Oops. I did it again.
This happens to me more than to most normal people. I'm just not very good at applying sunscreen, I guess. Every summer, there's the one trip to the pool where not only do I sunburn, but I sunburn in some really unusual place or pattern because of sloppy sunscreen application. This time, it's my left thigh. There's an area at the top of my left leg, about the size of a dinner plate, where my skin is beet red. This is not much of an exaggeration. Nowhere else is burned. It looks like someone hauled off and slapped me. Hard.
"It's not as bad as the stripes," said Jason, reminding me of the worst sunburn I ever had, both in terms of pain and in terms of lasting humiliation and embarrassment. When we went to Florida with my family about a month before we got married, I spent the one sunny day we had the entire vacation trying to get my pale self tan for that white wedding dress. The plastic slats of the lounge chair I spent the day in rubbed my SPF 30 off the backs of my legs, and when I flipped to get sun on my back, it left me with red, blistered stripes from ankle to thigh. Because it was such a bad burn, it left the stripes (which eventually turned from red to brown) on my legs the entire rest of the summer. There's a less-than-flattering picture of me on our honeymoon that Jason took from behind as I was observing the beauty of the Tennessee mountains; it looks like I'm wearing some sort of freaky novelty pantyhose.
You would think I'd learn. I'm careful in most other aspects of my life; I wear a seat belt, I don't speed (anymore), I don't smoke, I get enough fiber. But when it comes to the sun, I turn stupid. I can't help it. I love to tan.
I'm not nearly as bad as the Spanish teacher I had in high school who went to the tanning bed every day and who would not have looked Caucasian had she not been a bleached blonde. She admitted to me once that she probably was addicted to tanning (sadly, this is not the craziest thing I'll remember about her.) But something happens to me when I hit a reclining pool chair on a pretty summer day. The sun zaps me and turns me into a contended, relaxed puddle of a person who doesn't worry about pesky little things like reapplying sunscreen, cancerous moles, or premature skin aging. All I can think about is how to best position the straps on my tankini so my tan lines don't jump out from my favorite summer sundress.
"You two should really use sunscreen," my ENT offered to Ainsley and me when I saw him after our Hilton Head vacation. I know doctors are supposed to say stuff like that, but I came this close to telling him to stop being such a buzzkill. Besides, we DO wear sunscreen. A 50, even.
I'm just maybe not so good at actually getting it everywhere.
I know that too much sun is bad for you. I've had a couple of pre-cancerous moles taken off of previously-burned areas of my torso. I know better. But sunning is one of the great pleasures of my life. Even though I slather myself in sunscreen now to varying degrees of success (I shudder to think of my early teens when baby oil was our tanning ointment of choice) I love the feel of sunlight of my skin.
When I was taking classes to become Catholic many years ago, the nun leading the classes asked us to talk about the times we most felt God's presence in our lives. Some people said they heard God in the rain, some said they felt His presence most in rare times of silence. Some said they saw God in the trees, or in children's faces, or in a beautiful work of art.
"Sunlight," I remember saying. "When I feel sunlight on my face, I think of God." And that's true. When I turn my face to the summer sun, the warmth and the light I can see and feel even through closed eyelids makes me feel like I'm in the presence of the infinite. Like God is saying, "Here I am." It makes complete sense to me that so many cultures have worshipped a sun god.
After my current sunscreen faux pas heals, I will be right back out there in the sun celebrating the last two weeks of my summer break. Don't worry, I'll be wearing sunscreen more judiciously. You can call it an addiction, you can call it bad for my health and my skin, you can call it slothfulness. For me, though, it's almost a spiritual experience.
Albeit one that requires Solarcaine.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Friday, July 16, 2010
The Blue Dress
My favorite piece of clothing is a blue and green plaid sleeveless shift dress that's as old as my marriage.
It's the oldest garment I have and I dare say it hasn't, and won't, go out of style. It comes to my knees and is as simple and classic a casual summer dress as can be.
I am amazed that it still fits. It's a bit more snug than it was 13 years ago, but has been flattering on my body through my skinny years, my chunky years, my chemo year, and even the beginning of my pregnancy year. I bought it when I had hair halfway down my back and it used to get snagged in the wooden buttons that stretch from hem to neckline; I continued wearing it when I had nothing but peach fuzz on my head.
When it was new, I wore it when I wanted to dress up a little bit. Now that the fabric is a little softer and more worn, it's my go-to dress on those hot Kentucky summer days when even a pair of shorts seems like too much clothes. I love it best after a day at the pool, when I've showered off the chlorine and sunscreen. I feel pretty, comfortable, and breezy in it; it feels like home.
I bought the dress on our honeymoon. We stayed at a cabin in a bed and breakfast in the mountains of Sevierville, Tennessee. It wasn't a glamorous honeymoon, and we were only 5 hours away from home. But it was perfect. Every day we woke to a country breakfast in the inn, went on a hike or some other mountain adventure, napped, shopped at the outlet stores in Pigeon Forge, and roamed around Gatlinburg. I remember thinking every night how strange and yet how wonderful it was to fall asleep and wake up with Jason and then to spend nearly every waking moment together and know that that was pretty much how the rest of our lives would go (except for that pesky thing called work.) We had been a couple for seven years when we got married, so you'd think I would have gotten used to the idea of being a married couple. But we hadn't lived together before we married, so that week in Tennessee was when I really saw how the rest of our lives was going to look.
