I'm in the middle of making the move from Typepad to Wordpress, so if things get a little wonky here, you'll know why, right?
If you're still reading me using a Typepad address, you might want to change your links to http://www.onmytiptoes.com . If you're reading me via http://www.onmytiptoes.com , you should see some design changes comes across, but little else.
I'll try to make this as quick and painless as possible, all. :) Wish me luck.
We subscribed to a CSA this year- One Straw Farm is supplying most of our vegetables this summer. It's a great deal and I'm so excited to have begun- we have the opportunity to get all of these delicious local veggies and to try some new things, too.
Like scapes, for example- the twirly, curly tops of garlic. I've eaten them before, but never made anything with them, until this week. They were in my CSA box this week, and we were scrambling to look for something to make with these. I nibbled the edges, never having had one raw before, and the taste was somewhere between blanched garlic and sweet green grass. It was the perfect summer flavor, and I had no idea how to use it.
We were strolling through MOM's this weekend and lo and behold, the answer was handed to me: garlic scape pesto samples, complete with a recipe. There are no words for how fantastic these are- we bought thin- sliced, rustic whole- grain bread to eat this with.
Garlic Scape Pesto
10 garlic scapes, trimmed & chopped
1/3 cup roasted almonds
1/3 cup fresh- grated parmesan cheese
1/2 cup olive oil
sea salt, pepper
basil leaves, fresh
Use a food processor or a blender to mix the scapes, almonds, cheese and 1/4 cup of the olive oil. Stop the mixer, scrape the sides with a spatula, then add the rest of the oil and blend again. Add salt and pepper and blend one last time until your pesto is at the consistency you like best. Spread on lightly toasted bread or crackers, then top with grated parmesan cheese and one leaf of fresh basil.
You can freeze this to save it- it will hold for up to one year. If you're regrigerating leftovers, add a drop of olive oil and cover the surface with wax paper.
(This amazing, thigh- high sample sock was knit out of Skinny Bugga summer colorways by the lovely and talented Katydid Knits.)This summer is full of surprises for me- some positive, some negative, some just… well, surprising. Looking at all my new colors on the lines, I can't help but wonder exactly what is happening with me, lately; my colors are bright and rich and jewel- toned. There are even a few strong pastels in there- strong enough to almost not qualify as pastels, but so light… well, maybe I need a new word for whatever those are.
They are gorgeous, though. That word fits. They are lovely and they just flash out at me. They are influenced by the time of year, I'm sure, but even more by the people in my life; a lemon- chartreuse for Pamela, a darkish blue for my sister Megan (like her eyes), a purple- magenta for my aunt Karen. But there is nothing in there to explain the pale pink, or the orange with hot pink flashes; they are just there, lovely and colorful, and I've no idea where they have come from, of why I want to make them.
It is the pinks that startle me. I've always hated pink; I've seen it as insipid, or obvious, or silly. But I don't, any more: certainly there are pinks that fit that description- Barbie pink, how I hate you- but there's something sweet and sensual in the pinks I've been making lately, delicate and generous.
Somehow, I am turning into a girl who loves pinks. Peachy pinks, nude negligee pinks, soft buttery yellows with pink tones, it's in everything. I've dyed a champagne color that I am so in love with, and I have thoughts of dusky grey- pinks, too.
I have no idea what that means, but while I'm figuring it out, I'll be dyeing silk scarves for myself in every pink I can dream.
I'm back, I promise, and with the 13th list of Very Good Things, too. Broken out over here.
I have things to say, but not today. Today is a headache day. Tomorrow should be better. In the meantime, have some Hugo.
Puppies make most things pretty all right.
"We're all terminal," he tells me. For a moment I think it's an incredibly callous thing to say to someone in my position, but the moment passes. There is a comfort in someone, anyone, being honest and direct about these things. We are so rarely honest or direct about these things. It is good to hear the truth, even when the truth isn't new or surprising.
