Dumpling Daze

Grandma has been hankering for dumplings for several weeks now.  We wanted to make her some but weren't sure what recipe to use.  Grandma eats gluten-free.

Emma and I thought that the Urban Poser's tortilla recipe would give us a good starting place for strip dumpling experimentation.  It uses Otto's Cassava Flour which is naturally gluten and grain free.

Grandma nixed this idea, favoring biscuit-type dumplings made from a gluten-free mix that she had on hand.  It includes corn flour, which Emma is allergic to--thus the necessity of dual dumpling development.  Emma made the strip dumplings while I made the biscuit ones.

With both of us working in close proximity to the stove and Emma's kitten, Elsie, underfoot and sometimes climbing our legs while our hands were doughy, it got pretty interesting at times.

Finally Emma stuck Elsie in her apron.  We had a few moments of peace, for which we were grateful.

I cooked Grandma's dumplings in a separate pot of chicken broth to avoid cross-contamination.   They turned out well, and she scarfed them up.  Yay!  It's great to be able to satisfy someone's craving, especially when that someone is in a wheelchair and can no longer cook for herself.

The cassava flour ones were definitely not like the traditional Southern (white-flour) strip dumplings that I grew up eating in Chicken and Dumplings.  But they were still good, and we're looking forward to trying them again with the addition of some grain-free baking powder to make them a little fluffier.  And I think Emma said she will roll them out a little thicker as well.  The only thing we regretted with this first try was not having more homemade chicken bone broth on hand to make a bigger batch of soup.

One word of warning.  If you grew up nibbling dumpling dough while you made the dumplings like I did, do not try this with cassava flour.  It tastes gross.  Bleh!

May

This month has been tumultuous for me.  Kind of like paddling my canoe over Niagara Falls.  Lots of roaring and wild descents and outrageous bumps.  That's why I haven't written anything since last month.

I realized yesterday that I totally missed the Ember Week.  :(

And I wonder if life is really supposed to be this hectic, so draining--if I am doing it wrong.  It feels wrong.  That's for sure.  But I can't figure out how to do it differently.  I just keep paddling furiously and reminding myself that most everyone is doing the same.  

I am enormously grateful for my paddle.  I grip it tightly, knowing that despite my trials I am supremely blessed.

A young 20-something friend told me, "At least your life is defined."  Ostensibly, because I am married and have children and know what my duties are, I am in a far better place than he, who is still single and living at home, not knowing if he will find someone to marry, etc.  This is a common concern among my young traditional Catholic men friends.  Much worry is devoted to it and rightly so.  However,  after much pondering, I have to say that although those particular questions have been answered for me, they only bring a new set of questions: Whom will my children marry?  Where will they live?  Will I be able to have regular, in-person, interaction with my children and grandchildren?  Or will they live far from me?  Will there be anyone nearby to take care of me in my old age?  Will I die with the sacraments?

And yet, I know that we should not be solicitous for tomorrow.  Behold the birds of the air...the lilies of the field...

We have the Blessed Mother, too, and her assurance, "Am I not here, who am your Mother?"

Furthermore, we know that God chose for us to be born into this time, this horrible post-Christendom time.  Knowing this I feel a grave responsibility.  Am I doing God's will?  I think He has put a lot of confidence in me to bring me into this world in the dread year 1960.

All of these uncertainties--my young friends' and mine--are symptomatic of the destruction of Catholic culture.  So I think every day about what I can do to restore it.  Is not Christ telling us, as he told St. Francis, "Restore my Church?"

Speaking of the destruction of the Church, I was astounded to learn that "Catholic" Match allows you to choose which of the Church's teachings you believe.  I guess calling the service Heretic Match wouldn't be as lucrative.

Modern Life Is So Disjointed  

I spend enormous amounts of time and energy trying to navigate Western medicine for my little family.  I think that is why May has finished me off.   My little engine was already running on fumes.