Beyond that it still fits, beyond that it's still flattering 13 years later, that blue and green plaid dress is my favorite because it takes me back to those humble beginnings. That was before we lost grandparents, and parents, and before we realized that what we thought we wanted to do with the rest of our working lives wasn't really what we wanted to do with the rest of our working lives. Before we became parents, before the cancer. Back when we stood at the beginning of our road together and saw a straight, paved path, not knowing that just outside our field of vision were hills and valleys and broken places.
I'm not that same girl I was the day I plucked the dress off a rack at The Gap outlet store. But the dress is the same. It hasn't really faded, and it hasn't frayed. It has not lost a single button. The only way that it has changed is that it has changed on me.
I am especially thinking of the dress this week as I pick out an anniversary card and an anniversary gift for Jason. Thirteen years. Sure, a lot has changed. We've changed. But our love hasn't. Like the dress, the only thing that's changed is the way the love fits us. Maybe a little looser in some places, a little tighter in some others. But it still looks good.
Any woman will tell you that the perfect dress is hard to find. Harder still is finding a good husband. I am so very fortunate to have found both.
It's the oldest garment I have and I dare say it hasn't, and won't, go out of style. It comes to my knees and is as simple and classic a casual summer dress as can be.
I am amazed that it still fits. It's a bit more snug than it was 13 years ago, but has been flattering on my body through my skinny years, my chunky years, my chemo year, and even the beginning of my pregnancy year. I bought it when I had hair halfway down my back and it used to get snagged in the wooden buttons that stretch from hem to neckline; I continued wearing it when I had nothing but peach fuzz on my head.
When it was new, I wore it when I wanted to dress up a little bit. Now that the fabric is a little softer and more worn, it's my go-to dress on those hot Kentucky summer days when even a pair of shorts seems like too much clothes. I love it best after a day at the pool, when I've showered off the chlorine and sunscreen. I feel pretty, comfortable, and breezy in it; it feels like home.
I bought the dress on our honeymoon. We stayed at a cabin in a bed and breakfast in the mountains of Sevierville, Tennessee. It wasn't a glamorous honeymoon, and we were only 5 hours away from home. But it was perfect. Every day we woke to a country breakfast in the inn, went on a hike or some other mountain adventure, napped, shopped at the outlet stores in Pigeon Forge, and roamed around Gatlinburg. I remember thinking every night how strange and yet how wonderful it was to fall asleep and wake up with Jason and then to spend nearly every waking moment together and know that that was pretty much how the rest of our lives would go (except for that pesky thing called work.) We had been a couple for seven years when we got married, so you'd think I would have gotten used to the idea of being a married couple. But we hadn't lived together before we married, so that week in Tennessee was when I really saw how the rest of our lives was going to look.
Beyond that it still fits, beyond that it's still flattering 13 years later, that blue and green plaid dress is my favorite because it takes me back to those humble beginnings. That was before we lost grandparents, and parents, and before we realized that what we thought we wanted to do with the rest of our working lives wasn't really what we wanted to do with the rest of our working lives. Before we became parents, before the cancer. Back when we stood at the beginning of our road together and saw a straight, paved path, not knowing that just outside our field of vision were hills and valleys and broken places.
I'm not that same girl I was the day I plucked the dress off a rack at The Gap outlet store. But the dress is the same. It hasn't really faded, and it hasn't frayed. It has not lost a single button. The only way that it has changed is that it has changed on me.
I am especially thinking of the dress this week as I pick out an anniversary card and an anniversary gift for Jason. Thirteen years. Sure, a lot has changed. We've changed. But our love hasn't. Like the dress, the only thing that's changed is the way the love fits us. Maybe a little looser in some places, a little tighter in some others. But it still looks good.
Any woman will tell you that the perfect dress is hard to find. Harder still is finding a good husband. I am so very fortunate to have found both.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Sisterhood Of the Travelling Pink Paper Gowns
Benign.
Is there a more wonderful word in the English medical language? As I write this, sipping some iced tea on a day all where all is right with the world, I think not.
I have a confession. As a young female lymphoma survivor, I have had moments of something like resentment in the month of October when pink ribbons become as prominent as Halloween decorations. I've known great women who have battled breast cancer, and a close friend of my sister's lost the fight just a year after my own cancer war, so I've always understood the importance of breast cancer awareness. I've just been a little curious as to why we spend a whole month talking about it, and buying pink travel mugs, socks, reusable grocery bags, etc. when so many women deal with so many other types of cancer.
Until now.
I like to think I am brave. Having been through cancer hell once, I've liked to think that, should I get cancer again, I could put on a courageous face and give it my all.
And yet all bets were off last week when I found myself on a table at the local hospital's breast center, confronted with a biopsy of two suspicious areas in my right breast. I was terrified in a way I wasn't even when I had cancer. There's something so scary about a lump in your breast; I didn't realize how attached I am to the girls.
In many ways, this cancer scare was different than any other health threat I've ever had. When I went through cancer treatment, the whole experience seemed so sanitized, so impersonal. Not to say that I wasn't treated well by my doctors and nurses; I was. But it seemed like I was just one of many, just another machine rolling down the assembly line of chemo and radiation.
Perhaps because women have such strong feelings about their breasts, and because breast cancer can permanently and catastrophically change one (0r two) of the most sensual and idealized parts of a woman's body, everything at the breast center is designed to be calming, reassuring, and personal. I've never been treated so well in a medical setting; I felt like these women really cared.
Probably because they do. Both of the techs assisting the radiologist during the procedure said they had been on that very table themselves.
