"Food for Thought"

           Saturday’s savory scents carry on the breeze. One neighbor, a chef at a Thai restaurant, fires up his grill and spices up the air. Our other neighbor, windows open to fall’s coolness, teases me with the fragrance of a baking cake. Sandwiched between the two homes, I raise my nose like a coon hound and sniff the scintillating aroma. My stomach rumbles in dissatisfaction, nagging me that baby carrots and tuna noodle casserole cannot compete with the tempting fragrance floating on the wind.

      “Why is it that other’s cooking always smells so wonderful?” I muse.

       I love cooking and baking. Once upon a time, friends and family looked forward to the holidays because of my homemade breads, thickly rich fudge, and nutty peanut brittle. My Hollandaise sauce dribbled over Eggs Benedict has delighted many discerning palates on Christmas morning. I can bake any bird: chicken, turkey, duck, goose. My pie crusts flake, and my cakes rise.

         When I first retired, I revisited my favorite cookbooks and searched the web for new recipes. I kept a little record of dishes I cooked or baked with notations:  takes too long, substitute something else for mangoes, simple and delicious. A star rating meant I’d make that recipe again, refine it to our taste if it needed any adjusting. I didn’t mind chopping, slicing, dicing and marinating if the end result meant discovering a wonderful new combination of spices for a delightful new taste.

         As my mother’s Huntington’s Disease progresses, I’ve noticed myself avoiding the kitchen. The more foods she cannot eat, the less I want to putter around the stove. I realized that I now do the old reliable dinners that I know won’t give her any trouble. I make huge batches of spaghetti and freeze individual servings for her. A Sunday pork roast gets divided into four tubs and popped into the freezer. She loves hamburger gravy on top of a baked potato, and can still manage meatloaf with our special baked beans. The other day after struggling with a minutely chopped chicken breast, Mom suggested I buy legs or thighs. She cannot eat the meat from the bone, so I haven’t purchased either one in a while. Tonight, though, we baked thighs with our own special sauce, deboned the meat, and watched as she ate everything effortlessly. The dark meat proved much easier for her to chew and swallow.

         As the holidays approach, I’ll look for something less traditional for our celebratory meals. The food I prepare won’t matter since the true joy comes from being together for another season. We may have a wide variety of side dishes that my mother can easily eat and enjoy. I do know that she’s still able to enjoy a slice of pumpkin pie loaded with vanilla ice cream. Maybe we’ll just have desserts!

 Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“For Your Viewing Pleasure”

 

            Streaming services opened an endless supply of television viewing for us with unexpected surprises ranging from sitcoms to drams. I can binge watch entire series that originally took years to see, within back-to-back blocks of time. Although I don’t turn on the television set until mid-afternoon each day, I’ve managed to stumble upon some wickedly funny shows as well as tissue demanding series like Firefly Lane and Broadchurch. Some shows I watch alone as I know my husband won’t watch the murderous plots of Criminal Minds. Sometimes, I end up watching something twice, like the first season of Grace and Frankie because I had to share its wit with him.

            Friends suggest, “Have you seen . . .” which I add to a mental list to view eventually. Everyone knows my penchant for disaster movies, and any sci-fi finds itself on my list, too. It’s a slow process to make it through every documentary, film, and show on my “To View” list which means I lag behind the watching habits of most of my friends. Add to that the fact that I limit my time in front of the television to about two hours a day, and you can understand that my catalogue contains a hefty number of shows to be seen.

            This week I finally began watching The Sopranos. With the first episode, I understood why more than one person suggested this show for me (and not my husband). The psychologist in me became hooked immediately with the main character’s angst and flaws. The writer in me likes the unique blend of humor and horrific violence. However, I realized immediately that this show is not one I can watch hour after hour. Two episodes at a time is my limit. Yesterday, I found episodes of The Waltons to counterbalance the brutal beating and killing of a character with the sugary sweet innocence of 1970s television.

            My youth, spent waiting from one week to the next to watch the next episode, didn’t let me realize the excellence within a program. Now, my viewing pleasure, provided through one of many streaming options, allows me to appreciate quality writing, performances, and production in a way an audience in the past never could.