My dad was hospitalized again this month, this time for a week, and his discharge paperwork included a list of about 20 doctors who saw him during that time, several of whom I am supposed to make appointments with for followup visits.  For the life of me I can't understand why nephrology and urology are two separate specialties!  How dumb is that?  For that matter, why is gastroenterology its own thing?  Why not put those three together into something halfway sensible like an "output" specialist?

After Dad was discharged I canceled two pre-existing appointments with specialists because he needed time to recover from being in the hospital.  He was so weak and disoriented from being there that he fell two times within 24 hours of coming home.  Unbeknownst to us, he spent an entire night on the bedroom floor, freezing under the ceiling fan.  After that he was really confused and thought he was on a boat.  Plus, the hospital managed to let him get another bedsore on his heel, so I needed to get him to the podiatrist to have the dead flesh cut out.

When he was in the hospital, I was making daily hour-and-a-half roundtrips to visit him while trying to keep everything going at home, including taking care of my mother and preparing for Emma's senior recital reception and graduation after-party, and the arrival of relatives for those events.  Thank goodness my sister Beverly came in from Birmingham and took over with Mom.

We got through all that only for our dog to begin a serious decline.  Poor old Cowboy!  His hips refused to keep doing their job, and almost every morning I would find him lying against the back door in his own waste because he had been unable to get up to go to the bathroom in the yard.  Eerily, it was kind of like the night my Dad spent on the bedroom floor.  When I helped Cowboy up, he could walk, but his rear legs would splay out, making him stagger like a drunk.

Finally, my husband Herb dug a hole behind the barn and took Cowboy on his last walk after we each took time to say goodbye.  I watched the old Black Lab's agonizing progress down the sidewalk and beside the barn until he turned behind it to dutifully follow Herb.  Such a sad, sad day!   It was really the end of an era.

We bought Cowboy's mom, Cocoa, and aunt, Genevieve, as newly-weaned pups for Nathaniel and Emma in 1998.  We kept one puppy from each mom:  Cowboy and Spats.  We had to put Spats down last year.  I made the mistake of trying to hold out with him and let him die naturally at home.  Emma and I ended up having to heave him into the back of the car and haul him to the vet to be put to sleep.  I have to say that dying at home at gunpoint on your own grass is the more merciful experience.

When Herb took Cowboy, Emma and I busied ourselves cooking.  I asked her to choose some music for us to listen to so that we didn't hear the gunshot.  She chose a YouTube playlist.  It was all very upbeat music to distract us from our grief.  Strangely, just as Herb returned from his death duty, Danny Boy came on, and my tears began anew.

Surely June will be better.

O Sacred Heart of Jesus, have mercy on us!

Of Wormwood and Black Walnut and Strange Pet Behavior

This clever dish concealed a pocket of herbs--wormwood and black walnut--by which I sought to deliver a death-dealing blow to some parasites that are plaguing our old black Lab, Cowboy.

Doesn't it look scrumptious?

It's actually layers of leftovers, topped with the spaghetti squash seeds that I had just scooped out in preparation for our own lunch.  I had a ginormous pot of bone broth simmering on the stove with lamb, chicken, and beef bones in it, and I decided to top the whole "casserole" with a ladleful of it for good measure.

The herbs are pungent, so I needed all the help I could get.

Or so I thought.

Not only did Cowboy plunge his muzzle into the medicinal meal, Stray Cat did too.  I had to keep grabbing him up to keep him out of it, as I feared the whopping dose of herbs would be dangerous for him.  However, every time I set him down, he dove back in.  What a strange kitty.  Strange dog, too.  I thought he might bite Stray Kitty's head off, but he never even growled.

After Cowboy had consumed the majority of it, I let Stray Cat down, and he proceeded to clean up, even devouring the last bit of carrot.

Our other four cats never paid the least attention to the food.   When I picked up the pan, Stray Cat batted at it with his paws, as if to pull it back down.  Crazy.

I gave the herb combination to Cowboy for three days total.  Next week he starts a once a week maintenance program of a second herb combination.  He has responded well so far.