"It's really different to be the one getting the biopsy," one said. "I know exactly what you're going through and know that no matter what I tell you, you are going to be afraid. But we have every reason to believe that these lumps are benign."
And, thank God, they are. Or were; they disappeared from the ultrasound screen as they were drained, which is one of the most relieving things I've ever witnessed. I no longer have masses (or cysts, as they turned out to be) to worry about.
I was told before the procedure that 80% of the lumps found are ultimately benign. That's reassuring, especially when you end up learning you fall into that 80%. But the techs said they do these biopsies all day. I was in and out in an hour, so I would guess that means they do half a dozen or so on a given day. If my math is right, one out of every five biopsies comes back not benign.
So every day these women deliver bad news.
I was thinking about all this as I changed out of my pink gown in a pink dressing room and was led out by a nurse wearing a pink ribbon pin, a nurse who had kept her hand reassuringly on my shoulder through the entire procedure. In the waiting room were other women, of various ages, colors, and sizes who were waiting to go in. Some were getting their annual mammograms and will hear from their doctor that everything is normal and to come back next year.
Others are going to hear there's a lump, and like me, they'll learn after a nerve-wracking few days that everything is just fine.
But some are going to have their lives changed forever.
At some point in our lives, every woman is going to have to stare breast cancer in the face. It could be that it's going to happen to a mother, sister, or best friend. Or it could be that we will have our own scare and find ourselves in a pink gown watching as a doctor pulls back on a syringe that contains nothing malignant. Or we could find ourselves fighting breast cancer with all we've got, watching as the treatment changes our bodies.
To that I say: bring on the pink.
Is there a more wonderful word in the English medical language? As I write this, sipping some iced tea on a day all where all is right with the world, I think not.
I have a confession. As a young female lymphoma survivor, I have had moments of something like resentment in the month of October when pink ribbons become as prominent as Halloween decorations. I've known great women who have battled breast cancer, and a close friend of my sister's lost the fight just a year after my own cancer war, so I've always understood the importance of breast cancer awareness. I've just been a little curious as to why we spend a whole month talking about it, and buying pink travel mugs, socks, reusable grocery bags, etc. when so many women deal with so many other types of cancer.
Until now.
I like to think I am brave. Having been through cancer hell once, I've liked to think that, should I get cancer again, I could put on a courageous face and give it my all.
And yet all bets were off last week when I found myself on a table at the local hospital's breast center, confronted with a biopsy of two suspicious areas in my right breast. I was terrified in a way I wasn't even when I had cancer. There's something so scary about a lump in your breast; I didn't realize how attached I am to the girls.
In many ways, this cancer scare was different than any other health threat I've ever had. When I went through cancer treatment, the whole experience seemed so sanitized, so impersonal. Not to say that I wasn't treated well by my doctors and nurses; I was. But it seemed like I was just one of many, just another machine rolling down the assembly line of chemo and radiation.
Perhaps because women have such strong feelings about their breasts, and because breast cancer can permanently and catastrophically change one (0r two) of the most sensual and idealized parts of a woman's body, everything at the breast center is designed to be calming, reassuring, and personal. I've never been treated so well in a medical setting; I felt like these women really cared.
Probably because they do. Both of the techs assisting the radiologist during the procedure said they had been on that very table themselves.
"It's really different to be the one getting the biopsy," one said. "I know exactly what you're going through and know that no matter what I tell you, you are going to be afraid. But we have every reason to believe that these lumps are benign."
And, thank God, they are. Or were; they disappeared from the ultrasound screen as they were drained, which is one of the most relieving things I've ever witnessed. I no longer have masses (or cysts, as they turned out to be) to worry about.
I was told before the procedure that 80% of the lumps found are ultimately benign. That's reassuring, especially when you end up learning you fall into that 80%. But the techs said they do these biopsies all day. I was in and out in an hour, so I would guess that means they do half a dozen or so on a given day. If my math is right, one out of every five biopsies comes back not benign.
So every day these women deliver bad news.
I was thinking about all this as I changed out of my pink gown in a pink dressing room and was led out by a nurse wearing a pink ribbon pin, a nurse who had kept her hand reassuringly on my shoulder through the entire procedure. In the waiting room were other women, of various ages, colors, and sizes who were waiting to go in. Some were getting their annual mammograms and will hear from their doctor that everything is normal and to come back next year.
Others are going to hear there's a lump, and like me, they'll learn after a nerve-wracking few days that everything is just fine.
But some are going to have their lives changed forever.
At some point in our lives, every woman is going to have to stare breast cancer in the face. It could be that it's going to happen to a mother, sister, or best friend. Or it could be that we will have our own scare and find ourselves in a pink gown watching as a doctor pulls back on a syringe that contains nothing malignant. Or we could find ourselves fighting breast cancer with all we've got, watching as the treatment changes our bodies.
To that I say: bring on the pink.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Goin' On Vacation, Worrying About My Boobs
Pretty soon I will be spending most of my time in a swimsuit, and my thoughts, like any woman's, naturally turn to my bust. Or lack thereof, such as the case may be.
We females spend a lot of energy worrying about our boobs--be they too large or too small, too saggy or so wide-awake that they become weapons when there's a chill in the room. Entire episodes of Oprah's show have been devoted to flattering swimwear and bras that fit; clearly, this is the most important issue facing womankind today.
