TdJ: Baking Bread

When Chloe, my 17 year old daughter, was a toddler, I baked my first loaf of bread.  I used the recipe found in the bread bible of my twenties, The Laurel Kitchen's Bread Book.  It was for a yeasted whole wheat, just the basic loaf.  I was one of those rare lucky ones, and my first loaf turned out almost perfect.  It had heft but also a crusty fluffiness as well, with an almost nutty aftertaste.  I was enamored. My ex-husband was intrigued but alas not sold, as he grew up with plastic white bread and to this day, well into his forties, will consume nothing else.  My little blonde, blue-eyed enigma however, toddled into the kitchen and devoured a slice slathered with herb butter.  Thus an informed, more nuanced palate was born. A fact which I am sure she both blesses and curses me for.

And like all meaningful events, that first loaf of bread has eclipsed all others.  My last loaf was born almost 7 years ago.  The last baby was just a baby, and her father was nonplussed (as he is only slightly more adventuresome in palate than the other one) and my heart wasn't in it.  I had baked it in response to drunken taunting from my husband, "You say you can do it, but I've never seen it.  You're probably lying about it."  In the midst of severe postpartum depression, I trudged into a cold kitchen with a baby tied to my hip and made that damn bread.  From the process emerged a hefty albeit tasty brick.  The husband staggered into the kitchen to cut himself a slice, pressing the loaf into a patty as he sawed through.  The brick was further decimated into an inch or so remnant.  I tossed it into the trash, never tasting it myself.

Baking bread is an exercise in faith.  In hope the ingredients are assembled.  It matters where and how long ago the flour was milled from the grain.  Science enters the picture as the yeast is dissolved in a bath of perfect temperature.  Like life, you have to get in there and get your hands dirty as you knead and knead again to form the dough.  There is also the time of hibernation, where the loaf proofs, the yeast working its magic, as your efforts rest under a clean dish towel like a little nap in a warm room.  And finally the risk of shoving all this work into the oven, like sending your child into the world, and not really knowing what will result when the loaf emerges from the fiery furnace.

One of these days I hope to have the time off work, a moment to myself, and some stolen moments from exhaustion and pain to bake bread again.  I'd like to exercise some faith.

TdJ: Housecleaning

I assume this post should be entitled, "Housekeeping," but I am not sure this is a topic I can write much about.

There's not much housecleaning that goes on at Chez Terre.  With my current schedule and feeling crappy or exhausted most of the time, housecleaning is usually relegated to the weekends, where I cram 7 days of living in a day and a half.  It's a lackluster effort to be sure, but it is better than nothing.

If I used the Martha Stewart measurement to assess my domestic duties, I would be lucky to get a C-.  Fortunately, I grade myself on a steep curve.  In my head, I envision the family dynamic as measured against a sepia-toned 1950s sit-com, except in this version, I am the dude in the suit.  I'm the one who shoves off each day to work while the spouse stays home.  Just like Tim doesn't wear pearls or greet me at the door with slippers and a cigar, I don't often make it home in time for dinner - unless dinner is served at 9PM or later.  And I do way more housework than Ward, and nowhere near as much as June.  I do more housework than Carol Brady however, simply because Alice doesn't live here.  Ever.

When I close my eyes and picture my perfect household, it's not perfect.  It is clean, no tumbleweeds of dog hair.  And it smells good.  Like bread baking, or soup simmering, and clean wind sun-kissed from the clothesline.

So what would it take for the housecleaning to be all it can be?  Well, me to have a normal schedule for starters.  And then for me to manage what time I do have in such a way to dedicate more time more than once every 7 days.  For example, tonight I have slept one hour and then woken up in pain and can't sleep for the pain.  If I could clean through the insomnia, perhaps.  Or if I could sleep and then feel better so I have energy for cleaning as well as working and interacting with humans....  At this late hour, it all feels like fantasy.

TdJ: Physical Health

Today's post will have to be short, as I have overslept this morning.  I came home last night and the gas had been shut off so we have no heat and hot water.  It's hard for me to sleep when the bedroom temperatures slip below 60 degrees, so I did not sleep well and woke up with severe congestion and a pounding headache.