The Big-Little, Scary-Wonderful, St. Patrick's Day Surprise

With Holy Week and all, I kind of lost track of time, but somewhere in the last two weeks I told you about getting our furniture moved back in the house from the garage, where we had been keeping it while flood repairs were being done on our house.  When we put it there, we thought it would be for a month.  It's been, um, let me see...almost five months.

Anyway, so we got the furniture put back in by a wonderful crew of guys from Three Men, only they sent four men, which was great.  That was the evening we went to see the Mary Poppins musical.  I guess it was the next night, St. Patrick's Day, that I was walking down the hallway and heard Emma squeal in her bedroom and a drawer slam shut.

I rushed into her room and found her kneeling on the floor in front of her dresser.  I asked her what happened.

"There's a baby possum in my drawer," she explained, grinning.

I did not feel any urge to join her in grinning.

"Oh, no." I said.

She slowly pulled open the drawer.

Amongst the clothes in the left rear corner, there was a ball of fur.  At first I didn't think it was real.  It reminded me of this cat toy we have.  But then I saw its nose and eyes, and my heart sank.

"He's soooo cute!  Can I keep him, Mama?" Emma implored.

"NO."

I hurried out and retrieved a cat carrier, and Emma scooped up the possum baby and cuddled him until I prompted her to cage him.  She popped him inside. I latched the door with enormous relief.

"That was too easy," I thought to myself.  "Have you checked the other drawers, Emma?"

"Yes," she replied.  "I'll look again, though."

I fought the urge to succumb to deep despair when her search revealed two more baby possums.  These two were not docile like their sibling.  They scurried away.

One of them tried to squeeze itself under the back of the dresser, which afforded Emma the opportunity to gently poke its belly and giggle.

After a few minutes of attempting to catch them inside the dresser, one of them made a run for it, charging toward the opposite wall.

"Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!" I screamed.

The renegade possum sought shelter under Emma's bed.  After much maneuvering, we managed to chase it into Emma's closet, where she nabbed the varmint with the help of a towel.

Possum number three was flat out perturbed with us by the time Emma got a hold of him.  He grinned his horrifying grin while Emma cooed over him.

"May I keep him, Mama?"

"NO."

At last the three possums were caged, and I took the cat carrier to the back yard, placed it next to a big oak tree, and opened the door.

Returning to Emma's room, I found Emma emptying drawers.  There were possum poops in there.

Gross.

She had hoped to spend the night in her room for the first time since we had moved to Grandma's.  She decided tonight was not the night to do it, especially since we had begun to wonder...

"Where is Mama Possum?"

Emma left for Grandma's.  When I went to crawl into bed, I noticed something on the floor next to my nightstand.  Could it be...

Yes, it could.

It was a possum poop.

"Waaaaaa!" I cried, giving in to a few tears.

Poking around this large open box of stuff I still needed to unpack, I found one more poop.  I feared there were possums lurking inside that box.  I gingerly lifted a pair of my husband's folded jeans.  A third possum poop rolled out and plopped on the carpet.

I jumped on my bed.

I spent a harrowing night in fear of waking to find a possum crawling across my face or dangling by the curtains over my head.

No such thing happened, though.  I didn't hear any strange noises, nor see any more poops.  I guess Emma's three baby possums had ventured to my room at some point looking for their mama.

For the sake of my sanity, I refuse to consider any other possumbilities.

Where Did I Go Wrong?

After our long exile at my parents' house because of our house flooding, things are finally beginning to return to normal.

Recently, when I came home from the drug store, I saw a burro in the open field next door.  I told Emma about it, and she went to see if she could catch it to return it to its owner.

She provisioned herself with a bowl of dog food and proceeded to climb over our fence.  I don't know if burros go for dog food, but Fiona sure does.  I looked out just in time to see her hauling tail toward Emma.  Then I saw Emma land safely in the field with the burro.

