Suddenly ravenous—and the Spanish egg

 

My Spanish egg--note the lacy edges.

After missing most of December and its good holiday food, I suddenly find myself ravenously hungry. For weeks, I could barely stand the thought of food and spent long hours trying to come up with dishes that intrigued me. Nothing worked. Now everything sounds good.

Hunger began to return in the hospital. I remember telling a nurse at three a.m., as she drew blood, that I knew what I wanted for breakfast—Grape Nuts Flakes, a banana, and honey. She laughed, but that’s what I had. Now at night I go to sleep thinking about breakfast.

Yesterday on the internet I found directions for a Spanish egg. It was a fried egg cooked the way my mom used to do it, with lacy edges browned crisp and good, still soft in the middle. I just never knew it was called Spanish, nor did I know how to achieve those lacy edges. My tried-and-true method for eggs is soft-poached on a slice of heavily buttered rye bread topped with some sliced sharp cheddar. I thought that would work with the Spanish egg, so I tried it.

When most of us fry an egg, we put a minimal amount of oil or butter in the pan. For a Spanish egg, you float the egg in a generous glop of oil—I used olive oil.  Slip the egg into a ramekin, so it will slide nicely into the pan. Heat the oil but don’t let it smoke. Slide the egg gently into the hot oil and spoon a bit of oil over the top. Now watch it for a minute and a half or so—until those edges turn golden and the yolk sort of puffs up (that’s the theory—the yolk on mine never did puff up). I slid it onto my cheese and toast, cut it all up, and smooshed the yolk around, and—voila! Breakfast!

It was good. Worth the effort? Probably. And I figure I’ll get better at the technique if I keep trying. But an egg every day, snacks in the middle of the day, a hearty dinner—something’s got to give. I’m not sure if I lost weight or not but at this rate I’ll be a a tub.

Last night we ordered Italian dinners, and I had a veal dish with teeninesy pieces of artichoke scattered throughout and a wonderful lemon-butter sauce. I ate every bite of the meat and all the accompanying pasta—usually I ignore those sides of pasta, but this we so good. Tonight I think I’ll do my first real cooking. I’ve been meaning to make a quiche from the New Year’s ham, and this cold rainy day seems just right. I got out the recipe to re-read—and it calls for bacon, not ham. I figure I’ll use both and make it that much heartier.

It’s a joy to be reading and enjoying recipe, eating and tasting good food, getting back to cooking. Life seems good, and I’m on the mend.

As for the Spanish egg, the picture doesn’t do it justice. Look it up on the net for a better picture.

The night the tornado came through

Nineteen years ago tonight a tornado roared through central Fort Worth. It came from the northwest, and I know it did some damage in the Rivercrest area, then moved on to devastate the Linwood neighborhood and cause widespread damage downtown.  Then it, or storms spawned by it, roared onto Arlington where there was also severe damage. I’m sure everyone has their story of that evening. For me, it’s memorable because of the tornado and because it reminds me how long I’ve had the wonderful tradition of dinner with my friend Betty.

I don’t know if back then we had settled on Wednesday nights, as we do now, but we had gone to Pappadeaux, one of our favorites. There were storms forecast, but who pays attention to that? As we enjoyed our dinner,  we  watched the sky go from gun-metal gray to that ghastly green which foretells real trouble.

I remember once being away from home when my children were little, and the sky turned green. My ex and I called the nanny, and I said, “You do know what to do in case of a  bad storm?” I asked. “Oh, yes, ma’am,” she reassured me—followed by “What?” We lived at the time in a house with a basement, and I told her to take the children and go to the basement.  Nothing happened that time, but nineteen years ago we weren’t so lucky.

Betty and I decided it was the better part of wisdom not to go out in that scary weather, and so we sat and watched a horrific storm—sideways rain, high winds, all the things you dread. I still marvel that in that restaurant with all its windows we were not told to hide under the tables or something, but I suppose they wanted to avoid panic. We ordered a second glass of wine  and watched. After a bit, the sun came out, and the sky turned blue again. We finished our wine and left, still not knowing what had happened.

When I walked in the house, the phone was ringing. I answered to hear Jordan say, “I’m all right.” Well, why wouldn’t she be? Only later did it dawn on me that she assumed, as kids will, that her mom was okay and at home and frantic with worry. She never asked, “Are you okay?”

Gradually I learned that the tornado had gone less than half a mile from where we sat sipping that second glass of wine. Ever after, Betty’s husband, Don, would say, “I can’t believe the two of you just sat there and ordered more wine.” But what would he have had us do? I think rushing out in the storm would have been the worst kind of foolishness.

The anniversary is also important because it reminds me how long Betty and I have made a ritual of our weekly suppers. And it wasn’t even a new tradition then. I’d say we’d been going to supper—or sometimes happy hour—for three or four years. Today our friend Jean has had a change in her family situation, and we include her so now we’re a regular threesome. But longstanding friendships are one of the things I appreciate in life, so tonight I look back on a long tradition of dinners with Betty. We’ve had some adventures and tried some wacky places, but we also have our favorites, and I am so grateful for the friendship—and for the near-escape of tragedy nineteen years ago.