My physical health is a concern simply because so much depends upon it.  I am not permitted to take sick days and so becoming sick can jeopardize my job.  My job takes on mythic proportions because I am the sole working adult in my household.  If I take a sick day my children may become homeless.  At least that's how I see it.  I mean, I haven't taken a minute off work and we don't have heat or hot water. I guess that's kind of telling.  It's always all up to me.  And so I can't get sick, ever.  And if I do, I have to work through it, keep doing everything that is expected and demanded of me.

As far as my physical health goes, I have the usual laundry list that a typical fat 43 year old would have: fibromyalgia, migraines, hypertension, irritable bowel syndrome, this weird years-long tooth/jaw/neck pain, chronic sinus and allergy issues, plantar fasciitis, back pain, sleep apnea.  Good times.

I also get a bit crazed about my physical health because, as I have said before, I am not one of the Chosen Americans lucky enough to have health insurance.  I am the first person in my family in two generations not to have health insurance.  It is has been pointed out to me that my income and lack of benefits mirrors the value of my job and what I do, and I just hope that is not true.  It's not to me.  I prefer to think society is just really skewed in its priorities when people who play basketball are paid millions and people who work with people with disabilities are not paid enough to support their families or have health care.

So this is all I have time for for.  I could kvetch for pages, and have in the past, so I am going to let it go  today.  I feel too sick to write about physical health.  Ironic, isn't it?

TdJ: Cooking

And today I come to a joy.
Basically, with Topic du Jour every third post is a joy in my life.  The instructions were to alternate with a worry, then something I need to pay attention to, then a joy.  Hence, this is the third TdJ, so this is the joy.

I love to cook.

Sometimes I am fabulous.  And I don't just mean, "Damn right I am great in the kitchen, I could eat for hours."  Although I used to be able to eat for hours, but then again, that is another TdJ.

I actually enjoy the act of cooking.  I like throwing some ingredients together - especially organic, home grown (i.e., farmer's market - no garden for me the last few years), working the alchemy and then savoring the results.

Usually my results are pretty good.  They range from sublime to edible.  In the process I have been able to educate at least one child's palate.

Case in point: Sunday night I had created a dipping oil for some sourdough to go with our shrimp scampi and pasta and wilted in garlic oil rainbow chard.  I used the new bottle of olive oil to wilt the chard, but the EVOO (which has been around and loving used for a few months - not so extra virgin olive oil any more, whore) on the dipping sauce.  The husband slurped it up.  The 17 yr old took one swipe with her bread and then said, "Disgusting!  What the hell is that?" and pointed to the dipping oil. I took a tentative taste: rancid.  Husband cannot taste that oil is rancid.  I am not sure why - perhaps the 50 years of eating shitty food has ruined his palate?  Maybe because he is a yankee and eats weird shit? Or maybe because his childhood gourmet delights were shit on a shingle and creamed peas?  Who knows.  At any rate, I am proud of my elder daughter, who caught it right away.  She is the one I raised with less male interference.  The younger daughter ate pasta with cheese on it that night.  No shrimp.  A crust of dry bread.  She is fighting the education of her palate all the way.  I suspect that when I am not around, her father is telling her that food not on the dollar menu is not worth eating, or some shit.  Because she is the least adventuresome consumer I have met.  Even my mother and sister will venture out on a culinary limb more often.

However, sometimes the results of my kitchen witch alchemy are less than sublime.  I've already told you of Sunday's rancid dipping sauce.  I have made things from recipes which were hideous.  I have also gotten a bag or two of vegetables at Trader Joe's that sounded wonderful by description but fell flat in the meal.  I have made things that were perfectly fine but by the time they were served I was no longer in the mood for them.  I have also made things - and this occurs most often - that my family loves but I cannot for the life of me understand the allure.