 

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Weird”

 

Once you wept with Walter
Set aside your abhorrence of Camelot
And clung to Fairness until Truth no longer served you
 
Once you honored Dover’s dead
Not manipulating and abusing our soldiers
And consuming the mighty military for your agenda
 
Once you believed in Choices
Before Rush, Glenn and Sean nourished your contempt
For anyone not like you
 
Once you loved without attaching strings
Before clan controlled your false superiority
And family pride rode on disdain for “Others”
 
Once you opened your hearth and home
Until your religiosity distorted your soul
To armor you behind gates with guns
 

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
 
   
 
  
 

"A Speck of Dust"

 

Ever had a Fixated Brain day? Those days when your analytical side grabs onto of some little piece of fluff that’s bouncing around like cosmic dust, and you must scrutinize said speck from every possible angle? I dove wholeheartedly into a Fixated Brain exercise today. My attention grabbed onto a random concept and couldn’t shake it free. I scribbled some ideas into my journal. I pondered different aspects while I washed and dried my favorite glasses. I considered multitude angles and dissected different interpretations. I spent hours on the internet researching permutations and postulations. The entire day drifted by with total submersion into the notion that possessed my attention. My zombie approach to everything else means I stumbled through my usual chores and absentmindedly answered my mother’s questions (I think?) My obsessing, by the end of the day, has left me feeling fuzzy and fatigued. The end result of all of this fanatical cogitating? The speck of dust turns out to be nothing more than—yes, a speck of dust!

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

"Vinegar and Bleach"

          Budgeting since my retirement means reevaluating exactly where I want to spend my dollars. A couple of months ago, I had one of those terrible weeks where every cleanser in the house came up empty. I hate it when all of my sprays and scrubs run out at the same time because they eat such a huge chunk out of our grocery budget. Even with coupons, the cost of Scrubbing Bubbles, Pine Sol, and Windex added together on one bill translates into less to eat for the week. I started fearing that my emaciated body would keel over from starvation as I scrubbed the tubs.

         Last month, I refused to buy another round of cleaning supplies. Instead, I grabbed the largest jug of white vinegar I could find with one hand and a gallon plus container of bleach with my other hand. (Poetic license here, of course, because these two items perch on shelves in totally different aisles of H.E.B). I recycled a bottle from one of my old cleansers and loaded it with straight white vinegar. The rest is history! My love affair with the power of white vinegar has grown daily. I clean my kitchen countertops with it. Hard water stains? Vinegar and salt mixed together takes care of that. Is that a barfed up cat hair ball? Spritz and spray with vinegar, and it comes off the carpet without leaving a mark. My living room and kitchen floors (especially the grout) look new again. My windows glisten and the mirrors practically glow! Add a little baking soda to vinegar to make a paste that can clean almost anything.  Although vinegar has a strong scent, the odor dissipates quickly and leaves the rooms smelling chemical free.

         I have a healthy respect for bleach. It doesn’t matter how careful I am, I always manage to splatter a little dot on my clothing. When I began using bleach as one of my major cleansers a couple of weeks ago, I hauled out an old pair of shorts and an already bleach spotted Aggie t-shirt to use on my bleaching days. I douse  a wad of paper towels with bleach and wipe down every surface of both bathrooms. I disinfect the toilets, sinks, and tubs. I scrub the garage floor with a diluted mixture of bleach and water, and I use it in the kitchen to kill bacteria. With bleach, I make certain I keep the room well ventilated, but that’s easy to do.

         The combination of using these two cleansers (which you never combine when actually cleaning) has impacted my ability to buy more at the grocery store. Because white vinegar and bleach are so cheap, I can purchase gallons of each for very little money. With both items in my arsenal, my house stays spotless for less.  

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“The Hidden Jalapeño”

          My list of aging’s disadvantages winds a mile long. Often, it wraps around my feet and trips me up, like it did the other night.

         At first, changes in my body subtly appeared:  a little softening, a little graying, a little character wrinkling. Nothing that bothered me. Unlike many women, I don’t view aging as a battleground where it’s me against my own body. I fight for fitness and good health and don’t worry about fitting into petite sizes like some of my peers. I will admit to slathering lotions on my face and form mornings and nights. I color my hair to disguise the gray, too. Unlike other friends, though, I don’t consider liposuction, Botox injections, or butt-boob-face lifts. I listened to two friends strategize over dinner one night on their attack maneuvers as they confront aging with a combination of denial and plastic surgery.