Every year as I pack up my swimsuits for the family vay-cay, I worry. Will these suits cover me appropriately? Will they lift and separate? Will they kick my humble cup size up a notch? If I get up the nerve to jump off a diving board, will I have an embarrassing wardrobe malfunction?
This year I have an added breast worry; at my annual MRI screening, the radiologist found a lump. I am leaving for the beach soon and will not know before I leave whether this is just a cyst or something uglier.
I spent 2 hours yesterday in various exam and waiting rooms of our local breast health center getting a diagnostic mammogram (which showed nothing; my girls don't like having their picture taken that way) and an ultrasound, which actually showed a second abnormal area. After talking to several nurses and a radiologist, I've been assured that my un-lovely lady lumps are probably fluid-filled cysts or normal, benign lymph nodes. But because there's a chance that they're not, and because I have a pesky personal history of cancer and radiation, the radiologist wants a needle biopsy to give him proof that what he's seeing is not breast cancer.
I knew this would come eventually. Three years ago when my radiation oncologist decided that my mammograms weren't clear enough, given that the radiation my girls soaked up makes them more prone to acting up and growing bad cells, I started having an annual breast MRI. MRIs show everything and the biggest downfall of that test is that many women get false positives and have benign growths removed unnecessarily. I was warned that in all likelihood I would get a call back after one that something irregular had popped up. But the alternative was to continue to get mammograms that the radiologist noted were "dense" and very hard to read (but as a a tech told me once, "dense" translates non-medically to "perky", so it's not all bad.)
But I had a streak going, and getting good news several years in a row has a way of making you think it could never happen to you. I went into this year's test like I always have; knowing that I would get that wonderful "everything came back normal" phone call right before our vacation like usual, which makes that first margarita on the beach taste so darn good.
This year, though, not so much.
The week after I come back from my shenanigans on the beach, I will be getting my first-ever needle biopsy and waiting for the results. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried despite the assurances from the radiologist that the abnormalities don't look malignant. I know first-hand that doctors can be very wrong. But I have a strong family history of benign cysts on my side (my mother has been down this same path half a dozen times since her early thirties). So I will be trying very hard to not let this worry ruin my time on the beach in our happy place.
Though Mr. Tequila and Mr. Lime may have to help me leave my worries behind.
This may be my last post for a while as we prepare to leave the K-Y behind for a little while. I will be back after some sun and fun; take care of yourselves, and rest assured that I will be doing my best to take care of myself...and my girls.
We females spend a lot of energy worrying about our boobs--be they too large or too small, too saggy or so wide-awake that they become weapons when there's a chill in the room. Entire episodes of Oprah's show have been devoted to flattering swimwear and bras that fit; clearly, this is the most important issue facing womankind today.
Every year as I pack up my swimsuits for the family vay-cay, I worry. Will these suits cover me appropriately? Will they lift and separate? Will they kick my humble cup size up a notch? If I get up the nerve to jump off a diving board, will I have an embarrassing wardrobe malfunction?
This year I have an added breast worry; at my annual MRI screening, the radiologist found a lump. I am leaving for the beach soon and will not know before I leave whether this is just a cyst or something uglier.
I spent 2 hours yesterday in various exam and waiting rooms of our local breast health center getting a diagnostic mammogram (which showed nothing; my girls don't like having their picture taken that way) and an ultrasound, which actually showed a second abnormal area. After talking to several nurses and a radiologist, I've been assured that my un-lovely lady lumps are probably fluid-filled cysts or normal, benign lymph nodes. But because there's a chance that they're not, and because I have a pesky personal history of cancer and radiation, the radiologist wants a needle biopsy to give him proof that what he's seeing is not breast cancer.
I knew this would come eventually. Three years ago when my radiation oncologist decided that my mammograms weren't clear enough, given that the radiation my girls soaked up makes them more prone to acting up and growing bad cells, I started having an annual breast MRI. MRIs show everything and the biggest downfall of that test is that many women get false positives and have benign growths removed unnecessarily. I was warned that in all likelihood I would get a call back after one that something irregular had popped up. But the alternative was to continue to get mammograms that the radiologist noted were "dense" and very hard to read (but as a a tech told me once, "dense" translates non-medically to "perky", so it's not all bad.)
But I had a streak going, and getting good news several years in a row has a way of making you think it could never happen to you. I went into this year's test like I always have; knowing that I would get that wonderful "everything came back normal" phone call right before our vacation like usual, which makes that first margarita on the beach taste so darn good.
This year, though, not so much.
The week after I come back from my shenanigans on the beach, I will be getting my first-ever needle biopsy and waiting for the results. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried despite the assurances from the radiologist that the abnormalities don't look malignant. I know first-hand that doctors can be very wrong. But I have a strong family history of benign cysts on my side (my mother has been down this same path half a dozen times since her early thirties). So I will be trying very hard to not let this worry ruin my time on the beach in our happy place.
Though Mr. Tequila and Mr. Lime may have to help me leave my worries behind.
This may be my last post for a while as we prepare to leave the K-Y behind for a little while. I will be back after some sun and fun; take care of yourselves, and rest assured that I will be doing my best to take care of myself...and my girls.
Monday, June 21, 2010
A Carnivore's Dilemna
Ainsley has started to ask where her food comes from.
This is fine when she asks what noodles are made out of; when she starts asking about her hot dogs, I struggle with the answer.