I am an impatient cook.  I am not afraid of the high setting on the stove.  I do not panic when pots boil and a little water sloshes.  My husband, however, if he hears a pot boiling, will go shut the stove off entirely or turn it down low.  A real problem if the recipe calls for boiling for longer than 30 seconds, which all of them do.  I am not a fan of overcooked pasta, yet my husband eschews al dente for mushy.     The most entertaining experiment in my household has been the whistling tea pot.  When I first started using it again (instead of the electric hot pot I've used for years for my tea), Tim and Chloe would go insane when it would whistle, run into the kitchen, turn off the stove and yell for me that the pot was whistling.  Now he will lie on the couch and she in her bed and ignore that thing until it boils dry.

I am also in love with garlic.  It features in at least two meals I cook each week.  My herb and spice cabinet is three shelves in a dedicated cabinet, and when I cleaned and organized it - New Year's Eve, of course - I counted over 100 varieties.  I had 11 kinds of curry, which I do feel is excessive, as I only make curries a couple of times a month.

I don't cook as much as I would like.  This is usually because I am so exhausted when I get home from work, or so overwhelmed and over life in general on the weekends.  There is also the fact the kitchen is usually a mess from the culinary efforts and grazing of the rest of the family, who inhabit the house a great deal of hours per day than I do.

Cooking is comfort.  It is a way to exert a tangible effort to nurture my daughters.  And it's a creative outlet.  I am down with that.

TdJ: Sleep Habits

I was all set to write about how I never get any sleep.  And this may be true tomorrow and for the rest of the week.  But I snoozed last night from about 9PM until 5AM this morning.  None too shabby.  Of course, my husband and my mother came in and woke me up.  My mother just wanted to give me a newspaper article on fibromyalgia (ironic, since that was my TdJ yesterday and the newspaper article said WAY less than yesterday's bog post), so that was nice.  But Tim came in and woke me up twice.  Once to look at what was playing on my television ("As Time Goes By," I am a sucker for the older BBC stuff} because my mother was watching television in the living room and Tim was suffering from some kind of withdrawal not being lulled by the idiot box for an hour or so.  And then again to tell me that I needed to move my books off the bed so he could put Tara (our 7 year old) in my bed because he had decided that she needed to go to bed right then, that she needed to sleep with me, and if she did not go to sleep, I would be the one to wrangle sleep from her.  Oh, and I forgot about the third time he came in to wake me up.  He had lost his phone and was looking for it.  Said he needed to set an alarm to get up this morning to get the little one ready for school.  He forgets he has an alarm clock on his television which is now less than three feet away from his couch nest.  

Last week I started the week on no sleep at all.  Mainly because of my teeth aching so badly that I could not sleep, but also because of the child's sleep similar trick.  She had slept until 3PM last Sunday because I spent the morning reading and writing, and so she did not sleep at all.  Of course, she came right home on Monday afternoon and went to bed.  No such luck for me, as I was scheduled in five counties and drove home from Richmond (through Madison, Fayette, Scott, Woodford and Franklin counties, if anyone is counting) at almost 7PM Monday night with the windows down, freezing myself and blaring the radio and trying to stay awake to drive....  

I give these vignettes as illustrations about some of the reasons why I don't sleep.  There are more, of course.  

Back in my mid-thirties I was diagnosed with sleep apnea.  I snore.  I stop breathing while I am asleep and sometimes wake myself up when I do stop breathing.  I do sleep much better with a C-Pap machine.  I even have an old one.  Of course, it needs filters, hoses, etc. changed regularly.  I last did this about 4 or 5 years ago.  It cost me over $200.  It was an ordeal.  I had to call around and finally go meet a lady who reminded me of nothing but Mr Rogers' grandmother in a strangely quiet office building.  The room she led me to had a desk or two and several boxes on the floor.  She furtively slid my C-pap hose, a bagged filer and mask shield, all wrapped in flimsy plastic across the desk at me.  

She kept clearing her throat and saying she was nervous, she had never sold to anyone without health insurance before.  I felt illicit.  The entire transaction felt like a drug deal.  At any moment, I thought the Republican proprietary police would burst in and convict me - without trial, of course - of trying to purchase goods and services reserved for the Chosen Americans, lucky enough to have health insurance, running vehicles and Clean Modern Homes.  A fifties nightmare.  