The burro proved to be elusive, and Emma returned to our yard, dog food untouched in the bowl she carried.  I was busy doing something else by then and didn't pay attention.  The next morning Emma texted me these photos with no explanation.  (sorry about the formatting issues)

The Stalker

Closing in

Beware the bovine with a wild-eye

In Haught Pursuit!

Fiona Airborne.  Love.

Run, Emma Jo!

Needless to say, when I received the texted photos, I was a little alarmed--first because I didn't know if the chase was in progress at the time Emma sent the photos and second because I realized I had raised up a child who would take pictures when she is running for her life.

Happily, I discovered that Emma was safely in her bed and that the photos were from the day before when Emma decided to document Fiona's desperate attempt to "capture" the dog food Emma was carrying.

Just another dull episode in our boring life in the country...

And God Laughed at My Plan

As a follow-up to Yes, Dad, I am Guilty, I thought you might enjoy this post I contributed to another blog a year ago, before I started taking care of  my parents full time.


I started off Monday with a great and holy plan.

I would give myself a one-day silent retreat using the book, The School of Jesus Crucified.   Well, at least until it was time to take my dad to his cardiologist appointment at 5 pm.   It had been a busy and emotionally draining couple of weeks with family and other out-of-town guests visiting, and I thought this little retreat was just what I needed to restore my peace of heart.   I said my morning prayers then launched right in on the book.   It was fabulous, and I got pretty excited about the spiritual progress I was sure to make.

I had read and meditated for about a half an hour when the phone rang.  It was my mom letting me know that her home health aide did not come to work.  My mom has been confined to a wheel chair ever since she had a stroke two years ago.  I called the aide, but she didn't answer.  I left a message.   Then I cooked bacon and eggs for Mom and took it down to her house.  Dad had eaten cereal.   I greeted him on the front porch.

I *think* he greeted me as well, but frankly, I can't remember for sure because the next words out of his mouth changed the whole focus of my day.

"Wendy, I'm out of cigarettes, and I've been out since yesterday at noon," he said, getting directly to the point as he handed me an empty L&M 100s package.  I figured the information about how long he had been out was to help me understand the urgency of the situation.  "And look at this," he added with deep concern, holding up his beloved little dog to me.  "Cherokee's got a giant tick on his leg.  He needs to go to the vet."

I looked at the tick.

"Dad,"  I said,  "That is not a tick.  It's some kind of tumor."

"It is so a tick!  Look.  Feel it."

I pressed the soft, black sphere and looked at how it was attached.  "It's not a tick, Dad," I contradicted.  "A tick's body gets big, but only its head burrows in.  This thing is connected to the skin all the way around."

"Will you make him an appointment and take him to the vet?" my dad persisted.  "Today?" he added.  Dad can still drive, but if he does he is not eligible for home health services, which he needs.  So no more driving.

"Yes," I sighed as I felt a dark cloud gather over my head.  I imagined the Vet's office with the walls papered in annoying posters about vaccinations and neutering.  Big Pharma rules there too.  Ugh!    Clearly, God had a different plan for my day!

I went inside and gave Mom her breakfast, got her dressed, washed the dishes, and started a load of laundry.

Then I went home and got my purse and headed to the Tobacco Shack.  I had really been primed for silence and prayer.  I felt the resentment monster crashing through my soul.  A knot tightened in my chest.   And then the guilt.  I pulled into the drive-through of the cigarette place and saw a sign that said that it didn't open until 9.  I had ten minutes to wait.  I decided to fill up the car with gas.

I left the driver's door open as I pumped the gas.  When I finished and went to get in the car, I noticed a bright green praying mantis on the roof.  I thought bitterly, "Oh, funny.  I wanted to pray and now here's this praying mantis.  Too weird."  I shooed him back so he wouldn't get squished when I closed the door.  I drove into the grocery store parking lot and parked, waiting for 9:00.  As I glanced out the driver's door window, the praying mantis leaped onto the driver's side mirror.  He turned his queer triangular head and peered at me.  I studied him and marveled at his construction--all the joints in his legs and the searching way he turned his head when he looked at me.  I recalled something that I had read that morning about how God gave us creation so we would know how much he loved us.  As I pondered this thought and gazed at him, time stood still.  Then the mantis raised up on his hindmost legs and then plunged forward, galloping along the top of the mirror.  The sheer beauty of it caused me to gasp, and tears trickled down my cheeks.