Since she's started asking, we've pretty much hit all the major carnivorous food groups and told her what animal they all come from: we've had bacon, pork chops, and sausage ("That ALL comes from a pig?") Hamburgers, steak, and roast beef. And of course turkey and chicken, which you wouldn't think needs an explanation but still got our 7-year-old to ask, "Where does chicken come from?" before realizing that question pretty much answers itself. (Or does it? There's a philosophical element there involving the chicken and the egg; discuss.)
All that answer-giving at the family dinner table has made me re-think my meat-eating habits. One Saturday night, which in the summer is often grilled rib-eye night for us, telling her that we were eating cow made me see that beautiful cut a little differently. I had a hard time enjoying it once we switched from eating "steak" to eating "cow." I pictured Norman from City Slickers with his big, brown eyes and gentle demeanor. Norman doesn't taste as good as steak.
When I cooked some bad pork chops one night that turned out more like shoe leather than food, I thought out loud, "Maybe I could be a vegetarian. Sometimes I just don't enjoy eating animals. Someday I'll give it a try."
Jason and Ainsley gave me an "Are you crazy?" look and went right back to sawing their way through Wilber.
For a while now, I've tried to prepare one vegetarian meal a week. I do this partly to save money, partly to save our arteries, and partly to appease my carnivore guilt. Just when I was ready to expand this out to more than one night a week, and found myself listening more closely than usual to something smug vegan Alicia Silverstone was saying on TV, my husband asked to be taken to a Brazilian steakhouse for father's day, and now I can say...
All vegetarian bets are off. I am firmly and unabashedly a carnivore.
I could easily live without pig (until you remind me that bacon is pig; a life without bacon is a life maybe not worth living.) Pigs are very smart and probably deserve better than having their loins smoked in hickory. I don't like lamb. Chicken and turkey only appeal in the boneless-skinless-white-meat form. But after eating my weight in beef yesterday, I see that I really, really enjoy cow. Sorry, Norman.
If you've never been to a Brazilian steakhouse, you must save your pennies and go. Servers walk around with 15 (!) varieties of meats on spits and come around to your table and ask if they can carve you off a piece. That's it. There's no menu. Just perfectly grilled meat and a salad bar so you can put a few bites of something green on your plate even though, clearly, you're there to make a meal of 15 varieties of meat.
15!
I'm not even sure of everything I ate. I remember bottom sirloin and top sirloin. I remember filet. I remember the bacon-wrapped boneless chicken breast that made Ainsley's eyes widen at the first bite. There may have been short ribs at some point and something that tasted like prime rib but wasn't called that. The protein coma I went into has played tricks with my memory.
It was all perfectly and simply prepared and each cut of beef was different from the one before it. Until they're all presented before you at once you don't realize what a complex food beef is. I've always loved the saying that God gave us beer because he loves us and wants us to be happy; I think the same could be said for cow.
Someone may get on here and leave a comment about how raising cows for food is environmentally and morally wrong. My little trip to Boi Na Braza made my carbon footprint a few inches wider. Perhaps. And I do feel a little guilty. But I also look on it as one of the best dinners I've ever had in my life, so my foodie side trumps my liberal hippie side. I do have some organic milk in my fridge and buy produce from a farmer's market in the summer; doesn't that let me slaughter the fatted calf every so often?
Tonight we're having salmon because I'm not really sure my conscience or my digestive system can handle red meat for a while. It will be a tasty and healthy dinner I can feel good about serving my family.
But secretly, I'll be dreaming of beef tenderloin dripping with juices being dramatically carved over my plate. Beef: it's what should be for dinner.
This is fine when she asks what noodles are made out of; when she starts asking about her hot dogs, I struggle with the answer.
Since she's started asking, we've pretty much hit all the major carnivorous food groups and told her what animal they all come from: we've had bacon, pork chops, and sausage ("That ALL comes from a pig?") Hamburgers, steak, and roast beef. And of course turkey and chicken, which you wouldn't think needs an explanation but still got our 7-year-old to ask, "Where does chicken come from?" before realizing that question pretty much answers itself. (Or does it? There's a philosophical element there involving the chicken and the egg; discuss.)
All that answer-giving at the family dinner table has made me re-think my meat-eating habits. One Saturday night, which in the summer is often grilled rib-eye night for us, telling her that we were eating cow made me see that beautiful cut a little differently. I had a hard time enjoying it once we switched from eating "steak" to eating "cow." I pictured Norman from City Slickers with his big, brown eyes and gentle demeanor. Norman doesn't taste as good as steak.
When I cooked some bad pork chops one night that turned out more like shoe leather than food, I thought out loud, "Maybe I could be a vegetarian. Sometimes I just don't enjoy eating animals. Someday I'll give it a try."
Jason and Ainsley gave me an "Are you crazy?" look and went right back to sawing their way through Wilber.
For a while now, I've tried to prepare one vegetarian meal a week. I do this partly to save money, partly to save our arteries, and partly to appease my carnivore guilt. Just when I was ready to expand this out to more than one night a week, and found myself listening more closely than usual to something smug vegan Alicia Silverstone was saying on TV, my husband asked to be taken to a Brazilian steakhouse for father's day, and now I can say...
All vegetarian bets are off. I am firmly and unabashedly a carnivore.
I could easily live without pig (until you remind me that bacon is pig; a life without bacon is a life maybe not worth living.) Pigs are very smart and probably deserve better than having their loins smoked in hickory. I don't like lamb. Chicken and turkey only appeal in the boneless-skinless-white-meat form. But after eating my weight in beef yesterday, I see that I really, really enjoy cow. Sorry, Norman.
