t the conversation we had with the ortho doctor this morning.  This is the first we are hearing about any of this as definite.”

Backpedalling a little – yet continuing in the vein of intravenous antibiotics, the ID doctor asked where we lived in case we had to up daily visiting nurse visits.  Bill answered.  To Bill, I said, “No, we don’t live there.  We don’t have a house right now.”  To the ID doc I said, “We are putting an addition on our house and have moved out for the summer.  We are in a hotel for two weeks then living in a house in Gloucester for the summer.”

That crazy scenario threw him, so he went back to defining infection.  With three nurses, the surgeon, and an anesthesiologist present, no one could turn him off.  Finally, in my most assertive voice I started saying, “Thank you, doctor.  You’ve BEEN very helpful.  Thanks for coming BYE.”  Finally, he waved and said, “Good luck with the addition!” which put an awkward silence in the air amongst us strangers.  “That would be a house addition, not a baby addition,” I added.  It took a while for Bill to catch it; through laughter he said, “I feel a blog post coming on!”  Oh yeah.

When the 4th medical professional asked if I would be staying here while Bill was in surgery, I replied, “No.  I’m going to the Caribbean.”

Enter capable, trustworthy, bright surgeon who explained she would flush the area during surgery, Bill would have a pick line put in after surgery, and then he would have daily antibiotics administered by the Nurse Maiden.  Said Nurse Maiden – me – would also need to change bandages three times a day after we bathed the area in Hydrogen Peroxide and water.

Hmmm… I have a compromised lymph node system.  If my doctors are afraid of the dirt in my flower gardens, I probably shouldn’t be dabbling in staph infection.  The purple rubber gloves on the wall fit me, so I added a couple pairs to the pile of take-home gauze.

Bill to surgery.  Arrival of very nice man to explain at-home IV system.  The conversation moved along quickly as chemo déjà vu proved helpful.  I understood it all and suggested adding the step of giving patients gum before the saline push.

Bill out of surgery.  Surgeon’s speculations were correct: infection is in the bone and tendon.  She has flushed it, it’s super clean, and it’s deep, so the Nurse Maiden shouldn’t be surprised when changing the dressings.  Bill sees the surgeon again next Tuesday for a follow-up.

Bill’s in recovery, waiting for pick-line set up.  I was just asked if I had the original prescriptions.  No, I haven’t been given any paperwork.  Oh dear.  I just told the nurse this feels like a Saturday Night Live skit.

Please pick-line my husband, give him a big dose of antibiotics, and let me take him home.  Er, to the hotel.

At 3:30 I mentioned that I have to pick up the boys from school by 6:00 p.m.  It was field day, so I knew a longer day at school would be more than OK with a bouncy castle sitting outside the building.  “Oh, you will be out of here long before then.  They are nearly done with the pick-line and then they will just take an x-ray to make sure it’s placed correctly.”

At 4:30 I finally see Bill, who hadn’t been given any food.  “I feel funny.  My head has been on a folded up blanket, not a pillow, and my feet are hanging off the edge of the bed.”  And you haven’t eaten since 6 p.m. yesterday.  And one paw is in a huge gauze bandage and the other has an IV in the bend in your arm and a pick-line on the inside of your upper arm.  And your arm is orange.  And I see the wheels spinning, “&*(^% two-handed catch.”

Yes, it all started with a two-handed catch on a beautiful spring evening playing softball under the lights.  The ball hit a finger on the ungloved hand and broke a bone in that hand.  I recognized the look.  Today Bill joined the rank of Warrior.   The Warrior Princess’s Warrior Prince.

At 5:15 and four x-rays later, I decide to get the boys from school.  The radiologist couldn’t see the 52 cm of tubing that had been fished into his vein.  “Just call us when you get back and we will bring him down.”   At 6:00 we returned with a Dunkin’ Donuts bagel for Bill.  It was an evening of Dunkin’ Donuts and potato chip appetizers for the boys.

After waiting in the van for a half hour, the pick-line picture still hadn’t come through.  The boys were given permission to come into the recovery room, where kids are “never allowed.”  They were given this-will-make-it-better popsicles that the nurse stole from the OR.

At 7:00, a 5th x-ray was taken.  Finally, “It’s satisfactory.”  We closed the place down at 7:20 and got home at 7:36.

It’s now 12:00 a.m. tomorrow.  All are bedded down, but the Nurse Maiden is contemplating all that is ahead in the coming weeks – yet knowing that this day will make a quick IV and thrice daily hydrogen peroxide baths seem like a piece of cake.