"Thank you, God, for the attitude adjustment," I whispered.

Back home with the precious cigarettes, I  called the vet to make an appointment.  I felt relieved when they said they couldn't take him until the next day.  Later, when I went back to my parents' to cook their midday meal, my mom said, "I gave your dad the tweezers to pull out that tick."

"What?" I asked in disbelief.

"But he couldn't get it," she finished.

"Mom!  No!  It's not a tick!" I had a mental image of me doing a face palm and thought, "Watch it, Wendy.  Remember your attitude adjustment.  But I could feel the frustration coming back.

Later, zooming down the highway to my dad's cardiologist appointment, he confided that he had painted the "tick" with fingernail polish.

"Okay, Dad," I sighed, totally defeated.  

And I reviewed my day and the retreat that God had planned for me and what a failure I was.

The next morning my parents' home health aide called and said, "You can cancel that appointment with the vet.  They already looked at that lump when Cherokee had his shots.  They said it was a fat deposit and not to worry about it."

That night, after I had put my mom to bed, my dad called me into his office where he was playing his millionth game of Solitaire on the computer.  He said, "Wendy, you were right about the tick.  I was wrong.  I'm sorry."

My heart melted, and I hugged him tight.

"I love you, Daddy.  It's ok."

Yes, Dad, I am Guilty

A series of emotional bombs exploded in my parents' kitchen the other night when my Dad discovered that I had not been giving his beloved Yorkshire Terrier his Trifexis heart worm/flea/parasite pill.  For six months.

Cherokee, Dad's little bundle of joy

It's a simple problem about which the dog, Cherokee, and I had reached an understanding.  He did not  like taking the pills, and I did not like trying to make him take them.  The only problem with our agreement was that we did not consult an interested third party, my dad.

Ignorance is bliss, right?  Apparently, not.

I mean, it's not like I didn't try.  I wrapped those Trifexis bricks in cheese.  Stuffed them in ground chicken.  Hid them in supposedly irresistibly tasty, special-for-the-purpose pill covers.  I had my son hold Cherokee while I pried his jaws of iron apart and tried to plunge the poison down his gnarly-growly throat.  Not only was I unsuccessful, he bit me.  Yeah, I call that technique the Pry, Try, & Cry.

No lie.

So as I stood guiltily facing my accuser, Dad's face turned white and seemed to expand eerily.  He threw his head back like I had delivered him a fierce blow under his chin.

"YOU JUST WANT MY DOG TO DIE!" he gasped.

The heavy scent of Eau de Drama threatened to choke me.  I briefly considered fainting.

At this point my mother, in her infinite wisdom, decided to resurrect Pee Wee, Dad's dog from his teenage years in the late 1940s.  "You didn't give Pee Wee heart worm pills, did you?" she asked, smiling smugly with her own cleverness.

Dad wasn't falling for that one, though.  He simply answered, "No," and returned his attention to me..."poor, poor pitiful me.  Lord have mercy on me."  (Just a little Linda Ronstadt moment.  It was so perfect, I couldn't pass it up.)

"I can't believe you didn't tell me!" Dad snapped.

At this point, neither could I.  It seemed like a good idea at the time?  I was beginning to feel like a teenager again but not in the good way that we 50-somethings dream about.

At last Dad excused himself to his computer to blow off the rest of his steam on a game of Solitaire.  He didn't talk to me again that night.  I think it was a good thing.  Don't you?

The next day I took Cherokee back to the vet and got him some topically-applied heart worm/flea medicine.  And today I took him and got him groomed.  So I am back in Dad's good graces.

Until my next major goof-up, anyway.

Cherokee, for his part in the trouble, got extra cuddling and a dish of ice cream.