So the sleep apnea is another reason why my quality of sleep is slightly shitty.  When I do sleep, I don't get the sleep "normal" people get.  

Another reason I don't sleep is anxiety.  I think many of my physical problems can be traced back to anxiety.  At the core of my being, I feel like an impostor pretending to be an adult.  Being the only adult in a household - the only working adult who worries about things like working, paying bills, having food, feeding the kids, keeping a roof over their heads, not living in filth, the kids' educations, the kids' health, et cetera - scares the shit out of me.  I know that, no matter what, no matter how sick or bad I feel, no matter how overwhelmed, that I have to get up and pretend to be an adult, ignore my interests, desires, and needs for 12 to 20 hours a day while I go to work.  Once at work, everything is my problem.  Toilets need to be cleaned?  I do it.  Trash need to be taken out? I do it.  Phone ringing?  I answer it.  Filing needs to be done?  I come in on a weekend for a full work day and do nothing but that.  Someone wants to blow off their 4 to 6 to (maximum!) 8 hour day?  I do their work and mine too.  I am the only one not allowed to have an "off" day or a day off.  Back at home, I am an asshole because I work too late.  But I am also an asshole because I don't make enough money to fund the 17 year old's  social life while supporting the husband's cigarette habit while allowing us to live in a palace.  I am also an asshole because I bitch about money and feeling overwhelmed.  I also am an asshole because I don't care if the other two adults got to watch their soap opera that day, or what time in the afternoon they decided to get out of bed.  I am also an asshole because when my family gets sick, unless I have at least $50 cash in hand, they have to stay sick and weather it through.  No diagnoses or antibiotics for us.  We aren't Chosen Americans, despite my 60+ hour work week.  

So, you see, I am slightly stressed.  This does not promote good sleep habits.  

I also do all the things you aren't supposed to do.  Fall asleep with the television on.  Keep it on all night.  Read a stack of books and fall asleep with them cascading all over the bed.  Drink too many fluids after 7PM so I can visit the Tinkletorium all night.  Ache with the fibro/toothache/migraine/arthritis/irritable bowel syndrome/gastric hell du jour and not be able to sleep.  Have a kid who sleeps whenever I am not in the house to interact with her so she cannot sleep at night when I am home.  I nap at inappropriate times on the weekends (occasionally).  

When it comes to sleep, I am an idiot.  

TdJ: Fibromyalgia

Today is the 13th of the month and according to my list, I am supposed to write about fibromyalgia.  Since I am currently only dealing with a slight flare, I will make this one public and write about it here in the blog rather than in my journal.

With these topics I will most likely blog about each rather than journal, unless the topic is very private or sensitive in nature to me or others.

- An aside.  Once I wrote something on my blog and my sister let my mother use her computer to read my blog and my mother did not like how I disclosed something, so she made a comment back.  At the time I was extremely angry about the whole thing, but through time I have realized that member of my family have their own slant on reality so each to their own.  As one of my idols, Emily Dickinson, once wrote, "Tell the truth, but tell it slant."

So... fibromyalgia.

Having fibromyalgia can - on a good day - be likened to having a really shitty roommate in college.  This roommate trashes the damn house, always fucks up your plans, has loud parties so you can never sleep, and basically puts everything you want or need just out of your reach.  Fibromyalgia is - at least partially - responsible for the fact that my bedroom, my haven from the world, is usually a freaking pigsty and why my office at work is never truly as clean as I want it.

Fibromyalgia is the reason that I feel I have no energy left when it comes to being a "real" (whatever the hell that means) mother to my daughters.  My 17 year old would say that she keeps expectations low for me.  My 7 year old is still a baby, so she loves me no matter what.  Puberty and socialization with shitty capitalists has not yet ruined her capacity for unconditional love.  Basically fibromyalgia is the reason that I have to push every bit of physical energy into working 12-18 hours a day and have nothing left for anyone at the end of those days.

In a word, fibromyalgia is a real bitch.  And an asshole to boot.