We are given these Warrior days for a reason.

MS Living vs LM Living

May 26, 2012 Dear Martha,

I can’t help but wonder if I shouldn’t subscribe to Martha Stewart Living again.  It’s been a challenging few weeks.  Could your advice have helped? In getting ideas for the addition on our house, I did pick up your issue titled something like “Everything Organized.”  How often do you dust all those open shelves or do you have a machine that just blows the dust off?  Do paper airplanes ever land in the plates?  Do kids ever use cups as target practice with rockets or balls?  Do you ever go to serve your soup and find a dead fly in a bowl?

What a great suggestion to tear out recipes and articles from magazines and place them in plastic pocket protectors in a 3-ring binder, rather than keep the whole magazine.  However, I couldn’t find my craft exacto knife to gently cut the pages out nor did I have time to run to Staples.  In the end, I shoved all the magazines into a box.

The Laundry Maven lost focus over the last few weeks with packing and getting ready for all the month’s adventures.  Unsure of your take on drying clothes, whether you prefer the dryer or clothesline drying.  I thought your readers might benefit from this tip:

If you wash a t-ball shirt Monday, anticipating the 6 p.m. game on Wednesday, but forget to dry that particular load until 5:33 p.m. Wednesday… well, it can be done, assuming you are driving to the game.  Put the shirt in the dryer on high for 10 minutes.  At minute 9, get the kids in the van – make sure the t-ball player is dressed in a similar colored shirt to the team shirt (just in case).  Get the shirt out of the dryer, windows down in the car, hold the shirt by the hem, and keep it inflated as you drive.  You may need to give it a shake occasionally to keep it full of air.  With an 8-minute drive, it will be dry enough to wear without the player feeling damp.

Pretty sure I saw your twin, or at least an avid MS Living reader, on the airport bus at 6:30 a.m. this morning.  I carried my youngest onto the bus in bare feet and mismatched pajamas.  While I wrestled his toes into yesterday’s socks and his shoes, the Iron Maiden’s littlest boy sat on her lap perfectly starched and bathed.  His roosters were evenly dispersed over his head, unlike my little guy’s random roosters.  Some day when he takes showers in the morning instead of baths at night, he too will have even roosters.

You know, I really don’t have time to read or live up to MS Living, but I think something like LM Living might give people more comfort in their realities… of living.

Sincerely,

Linda Malcolm

Fruit in the Bathroom

(From May 30th...) Remember, Harrison and Olivia?

After a bad bout of constipation, Mom and Olivia had a discussion about the importance of fiber and how it helps food moving through the tummy. “Like strawberries, Mom?” Yes, she was getting it. “This won’t happen again if I eat lots of strawberries?” Well, it won’t happen as often.

A month later, Mom hears a scream. “Strawberries! I want strawberries!” Mom tears down the stairs to find Olivia wide-eyed on the toilet. “I need strawberries NOW!!”

Double dilemma: It’s a little late for the strawberries, and there are no strawberries in the house. Explaining the benefits of fiber taking hours to work through a tummy seemed useless. “We don’t have strawberries, but pears do the same thing!” Mom called truthfully from the kitchen as she peeled and chopped pears.

Mom sat on the edge of the tub and forked pieces into the little bird’s mouth then took a deep breath, “OK… that’s all there is.”

Mom and Olivia looked at each other, both wide-eyed, wondering what would happen next.

“Ahhhhhhh… thanks, Mom.”

“You’re welcome, honey.”

.......

Happy Hump Day!

A few blips from the Avon Walk

At the boys' gymnastics club, there is routinely a bag of frozen veggies lying on a bench. Frozen peas and corn make great ice packs. Today my left foot is warming up a bag of peas and the right is using an ice pack given to Bill after surgery on his arm. The peas feel best. I think my feet are having chemo flashbacks: occasional sharp pains. But really, is it neuropathy pain or 45-year-old-that-just-walked-26-miles pain? Before the details of the weekend fall into the vat of slushy memories, here are a few blips from those two days.

Most people walked in teams and wore team t-shirts: “Save the ta-tas” “Stop the war on my raq” “Hakuna ma ta tas” (worn by a team of 14 women who raised $38,000 this year) “Don’t be a boob. Get a mammogram.” “Save 2nd base”

And then there were the survivors with a sense of humor: “Yes, these are fake… my real ones tried to kill me.”

Signs that walkers pinned to their backs showed who they were "In it to end it" for. Most signs had several names. Occasionally there was only one person's name:

“I’m in it to end it for <- her” ("Her" pointed to her friend, a breast cancer survivor.)