If you've never been to a Brazilian steakhouse, you must save your pennies and go. Servers walk around with 15 (!) varieties of meats on spits and come around to your table and ask if they can carve you off a piece. That's it. There's no menu. Just perfectly grilled meat and a salad bar so you can put a few bites of something green on your plate even though, clearly, you're there to make a meal of 15 varieties of meat.
15!
I'm not even sure of everything I ate. I remember bottom sirloin and top sirloin. I remember filet. I remember the bacon-wrapped boneless chicken breast that made Ainsley's eyes widen at the first bite. There may have been short ribs at some point and something that tasted like prime rib but wasn't called that. The protein coma I went into has played tricks with my memory.
It was all perfectly and simply prepared and each cut of beef was different from the one before it. Until they're all presented before you at once you don't realize what a complex food beef is. I've always loved the saying that God gave us beer because he loves us and wants us to be happy; I think the same could be said for cow.
Someone may get on here and leave a comment about how raising cows for food is environmentally and morally wrong. My little trip to Boi Na Braza made my carbon footprint a few inches wider. Perhaps. And I do feel a little guilty. But I also look on it as one of the best dinners I've ever had in my life, so my foodie side trumps my liberal hippie side. I do have some organic milk in my fridge and buy produce from a farmer's market in the summer; doesn't that let me slaughter the fatted calf every so often?
Tonight we're having salmon because I'm not really sure my conscience or my digestive system can handle red meat for a while. It will be a tasty and healthy dinner I can feel good about serving my family.
But secretly, I'll be dreaming of beef tenderloin dripping with juices being dramatically carved over my plate. Beef: it's what should be for dinner.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
A Kid's Gotta Have Goals
Ainsley's new TV obsession is Man V. Food. This is what she wants to watch on weekends too wet to play outside and at night while we're all winding down for bed. I don't blame her; it's as addictive as a Chipotle burrito.
I am all for kids developing an interest in food that goes beyond "What toy came with my 4-piece-nugget Happy Meal?". I love that Ainsley has started to want to cook with me and that we have gotten her to eat a pretty wide variety of food and can take her to almost any restaurant. I don't know how I feel, though, about her declaration, probably Man V. Food inspired, that someday she want to take the "Blazin' " challenge at Buffalo Wild Wings.
From a kid whose one area of food pickiness is spicy heat, it seems a daunting task. But who am I to doubt? Someday she could very well make me cry joyful tears of pride as she polishes off a dozen wings spun in a sauce approximately as corrosive to your pipes as Liquid Drano and gets her name on a plaque and wins a commemorative t-shirt. The sports world is full of stories of athletes who beat the odds; why should the competitive eating world be any different? A little girl who complains when I put too much black pepper in the macaroni and cheese could someday pull off a victory in the ultimate challenge of Girl V. Wing.
She took down one food challenge today that she's been wanting to conquer for a while: she ate her first foot-long sub from Subway. Not quite the whole thing, but almost (as she cleaned up after herself in my library, she informed me she had two inches left.) More than I ate, certainly. And more than anyone as skinny as she is should be able to eat. I have no idea where 10 inches of sub went as she has a long and lean frame like her father.
I kept telling her this was not a challenge, and that she could take whatever she didn't eat to her Mamaw's later, and to not bust a gut, but she's been wondering for months now if eating a foot-long sub is a possible task for a kid her age. Ah, the power of commercials and catchy jingles. She had a two-hour swim and dive practice this morning and, like Michael Phelps, needed fuel to replace the calories lost from hours of freestyle and butterfly. Hunger and too many hours with Adam Richman over the course of a stormy weekend convinced her today was the day to take down a huge ham-and-cheese sandwich. I don't know whether to be alarmed by her gluttony or impressed by her tenacity.
I've been waiting for Ainsley to develop a competitive streak; Jason and I are both fairly competitive people who push ourselves pretty hard, but Ainsley has always been laid back. Unlike me, she doesn't beat herself up or compare herself to other people. During last year's swim and dive team, Ainsley hopped out of the water after most heats not even winded, not even too concerned with what place she came in. The times that she won, she gave a brief "Yay!" and then became more concerned with Dippin' Dots. When she lost by a mile, she gave a brief, "Awww," and then (you guessed it) wondered out loud about the Dippin' Dots.
Huh. Maybe this recent obsession with food isn't so surprising after all. I guess it's always come back to the Dippin' Dots.
So long as she doesn't make foot-long ham subs (no toppings on it because, as she so wisely put it, "You don't need toppings on a foot-long. That would just be crazy.") every day, I guess I am okay with her having a competitive eating streak. And for aspiring to eat some blazing chicken wings someday. So long as she's a healthy and active kid, her being mildly obsessed with the feats of Man V. Food is okay with me.
After all, another goal she talks about all the time is how she wants to be on T.V. someday. And Adam Richman will, eventually, need a replacement.
I am all for kids developing an interest in food that goes beyond "What toy came with my 4-piece-nugget Happy Meal?". I love that Ainsley has started to want to cook with me and that we have gotten her to eat a pretty wide variety of food and can take her to almost any restaurant. I don't know how I feel, though, about her declaration, probably Man V. Food inspired, that someday she want to take the "Blazin' " challenge at Buffalo Wild Wings.