We still don't know why this happened to Sam. They have new tests, they say, since the last time this happened. They're running tests on his Factor VIII, which sounds like something out of a Resident Evil movie (but isn't). At first, I wasn't really sure that it mattered why this had happened; if we knew how to stop it from happening again (a life on Coumadin) then I was willing to let go of any why and just get into our old/ new/ current how.
I brought our older dog to the veterinarian's office today. Nothing big, just some shots, the annual inspection. While we were there, a dog that had been through a routine operation that morning died in the middle of the waiting room floor. Most likely a blood clot, a vet tech said. The tech was crying. A blood clot had travelled to the dog's heart, or her lungs, she thought. It seemed to go on forever, but it was only a minute or so. It looked like a seizure, and then she died.
I watched the dog dying and wondered exactly what the difference between this dog and my husband was- outside of all the obvious answers. That, I suppose, is why the why of all this suddenly matters to me. I need someone to tell me that my husband isn't going to surprise us all by dropping dead from another clot, somewhere different, somewhere worse. I need a doctor to prove to me that they are so all over this thing that they even know why it happened, just like you see on TV.
This isn't going to stop happening. This is our life. Even if it all goes as well as it can possibly go, it changes things, and it changes some things forever. I can spend some small amount of time grieving for the life we had in mind, but then we get back to mantra # 1: we only get so many days. I don't want to waste too much time on things that don't matter. I could be here now, in the life we have, and that is a lot more productive and worthwhile than fussing over the life we had planned.
I am suddenly hyper- aware of all of our things. I want to have so much less. A summer purge. I know it is tied to all of this, but I don't begin to know how.
This entry seems like disjointed bits and pieces, but it isn't. I know it isn't.
It's been a series of ups and downs; first Sam was doing well, then not- so- well, then well again. We're still in what I'm coming to think of as "the well zone" and I'm cautiously optimistic; the doctors have pushed back when they think he'll come home, but they think he's out of danger, which is what matters.
The clot is still taking up space in his head, and it will be for weeks, months- possibly years- as the Coumadin chips away at it. If this goes anything like last time, I think it will probably be another year until the passages in his head are clear, but again, I'm okay with that. He'll be on Coumadin for the rest of his life, and that's not great, but it's better than the other option: likely death.
If his INR (a test of how his blood clots) continues to climb and the pressure in his head stays the same- or, even better, lessens- he could be home with us as soon as Monday afternoon. No promises, they tell us. I'm not counting on Monday- I've been here before, and it never is as quick as they think it might be- but that would be nice. When he comes home he'll still be weak, and his headaches will take weeks to resolve, but at least he will be home.
Really, though, I don't care. The only thing that matters tonight is that he's pretty much in the clear: things aren't getting worse, and it looks like there was relatively little impact. So he's alive and intact. What's more important than that?
The pressure in Sam's head seems to be dropping; we will get confirmation tomorrow. He seemed much better today- doc said maybe he can come home this weekend.
That's it. Just feeling a lot more hopeful tonight.
Still no real answers from Sam's doctors. There's a lot of talk about how rare this is, and a lot of interns coming in to peer at him- baby doctors, is what I call them in my head. They're cute, all inquisitively asking the same questions, all confusion and wonder. They look at my husband as though he is some privilege they receive, this statistical, diagnostic wonder. And I suppose he is, and I'm grateful they get the chance.
The waiting, though, is interminable. They can't seem to lower the pressure in his head at all; it isn't climbing, but it isn't going down, and we're at about the end of what pharmaceuticals can manage. The next step would be a spinal tap- more of a drain, the word "tap" used the way you'd tap a maple tree. I hope we don't get there, but at least that's an option before all the talk of stents and shunts.
So that's where we are. Waiting. Hoping. Crossing everything. Knitting, incessantly, that too. But mostly just waiting. I'm getting better at that.
Professional dilettante, fiber junkie and avid reader, rehabbing our little house in Baltimore while fervently wishing for more hands.