A photo of a woman born in 1967. “RIP… we love you.” That one was haunting.

Youth crews cheered us on at rest stops. A 13-year-old boy with pink hair filled our water bottles while chanting, “Drink and pee, avoid IV’s!”

Yours truly at mile 8 the second day: “Ahhh, there’s a line of porta-potties – we are close to the next rest stop!” At my side, Amy: “That’s a cemetery.” My eyes sent the image of a row of grave stones to my brain as a row of porta-potties.

$4.8M raised for the Avon Walk Boston this year

Out of 2,100 walkers, 242 were breast cancer survivors.

The sign on the back of my shirt:  "In it to end it for all Princess Warriors."

I could name at least 24 Princess Warriors. Way too many...

Coffee with a Vixen

(from May 16th) At 5 a.m., I can have a cup of coffee and organize the marbles before the “let’s-get-out-the-door” hubbub starts. Ahhh… That peaceful lull guaranteed between 5 and 6 a.m. One day, I glanced outside to see if the Vulpe vulpes were up and playing yet. Just the mom, the vixen, was out – curled up quietly in the sun. I sat down on the fox-viewing couch with my computer and my coffee and wondered whether she would enjoy a cup of coffee. It wasn’t long before the first pounce. Then the second. The third. And she was on her feet. Then nine baby foxes were at her feet. She reached down and started to clean the closest one. Whoosh! That move was like pushing a “scatter” button. She immediately created three-feet of personal space all around her – with the exception of the one cub she was cleaning. All this without a sound, just a lot of scampering. Silent words surrounding bath time filled the air. “I don’t need a bath… I’m not dirty… Stop it, it tickles when you wash my ears… My hair doesn’t need washed… The itchy bugs aren’t bothering me… NO BATH!”

Later that day, we watched as the vixen was moving rather strangely behind one of the rocks. A little off-balance and awkward. Going to the bathroom? Rabies? After dragging herself toward the rock, she lunged on top of it and cubs detached from her and rolled onto the ground. They came scrambling back to the dairy, but she turned and gave them the eye: another “scatter” button had been pushed.

Throughout the day, we see the cubs more often than the mother. Three or four cubs will play in one area then move off or be joined by a couple more. All day the vixen paces along the ledge, keeping an eye on their wide playground. Familiar noises and movements don’t startle them. However, if the neighbor’s dog comes out or the kids run outside, boom. They run into the ledge. Occasionally, we hear the vixen’s strange, short alarm yelp. That is her “gather” button. No talking back. No “just-one-more-time” or “I just gotta finish this level.” The cubs head for cover.

Late evening, they all disappear. Bedtime. For nine. Now that I would like to see.

That vixen deserves a coffee in the morning.

(Speaking of coffee in the morning, nothing compares to a cup of English coffee with double cream... Uncovering the Real England: Cream.)

Surgery for Bill

Hump Day this week (May 7th) may be followed by hand surgery for Bill on Thursday. Let's just say that only two Malcolm boys will be on the baseball diamonds this season. This also means that Bill is Done with the LEGO Designs for a while. I got my glove out tonight and caught some powerful pitches from Liam the Lefty. He's got a lot of heat behind that ball. And his facial expression in the wind-up... whew, made me shudder. The very look I get when he's hoppin' mad is the same one he gives before the pitch.

Oh wait, he was throwing to me. Coincidence?

Decisions, Decisions, Decisions

Decisions, decisions, decisions. That’s what the beautiful spring weather has brought to the Malcolm house. The night before a meeting with our builder, we were left with the decision of fireplace design.

After a brief discussion with Bill about the questions that our builder posed, I went to bed that night worrying about placement of the seated hearth and how much space to lose with pulling the fireplace into the room to allow for built-ins on either side of it. Then I went on to what kind of stone it would be. That must have been when I feel asleep because the next morning I woke up feeling – and looking – like I had slept in the boys’ rock tumbler.

When I reached the dining room, I saw a new LEGOS construction on the corner of the table where my computer goes. I can’t confine these crazy pieces to any one room, as much as I try. I was about to whip it into a LEGO box when that familiar little voice stopped me, “Oh, it might be the beginning of the Death Star.” I scooted it aside and made room for my computer.

Enter Bill with a victorious smile on his face. “Did you see my fireplace?” I hadn’t seen a drawing other than the one he sketched the night before. “This one!"

Yes, after I went to bed in my tumbler, Bill opened a bottle of wine and got out the LEGOs.

And this is the fireplace model is that we showed to the builder that morning.

Here’s to opposites that still attract…

(At the end of the summer, the real thing beared an amazing resemblance to the LEGO model.  Have a look in Summer Numbers.) 

Jubilee Sunday

Queen Elizabeth’s Jubilee, celebrating 60 years on the throne, is Tuesday, June 5th.  We are visiting Bill’s home isle during a very patriotic time. On Sunday the 3rd, Queen Elizabeth kicked off festivities in a pageant down the Thames: a parade of 1,000 boats.  It was pouring with rain, which the commentators explained “couldn’t dampen this day – typical British weather!”  The Queen looked royal and happy when we saw her lead off the parade.

Just after the Queen boarded the Royal Barge beginning her historical journey down the Thames, another group – Bill’s mum and sister, friend Jane, and I – embarked on a journey toward afternoon cream tea at Hanbury Manor, a stately hotel in the countryside near Ware, Hertfordshire, England. Not only is June 5th the Queen’s Jubilee, it is also Bill’s mum’s 80th birthday.  Jane was treating Bill’s mum to afternoon cream tea for her birthday, and Ann was treating me as an early birthday present.  In America I would say, “Wonderful!”  On the Island, I say, “Lovely!”

Tea commenced in the Oak Hall…

… and it really was lovely.

Dark wooden walls ensconced small conversation areas of big royal chairs circling tables of white linen set with fine English china.  Each of us had a pot of tea.  (Mine was decaf as the night before my heart nearly thumped out of my body after the rations of caffeine during the day… multiple cups of coffee and tea, dotted with a couple Diet Cokes at the pub the night before.)

I wondered about the tea strainer on the table.  Alas, this was real tea – with tea leaves floating inside each of our pots!  Soon the centerpieces were delivered: tiered trays of afternoon delights.  On the bottom plate were finger sandwiches of smoked salmon, beef, egg salad, and cucumber.  The middle plate – to my heart’s delight – scones, clotted cream, and strawberry jam.  And finally on top, was dessert.  Tiny pastries of chocolate, fruit, custard, and walnut bread.  Two hours later,  we drove home in the rain.

And as for the Queen?  The river parade had ended by the time we returned home.  I think the Queen’s – and her court’s – enthusiasm waned a bit during the water parade.

On the far left, Princess Kate, holding up that new-princess smile.  Next to her, Prince Philip consulting Prince Charles over… the weather?  Between the two of them, Camilla.  To the far right, big brother Prince William consoling little brother Prince Harry over… the weather?  And, finally, Queen Elizabeth between the sets of Princes.  Personally, I think she would have enjoyed an afternoon cream tea.  (Double-click the picture to enlarge the story.)

Despite the rain, both were historical events.

By the way, great pictures from the royal parade on the Thames are on the Daily Mail’s site.

Canal Transport

I’m game to try all modes of transport – or most anyway.  If it’s a one person doo-dad, I do best on my own.  Not as a passenger.  Ski-doos, bikes, and mopeds fall into this category.  As with ballroom dancing, I like to lead. Our journey to Bath landed us on the River Avon, one of four such named in England.  Long skinny barges were parked along the river’s edge.  The definition of barge and lock widened -- or narrowed -- in my mind when I first saw these in England. Until then, my point of reference was barges and locks on the Mississippi River.  Barges in England carry charm and quaintness, unlike their floating counterparts on the Mississippi.  I have always thought this would be a lovely way to see the English countryside, to find small out-of-the-way pubs… to relax.

Barges first sailed canals and rivers via horse power – the four-legged kind.  A tow rope would run between barge and horse; then the horse would walk along the canal slowly dragging the barge with it.  Today, canals have towpaths next to them which were worn by horses' hooves years ago.

Lock systems are in place to move boats through varying depths/heights of water.  This engineering feat still amazes me; however, I had never seen anything like this which is outside Bath.

A series of 14 locks built in the 1800’s.  Under the bridge we were on and farther downstream was another series of 13 locks.  These are all manual locks.  It takes 7 hours to move through them.  Ahhh.  Seven hours of solitude.  Perhaps writing or reading.  Similar to walking 26 miles or stirring a pot of risotto for a half hour.  That’s it.  That’s all you could do: focus on one thing.

Would there be enough books, drawing paper, origami paper, LEGOS to manage a creeping voyage for 6-, 8- and 50-something year-olds?  For the Malcolms, this vehicle might work best if I flew solo, like the moped, because this looks incredibly boring in the best possible way.

(When Bill thinks about traveling with me, the word vacation isn't what comes to mind... Book Draggin'.)