So what does it feel like?  Well, there is feeling like I have the body of a 90-100 year old woman.  Sometimes the hinges in my body don't work.  And they hurt.  Even where there are not hinges, such as the wings of my shoulder blades, it hurts.  And it doesn't hurt because I moved it this way or that.  It just hurts.  I've read it as described as "diffuse muscle pain."  If that means all over, then yeah.  But it rarely diffuses and goes the hell away.  It is always there, a seed of agony in each muscle fiber of my being, almost palpable with the power to say, "I may be feeling generous and let you do what you want today.  Or I may tell you to kiss my ass and the idea of getting anything done today goodbye."  Fibromyalgia is a fickle bitch.  On the days it is feeling generous, I may not hurt too bad.  However, I will be exhausted within three to five hours of getting up, no matter what the day.  Constant is the the companion of the lovely fibro fog.  I have to write everything down at work just to keep track and have to organize my methods of organization constantly just to keep on track.

For someone who tries to appear that I have it all together, this is a real kick in the head.

There are things that work, however.  Most of them cost money or require health insurance, or I haven't tried them yet, but other swear by them.  Here is what I have tried and what helps me survive:

1. Getting to sleep as much as I can.
I don't want to write too much about this today, as tomorrow's Topic du Jour is SLEEP HABITS.  Stay tuned, my loves.

2. Vitamins.
Yeah, really.  I found these vitamins called Bio-35, and they are actually good.  I need to order another bottle, as I am getting kind of low.  And for you jaded folk, of which I am a member, NO, I am not getting paid by them at all.  Money between me and the Bio-35 folks has only gone one way - from me to them, in me buying a bottle of vitamins.  I get the soy and dairy free, but with iron.  Next time I order I am going gluten free as I've had some gut issues lately.  You can get them here.

I also like taking vitamin D-3.

3. Gentle movement, stretching.
I don't go to a yoga class.  (That requires money, and my money is rarely spent on me, but on keeping up the household of five people on my one  income. Keeping that income going is why I try to push through this fibromyalgia stuff and not let it win.)  I try some basic yoga stuff on my own.  Not consistently enough, of course.  Moving my big old fat body through time and space, as much as I can tolerate as often as I can tolerate keeps me moving.

4. Massage.
Basically, I am a massage junkie.  If I could afford them, I would get them weekly (or more).  I can't even afford one a month, or one a quarter.  I get about one a year.  However, when I do, I usually feel better.  With regular massage I think I could get my body to do my bidding way more often.  The last few massages I have had have included lots of trigger point work, which hurts like hell when it is happening, but feels phenomenal when it is finished.  You can check out my massage therapist here.  Visit her page and book with her, as she deserves the business for working magic on me and I wish I could pay her to work her magic more often!

5. Eating right.
This means many things to many people.  But I do best on a minimally-processed, mostly vegetarian diet.  Alas, I am not a vegetarian, and since my mother has been staying with me for her cancer treatments, my menu has run more to convenience or her taste, not mine.  As a result, I am having more pain and way more gut issues.  Another one of my Topics du Jour is COOKING, so I will save more on this for another time.

I have more that I can say about fibromyalgia, but I am trying not to dwell on the negative.  I also want to remain positive and focus my physical energies on housecleaning (another topic!) and going to the grocery today.  My rowdy housemate, fibromyalgia may not like it, but I am going to do what I want today.

Strength in Numbers

Today I spent the day at PenHouse Retreat Center, attending an event called "Night of the Mothers."  A friend of mine had urged me since September to take part, and I am so glad that I did.

We spent the day journaling, our material a retrospective of the past year (2012) and setting intentions for 2013.

I came up with some good material, and at some point I may share some of this here.

Most helpful was an idea of "Topic du Jour," where we came up with worries, concerns and joys which can fuel our writing for a month, insuring we don't get bogged down in our writing, journaling, or in my case, my blogging and journaling.  I look forward to using this technique as well.

Probably most empowering was the presence of other writers, open-minded spiritual seekers.  I enjoyed sitting and listening to the wisdom of others.

I would like to do more of that in 2013.