From a kid whose one area of food pickiness is spicy heat, it seems a daunting task. But who am I to doubt? Someday she could very well make me cry joyful tears of pride as she polishes off a dozen wings spun in a sauce approximately as corrosive to your pipes as Liquid Drano and gets her name on a plaque and wins a commemorative t-shirt. The sports world is full of stories of athletes who beat the odds; why should the competitive eating world be any different? A little girl who complains when I put too much black pepper in the macaroni and cheese could someday pull off a victory in the ultimate challenge of Girl V. Wing.
She took down one food challenge today that she's been wanting to conquer for a while: she ate her first foot-long sub from Subway. Not quite the whole thing, but almost (as she cleaned up after herself in my library, she informed me she had two inches left.) More than I ate, certainly. And more than anyone as skinny as she is should be able to eat. I have no idea where 10 inches of sub went as she has a long and lean frame like her father.
I kept telling her this was not a challenge, and that she could take whatever she didn't eat to her Mamaw's later, and to not bust a gut, but she's been wondering for months now if eating a foot-long sub is a possible task for a kid her age. Ah, the power of commercials and catchy jingles. She had a two-hour swim and dive practice this morning and, like Michael Phelps, needed fuel to replace the calories lost from hours of freestyle and butterfly. Hunger and too many hours with Adam Richman over the course of a stormy weekend convinced her today was the day to take down a huge ham-and-cheese sandwich. I don't know whether to be alarmed by her gluttony or impressed by her tenacity.
I've been waiting for Ainsley to develop a competitive streak; Jason and I are both fairly competitive people who push ourselves pretty hard, but Ainsley has always been laid back. Unlike me, she doesn't beat herself up or compare herself to other people. During last year's swim and dive team, Ainsley hopped out of the water after most heats not even winded, not even too concerned with what place she came in. The times that she won, she gave a brief "Yay!" and then became more concerned with Dippin' Dots. When she lost by a mile, she gave a brief, "Awww," and then (you guessed it) wondered out loud about the Dippin' Dots.
Huh. Maybe this recent obsession with food isn't so surprising after all. I guess it's always come back to the Dippin' Dots.
So long as she doesn't make foot-long ham subs (no toppings on it because, as she so wisely put it, "You don't need toppings on a foot-long. That would just be crazy.") every day, I guess I am okay with her having a competitive eating streak. And for aspiring to eat some blazing chicken wings someday. So long as she's a healthy and active kid, her being mildly obsessed with the feats of Man V. Food is okay with me.
After all, another goal she talks about all the time is how she wants to be on T.V. someday. And Adam Richman will, eventually, need a replacement.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Cars
Thursday night was date night. A rare occurrence these days, what with my mom having her own date nights and not volunteering to have the kid spend the night as often. So we cherish them when we get them and try to go somewhere where we can be a hip, young couple for just one evening.
We were at our favorite date night haunt, a great little restaurant with ample outdoor seating and an extensive list of microbrews, when Jason pointed at a car parked on the street close to our table.
"That should be your next car," he said. "That car just looks like you."
I wasn't exactly flattered. It was a Honda Element, which isn't what you can call sexy. It's a nice car, don't get me wrong, but it doesn't inspire lust.
I opened my mouth to contradict him, but the more I looked at that car the more I thought that the words you would use to describe it really do describe me. Boxy and neat with clean lines, yet inelegant. Practical and roomy. Good for hauling around kids, gym bags, and groceries. A little preppy, maybe, but not snooty.
Okay, so I do look like a Honda Element.
It just so happened that earlier in the week I had come out of the grocery store not immediately remembering where I had parked, but discovered that it's really easy to find my car. It jumps out at me in a lot because it reminds me of me. It's small-ish but with a bottom that's wider than its top. It tries really hard to look young and sporty but can't hide the fact that it's a station wagon in an SUV's clothing. It's compact, dense, and neat. But, like the Element, not sexy.
I so wish Jason weren't right about what car I look like, but he is. That's a hard pill to swallow from a guy who drives a sleek dark-gray Prius that I find, as I find the man who drives it, to be very attractive. He makes that car look gooood.
I've always heard that people choose cars that look like them. Most of my family and friends have chosen vehicles that at the very least reflect some aspect of their life and personality. The practical people pick practical cars, the tall people pick tall cars, and the stylish pick stylish cars. Every car my dad ever drove, from his first brand new car (a navy blue Ford Fairmont that I swear had his "eyes") to the burgundy Chevy S-10 pickup he said was his favorite until it caused him to fishtail on an icy highway one night, looked like so much like him that my mom didn't like to drive them. She said it just didn't feel right. So she eventually lobbied for a car that fit her in the early 90s: a bright red Geo Prizm. Like my mom at that time, the car was petite, feisty, a little tempermental, and absolutely adorable. As she grew older, she graduated to a golden Cadillac (it matched her hair) and now to a maroon Buick LeSabre, the perfect little old(ish) lady car.
And at this stage in my life, I apparently am somewhere between a Pontiac Vibe and a Honda Element.
This is not the car I thought I'd be. When I was much younger, I dreamed of someday having a Corvette. I think the 1980s Corvette embodied that woman I thought I wanted to be back when I was a teen: lean, but curvy; adventurous; classy and expensive and high-maintenance while still being a little white-trashy.
As I got older and became a mom, I quit dreaming about dream cars. I mostly just want something reliable that gets me from A to B. Until we visited some friends in Louisville this winter and were introduced to a classic sports car they have bought and are fixing up.