         My main complaint with aging doesn’t come from what my body’s doing on the outside, but from what’s going on inside. With great dismay, I have to turn my back on wonderful raw onions and all hot sauces except for the most mild. Imagine not jazzing up your tacos by drizzling hot sauce over the top. My nachos? Now they are raw onion and pepper free. When we head of our favorite Mexican food restaurant, La Fonda, I must avoid their free flowing salsa and find satisfaction with butter or guacamole on my chips.

         A stray pepper in my food spells disaster. My stomach twists and knots, churns and turns in unbelievable pain. The first few times this happened, I found that if I diluted the peppers with a deluge of water, I’d feel normal by the next morning. Then, I had to resort to Tums to untie my stomach. Now, I have to take out the big guns like Prilosec OTC if I want to venture into the hot zone. A few days ago, we ate at a new restaurant where I ordered red bean and rice with my hamburger instead of the traditional fries. With my first bite, I notice a little kick to the mixture and murmured that the chef must have laced the dish with cayenne, a spice that I can still eat without any problems. It wasn’t until I reached the bottom of the small cup that I spied a sliver of jalapeño hiding under the last red bean.

         Alarms sounded! Immediately, I started chugging my raspberry tea. Two glasses later, I practically floated from the booth to our car. But it was too little, too late. I took the OTC medication, doubting whether it would combat the spices swirling in my stomach. In the middle of the night, my own digestive system turned on me! Not a pretty picture. By daybreak, my taunt abdominal muscles screamed if I ate anything more than popsicles. By nightfall, I downed popcorn with jubilant celebration.

         No one warned me about this silent part of aging—the things we can no longer eat. I prepared for my body to slow down a little. I knew my hips would widen while my hair possibly thinned. That I could shrug off without complaint. But giving up entire food groups just isn’t fair at all!

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

"The Best Advice"

 

         Just like most people, I’ve received my share of “deconstructive” advice over the years. You know what I mean. The two cents worth that a busybody must impart with great sincerity and greater hypocrisy. You smile and nod your head with a vague look in your eyes. You bite your cheek to prevent spewing your desired response, and instead you politely say, “Thank you so much for your advice.” Then you go on ahead and ignore it all because you doubt the motivations of this “well meaning” advisor.
         However, I do know that some people in my life bestowed wonderful tidbits of guidance and philosophy that carried me through rough times. Many of these pieces of advice came from unexpected sources when I least foresaw the impact of their wise words. I’ve grown to cherish these principles and thought I’d pass them along today. I don’t want to present these canons in any particular order because at different points in my life, they’ve taken on different degrees of importance.

• 1.  Don’t have a television set in your bedroom. Couples don’t need that distraction. (This came from my mother right before I got married.)
• 2.  Try everything twice because you may not like it the first time around. (My father’s marital advice. So many different levels to this tidbit . . .)
• 3.  Never stay in a relationship if there’s physical or emotional abuse. (Both of my parents were very firm on this.)
• 4.  You have your entire life to reach for goals and dreams. (My father finished college at the age of 48 and started a new career at 50.)
• 5.  Enjoy each and every stage of child rearing and parenthood. (Remember, your relationship with your children lasts your entire lifetime.)
• 6.  Sometimes, you just have to put your head down and plow through the bullshit by sticking out a bad situation until you get to the “good stuff.” (Delayed gratification leads to such tremendous rewards.)
• 7.  Choice becomes a part of every day. We cannot often control what happens to us, but we can choose how we respond to those events. (I’ve always had trouble with this because I want to try to control situations/events/people. You know, trouble shoot and prevent; but somehow that rarely works.)
• 8.  Plan for the worst, but hope for the best. (These words guide my daily life now more than ever.)
• 9.  You can spend your life miserable looking at what you don’t have, or you can spend your life happy with what you do have. (I can never understand why some people choose to be unhappy, but they do.)

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman