Cauliflower Quiche

I like to experiment with food. I often take random ingredients and try to combine unusual but complimentary flavors. This one was a winner.

3 eggs
1.5 cups grated cheddar cheese
.5 jalapeno pepper minced
lots of ginger
1/4 cup cream
1/4 cup water
1 package frozen cauliflower
handful of frozen spinach
handful of currants
salt/pepper to taste
bake in pie crust for 1+ hour (until firm) at 350*
garnish with currants and Italian parsley

Neighbors

My mother died last year and I've been trying to sell her house. It's a pain; the housing market in this area is incredibly depressed and mine is one of a dozen for sale in this neighborhood. I do what I can on a nursing assistant salary to maintain it. Spending hours weekly landscaping in the yard and tinkering in the house, I've become very handy. I've taught myself how to put up drywall, repair cupboards, fix burst pipes and paint/stain with the masters.

My neighbors are the same as when I was a child. I grew up with Krissy. We caught critters, played softball together and fantasized about pooling our money for a horse. The horse was to go in my backyard which I mistakenly convinced myself was zoned for farm animals. I think my father let me believe that, hoping that I would save money instead of spending it.

Krissy had a baby when she was a teenager and her parents, who live next door, often watch over him while she's at work. Over the years, particularly through my mom's extensive illness, Jack, Krissy's dad, has helped us tremendously. He mowed my mom's lawn, shoveled her drive, carried her groceries and brought in her mail when she was too weak to stand.

He was the very best neighbor anyone could have. Now he'll yell at me to be careful when I'm on the roof replacing shingles or painting ducts. He's always available in a pinch if I run out of gas or need an extra pair of hands.

His grandson, though, is a punk. Jerome is 12 now and the most disrespectful, destructive little brat I've ever had the misfortune to meet. We used to have a basketball hoop over our garage. I took it down after Jerome and his friends broke windows and cracked and shattered the vinyl siding along the garage wall.

I've come home to find shingles missing from the garage roof where they dive into the ground pool. The deck/pool is surrounded by lattice. I spent days painstakingly staining it only to find my efforts damaged from their rambunctious antics in the pool.

I've told Jack that I prefer the boys not come over without supervision. I've mentioned the damage but it has had no affect on curbing more wreckage.

I don't know what to do. Jack has been an amazing friend and neighbor over the years and I want to be able to extend open invitations to my parents' amenities. I just can't afford repairing all the destruction his grandson causes though. I've hinted that Jerome isn't welcome but it doesn't make any difference to his indulgent, doting grandparents.

This situation sucks. Any ideas out in blogland?

Real Men Eat Quiche

Quiche is an awesome dish. Simple to make, easy to experiment with and impressive to serve. My burly manly-men cousins love quiche unabashedly, without exception, and will always stop by to help around the house if I have snacks handy. This quiche helped me get my refrigerator repaired in record time!
This is my twist on the classic Italian salad.

3 eggs
1.5 cups shredded cheddar
1/4 cup mozzarella (perline)
lots of fresh basil chopped
3 Roma tomatoes diced
1 jalapeno minced
1 cup milk
1 pie crust
1/2 cup whole wheat flour
salt/pepper to taste

Bake at 375* (until firm) and let sit 1/2 hour before serving. Garnish with fresh basil.

Juggling Thoughts

We have a nurse on our unit. John* is incredible with the patients and acutely intuitive about their well-being. He's saved several lives by noticing that a patient is 'off' and calling the appropriate people to take care of it.

He sucks at multitasking though. His medicines are always administered late and he can't give a decent concise report during shift change. We all, nurses and aides alike, dread following his group. There's always information missing and tons of catch-up to do before we can start our own assignments.

I recently read Dr. Ofri's Lancet contribution and thought about John and then about my own future as a physician. My experience thus far has been relatively painless. There's a certain triage that people use when they multitask. Providing orange juice for a glucose reading of 56 trumps the coffee for a visitor in room 654. Occasionally, When I'm juggling 10-15 requests, I'll sometimes overlook one.

It scares me that I may forget something vital when I'm a physician. Will I remember to order a CBC on a patient with a GI bleed? How can I be smart enough to manage the care of so many patients when I can forget to bring someone a ginger ale?

Dr. Ofri's editorial has relived my mind (somewhat) in that I won't be the only doctor with these fears.

Poached Salmon and Bean salad

Last night, I made poached salmon with a garlic caper butter and a three bean salad.

Three Bean Salad:
l can black beans
l can red kidney beans
1 can white kidney beans
1 can corn
5 cloves garlic
1 bunch cilantro
3 plum tomatoes
2 large cucumbers
3 fresh limes squeezed
1 sweet onion
1 green pepper
2 jalapenos minced

Fragile Flower Syndrome

My grandmother has what she has denominated 'FFS'. It's a delicate balance to treat her hypertension, hyponatremia and Meniere's disease (for which she takes hydrochlorothiazide, a diuretic) and she'll often call me over to check her blood pressure.

The heat wave has hit her hard but she giggled today when I told her as I wrapped her arm with the cuff that she looked like a wilted daisy with her white hair and dark eyes.

Temples

I have a cousin who is addicted to crack. Our family has struggled to understand how he could have made the choices that forced his life into a downward spiral. We discuss what approaches to take, limitations to set, anything to help Beck come back. But he doesn't want to. He lies, manipulates and steals, neglecting his children and watching his debt grow.

It's heartbreaking to see my aunt weep, grieving at the loss of her son and fearing for the welfare of her grandchildren. Their mother died of an overdose two years ago and Beck has sole custody. Though his house could be featured on an episode of Hoarders and his electricity and water are periodically shut off, he doesn't fall below the threshold of what is unacceptable to Social Services and so his children remain with him.

I see his jittery hyperactivity and the tracks on his arms when he comes to ask me for money; his electricity, water, phone etc are about to be shut off. I see the boy I played with as a child, catching snakes and salamanders, climbing trees and building forts.

My patient tonight, a woman with liver failure, is febrile and having seizures from alcohol withdrawal. Sedated, she didn't move when I took her vitals and washed her up. I was tender, reverent when I rolled her to her side to clean stool from her bottom and salve with protective ointment. Though she was alone, I could see the child that she was and the people who love her despite the abuse she gave to her own body. I hoped that my cousin would be treated gently when he crashes and is brought to a hospital unit like mine.

I swam tonight, alone in a crook of the river. I could feel the water against my body and the freedom of my limbs. I flew, buoyed by the water, unhindered by gravity. I love my body. It is the only house that the essence of me will have. I am amazed sometimes when I look at my arm, think about its function and then raise it purposefully, only to demonstrate to myself that my mind has control of it. I'm telekinetic with my own body. It does what my mind tells it to.

I could wax poetic, citing Descartes and his mind-body dichotomy, but I'm a Spinoza girl. I see the physical connection, calcium released and synapses firing, between my thoughts and the movement of my arm. It works beautifully and I don't want to mess it up.

I'll have a glass of wine with dinner and a scotch on special occasions. I love the taste, the dimension, the artistry that can be found with alcoholic beverages. I've even been happily intoxicated on occasion.

There's a turning point, a threshold that people pass when they immerse themselves completely into habits that destroy the function of their body.

I wash bodies for a living. Every day, I help someone to eat, walk, communicate or clean themselves. I hold reverence for their bodies and the function those bodies have in housing the special being that makes the individual. I'm gentle even when the patient is not. It's a gift to be there cushioning the body, encouraging someone to respect the majesty of their own body when they don't see it themselves.

I treat the open wounds of my patient tonight. I hope that she wakes from her sedation and recrosses that threshold into a place where she respects the gift of her body. I hope that my cousin rediscovers his own gift before he destroys it completely .