I began to dream of taking long rides in this hot little car with a scarf tied around my hair, big Hollywood sunglasses on, and the top rolled down. I thought of how fun it would be to leave my family car in their driveway and go on a Thelma-and-Louise road trip with my girlfriend. (Without the Thelma and Louise ending, of course.) Of how cool it would be to be a sexy girl in a sexy car getting envious looks from the soccer moms at red lights. And maybe, just maybe, get a whistle or two.
I understood at that moment why folks buy sports cars during mid-life crises. A car is one way to say to the world, "Here's who I am." No matter how open-minded you think you are, you make a different assumption about a guy who pulls up next to you in a BMW Roadster than the guy who pulls up next to you in a Taurus. A guy (or gal) who feels pigeon-holed and stuck in a rut by either job or family or both can get a loan and get a vehicle that shows who they would like to be rather than who they really are. And while they're in that car, it can be easy to be the adventuresome, fun-loving person they were at 18. Just in a little older package that's easily camouflaged by shapely metal.
Will I ever take the plunge and get an outrageous, impractical car? Probably not. When the Vibe dies years from now (that Corolla engine will keep going and going and going) and I am in the throes of middle age, I will probably talk myself into another practical and gas-saving vehicle. It will probably look exactly like me. The little red crossover will win over the little red Corvette. Because that's just who I am.
But maybe, just maybe, you'll find me some weekend in a sexy borrowed or rented sports car, trying on a new identity. I'll be the brunette in the scarf and sunglasses; be sure to whistle.
We were at our favorite date night haunt, a great little restaurant with ample outdoor seating and an extensive list of microbrews, when Jason pointed at a car parked on the street close to our table.
"That should be your next car," he said. "That car just looks like you."
I wasn't exactly flattered. It was a Honda Element, which isn't what you can call sexy. It's a nice car, don't get me wrong, but it doesn't inspire lust.
I opened my mouth to contradict him, but the more I looked at that car the more I thought that the words you would use to describe it really do describe me. Boxy and neat with clean lines, yet inelegant. Practical and roomy. Good for hauling around kids, gym bags, and groceries. A little preppy, maybe, but not snooty.
Okay, so I do look like a Honda Element.
It just so happened that earlier in the week I had come out of the grocery store not immediately remembering where I had parked, but discovered that it's really easy to find my car. It jumps out at me in a lot because it reminds me of me. It's small-ish but with a bottom that's wider than its top. It tries really hard to look young and sporty but can't hide the fact that it's a station wagon in an SUV's clothing. It's compact, dense, and neat. But, like the Element, not sexy.
I so wish Jason weren't right about what car I look like, but he is. That's a hard pill to swallow from a guy who drives a sleek dark-gray Prius that I find, as I find the man who drives it, to be very attractive. He makes that car look gooood.
I've always heard that people choose cars that look like them. Most of my family and friends have chosen vehicles that at the very least reflect some aspect of their life and personality. The practical people pick practical cars, the tall people pick tall cars, and the stylish pick stylish cars. Every car my dad ever drove, from his first brand new car (a navy blue Ford Fairmont that I swear had his "eyes") to the burgundy Chevy S-10 pickup he said was his favorite until it caused him to fishtail on an icy highway one night, looked like so much like him that my mom didn't like to drive them. She said it just didn't feel right. So she eventually lobbied for a car that fit her in the early 90s: a bright red Geo Prizm. Like my mom at that time, the car was petite, feisty, a little tempermental, and absolutely adorable. As she grew older, she graduated to a golden Cadillac (it matched her hair) and now to a maroon Buick LeSabre, the perfect little old(ish) lady car.
And at this stage in my life, I apparently am somewhere between a Pontiac Vibe and a Honda Element.
This is not the car I thought I'd be. When I was much younger, I dreamed of someday having a Corvette. I think the 1980s Corvette embodied that woman I thought I wanted to be back when I was a teen: lean, but curvy; adventurous; classy and expensive and high-maintenance while still being a little white-trashy.
As I got older and became a mom, I quit dreaming about dream cars. I mostly just want something reliable that gets me from A to B. Until we visited some friends in Louisville this winter and were introduced to a classic sports car they have bought and are fixing up.
I began to dream of taking long rides in this hot little car with a scarf tied around my hair, big Hollywood sunglasses on, and the top rolled down. I thought of how fun it would be to leave my family car in their driveway and go on a Thelma-and-Louise road trip with my girlfriend. (Without the Thelma and Louise ending, of course.) Of how cool it would be to be a sexy girl in a sexy car getting envious looks from the soccer moms at red lights. And maybe, just maybe, get a whistle or two.
I understood at that moment why folks buy sports cars during mid-life crises. A car is one way to say to the world, "Here's who I am." No matter how open-minded you think you are, you make a different assumption about a guy who pulls up next to you in a BMW Roadster than the guy who pulls up next to you in a Taurus. A guy (or gal) who feels pigeon-holed and stuck in a rut by either job or family or both can get a loan and get a vehicle that shows who they would like to be rather than who they really are. And while they're in that car, it can be easy to be the adventuresome, fun-loving person they were at 18. Just in a little older package that's easily camouflaged by shapely metal.
Will I ever take the plunge and get an outrageous, impractical car? Probably not. When the Vibe dies years from now (that Corolla engine will keep going and going and going) and I am in the throes of middle age, I will probably talk myself into another practical and gas-saving vehicle. It will probably look exactly like me. The little red crossover will win over the little red Corvette. Because that's just who I am.
But maybe, just maybe, you'll find me some weekend in a sexy borrowed or rented sports car, trying on a new identity. I'll be the brunette in the scarf and sunglasses; be sure to whistle.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)