Tonight Betty, Jean, and I had supper at La Madeleine on Camp Bowie, carrying on the tradition. The weather was calm and lovely, and tornados were far from our minds. Christian reminded me when we got home.

Here’s to a spring full of warm rains and gentle breezes and free of severe storms.

A day in my life on wheels

 What do you do all day when you can’t put any weight on one foot? Well you scoot around the house on a walker. The big problem there is that walkers are designed to be pushed forward. If you put the seat down and ride it, as I do, you have to go backward in order to steer with any effectiveness. Great exercise for leg muscles—in fact it mimics an exercise I did in physical therapy. Hard to carry a plate of lunch, but I’ve learned to put my lunch in a small baggie and put it in the basket behind me. I can even put a cup of hot tea there, though this morning I got splashed and thought at first that something had stung me. Only thing that doesn’t work is wine—after dumping two glasses on the kitchen floor, I’ll not try that again. But I can scoot with a glass of wine in my hand, because it’s pretty much hands-free steering. Your feet point you in the right direction.

And while I’m on the subject of exercise—I’m getting upper arm strength pushing myself up from the chair. Hardest transition is from chair to commode and back again. And in the night last night as I swung that heavy boot into the bed, I thought what a Herculean feat it was.

I’ve been sleeping a lot and let inertia overcome me, but this morning I was up and dressed—well, teeth brushed and hair washed—and at my desk before nine o’clock (of course, I went to bed at eight last night). Today I’ve done email, Facebook, written not one but three blogs, and read a bit. Will read more tonight.

Food is problematic—I’m not much interested, though I do better if someone prepares something and hands it to me. At lunch today, my brother and sister-in-law came, bringing burgers which I declined. But Cindy fixed me a bowl of cottage cheese and a big glass of wine—and I was a happy camper. Tonight I cut up leftover steak into bites and put it in a baggie; washed raspberries that were fading fast, and that was dinner.

Company is the most welcome part of my day—and other than John and Cindy, I’ve had none today. Yesterday for a brief while there were three people here for happy hour. Sophie is my great companion. She sleeps with me and cuddles in the bed, her front paws proprietarily over my arms. And she wanders from room to room as I scoot, watching me with a puzzled expression. I’d be lost without her company.

I don’t know how long this will go on but I’m aware I must be prepared to scoot for a while. I’m sure the routine will change—maybe I’ll even be inspired to start another book. Also I should get to the point that the swelling in my foot goes down and the pain disappears, so I can walk in the boot. That’s where I was until last Wed., but the boot was too tight and the foot kept getting more and more painful.

A treasury (?) of trivia

Where did October go? I can’t believe tomorrow is Halloween and the time changes and we are about to be plunged into winter. Seems I was just dreading summer. As I write thunder is rolling around in the sky, and the TV tells me we are due another round of storms. I woke this morning to a great crash of thunder and the immediate question, “How do I get Jacob to school?” When he was up and coherent (takes a while) I said I’d call his parents and ask one of them to bring his poncho.

“I don’t need it.”

“It’s pouring down rain.”

Scornfully, “Who wears a poncho to school?”

I guess only nerds who don’t want to get wet. A neighbor grabbed him from the porch on her way with her boys—and commodious umbrellas—and he apparently survived nicely. Though he blames me for the fact that he can’t get wifi on his iPad at my house. It does little good to point out that my computer and iPad get it just fine. He’s sure it’s all my fault.

Sophie went to the salon today—well, the salon came to her. But she looks adorable with her new “do.” (See above.) I will say that the young woman who drove that mobile grooming station hitched to I don’t know what was talented—she backed it up perfectly into my skinny 1920s driveway. I know grown men who can’t drive up that driveway, and lots of friends can’t drive down. I bless one who said since it made it so much easier for me, she made a point of learning.

At one point, I had the substitute cleaning lady (sent by the woman who usually cleans), the groomer in the driveway, and a crew from the tile company who came to install a small shelf in the new bathroom. I only wanted them all to go away so I could take a shower—finally got a shower at three-thirty.

Lesson learned: I have to eat something in the morning. This morning my honey-sweetened green tea was so good and took the edge off any hunger. I thought I wasn’t hungry, wasn’t shaky, would eat an early lunch. By the time I fixed my lunch—cottage cheese and veggies—I was so shaky the lady who was cleaning heard the dishes clattering, came and insisted on carrying my plate to my desk. With a bit of food in me, I was much better. It’s a lesson I keep learning over and over again.

Worried a bit about my Austin family with storms and flooding, though my daughter assures me they’re all safe. Boys were under tornado alert all day at school, and the pictures coming out of Central Texas are pretty horrifying. Our rain hasn’t been anything like that!

It’s been a clear-my-desk kind of week, and I have it almost cleared. Today I read—finished one novel, started Susan Elia McNeal’s Mrs. Roosevelt’s Confidante. Nothing like rainy-day reading, but I know I’ll want a project soon. Ideas flickering around in the back of my mind.

Halloween is not my favorite holiday, though I remember enjoying it as a kid. Today, I was a bit annoyed by the cast from TODAY in their silly costumes. Jacob had a costume parade and went as—Jacob. No costume. But for all of you who celebrate, happy days. I hope it doesn’t rain on your parade.