The $8,000 leg of lamb

I fixed a leg of lamb tonight for neighbors Jay and Susan, former neighbor Sue, and good friends Elizabeth and Weldon. I told Jay weeks ago if he found a home for that sweet stray lab, I'd fix him a leg of lamb. He said tongiht, "I saved you from a broken hip," and I told him maybe that's worth $8,000. It's called the $8,000 leg of lamb because I once served it to company and a guest called me the next day and offered $8,000 for the recipe. At the cost of lamb today, that's not too far off. Basically, you make a gratin of sliced potatoes, onions, and tomatoes, interspersed with salt and pepper, chopped garlic and crushed thyme. Then you put a cake rack on top of the 9x13 pan with the gratin and top that with the bone-in leg of lamb, seasoned only with salt and pepper. The idea is to turn the leg every fifteen minutes--I don't remember that from before, and I have to say it was a Herculean task. But what I forgot is that you should pour white wine and olive oil over the veggies before adding the lamb. No wonder there wasn't much juice for basting. But still the veggies cooked in the lamb drippings and were delicious. Jay helped me with timing--I was afraid it wasn't cooking at all, but he finally decided that neither my oven nor my meat thermometer were accurate and pulled it at just the right time. Interior was quite pink, exterior medium rare for those who like their meat brown. It was really really good. I want to do it again, the right way, but with the cost of lamb, I won't be doing it soon. It was the perfect meal for Elizabeth and Weldon on their gluten-free dairy-free diet. We six ate almost all of the veggies but I have quite a bit of lamb left. To me, one of life's delights is a cold lamb sandwich with lettuce and mayo. It will be a good week.
Sue brought her new dog, Jack, a lab mix maybe a year old or a little more. We thought he would play with Scooby in the backyard but Scooby soon tired of nip and tuck--he's an old man without Jack's energy and he told Jack to back off. So Jack promptly jumped the fence and had to come in the house where he was much calmer than Scoob would have been with all that meat and all those people. (Ok, we put the leftover roast in the microwave just to hide it from him.) Jack and the cat encountered each other a couple of times, which didn't faze Jack but angered Wywy. We worked it out, and mostly while we sat and visited, Jack lay at our feet. Sue's got herself a really good dog.
This morning Jacob and I went to church. I think I got more out of it than he did. I went with a heavy heart about the earthquake/tsunami/nuclear meltdown and about the problems of a family member, and I talked to the Lord about these things, enjoying the solitude and peace of the music and atmosphere of the sanctuary. Houston's sermon, as always, was right on, and I was comforted when he said he, too, just can't wrap his mind around the devastation in Japan. Jacob on the other hand came out of Sunday school--well, maybe it's just day care--electrically alive and ecstatically talking about a little boy who pooped in his pants. All I could hope was that the other children didn't tease the child unmercifully and embarrass him, but Jacob's behavior gave me little hope. When and how do you teach chldren about compassion? We drove to and from church with the top down on the car, which Jacob loves-it's so much easier to strap him in with the top down. I may end up doing that in the dead of winter.

Deja Vu all over again

Was it Babe Ruth that was famous for saying that? All I know is it was some famous baseball player. But that's how I feel about daylight savings time. It really snuck up on me this year. When did they move it from the end of March to the middle? I only happened to glance at a buried article in this morning's paper about it or I would have missed it. Then Christian told me tonight we get an extra hour of sleep--I wasn't sure and checked on it. NO! We lose an hour. I texted him to that effect, so that we wouldn't all be late for church tomorrow.
Personally I like daylight savings and would love to keep it all year, but  I understand the arguments of those in agriculture and other time-affected fields. But now that I get to sleep a little later I like the morning darkness--my bedroom is on the east side of the house, seems to have been in almost every house I've lived in. My dog and cat judge "get up" time by the darkness, so later daylight will make them sleep later. And I like the long evening, especially in summer when it's light until almost nine. I like to sit on my porch, and I like to go to visit Jordan and her family without feeling I have to rush to get home before dark--I don't particularly like to drive home after dark nor walk down my driveay. So I'm happy about it--I just wish they wouldn't spring it on us unexpectedly. Or maybe I've had my head in a bucket!
I did read in that tiny newspaper article that scientists now suspect that the changes in our body rhythms may not be good for us--circadian rhythms or whatever. But they're always disovering new things that are not good for us, so I can't take that one seriously. I've never had much trouble adjusting.
A subdued Jacob arrived tonight. He'd spent much of the day at the zoo and was tired, tired, tired. His mom said he would go to sleep quickly--I wonder what planet she's from. It's 9:30, which I explained to him is really 10:30, and got the proverbial, "Why?" So I got him in jammies and ready for bed and allowed a little more TV. Just now he came into my study to give me a hug and tell me he loves me. Be still my heart! But of course, I still have to go through the turn-off the TV battle.
When he walked in tonight, he asked, "Are we going to church now?" He has decided he really likes going there a lot. So since we'll lose an hour in the morning, I have church clothes all laid out and everything ready to go. His parents will probably meet us there.

What retirement is not--reflections on several things

Boring. Dull. Stultifying. All those things I feared when I envisioned waking up in the morning and wondering what ever I would do with the day. Doesn't happen--and certainly didn't happen this week. Tonight is a nice quiet evening at home with the dog at my feet and the cat curled up on my bed--first such evening all week. One night my class met here, one night I went to dinner--The Tavern, my new favorite restaurant. So far everything I've had there was wonderful, but I am partial to the club sandwich which has to be split--it's huge. And they serve the best black beans I've ever tasted.
Last night was the Bookish Frogs (translate that as Friends of the TCU Press) annual dinner. David Bush and Jim Parsons, authors/photographers of Hill Country Deco, presented a fascinating program and slide show. They are smart, articulate, and work together like a comedy team. Besides their book is a gorgeous exploration of art deco buildings, mostly in Austin and San Antonio. Lovely evening, but by the time I got home I was too tired to blog.
Today, lunch with those same two authors to discuss their possible future projects. I was delighted to be invited--okay I horned in--because I am particulary interested in one of the topics they are considering. Besides, the ladies of the office (plus Melinda's friend KK of whom I'm very fond) giggled all the way to the North Side to eat at Joe T.'s on the patio. A lovely day for sitting outside, sipping wine or margaritas, and eating that traditional Tex-Mex food. Nice, nice, day.
Now I'm home, trying to do some work, but I am watching TV--uncharacteristic for me. First I was intrigued by "Who Do You Think You Are?"--an episode of the program sponsored by Ancestry.com. My friend Jeannie and my daughter-in-law Mel are both hooked on finding their roots and now I wish I'd done that a year ago, so that I could have some information before going to Scotland. All I have is a record of the family after they came to Canada, though I do know we are descended from Gillies MacBain, who died a martyr for Bonnie Prince Charlie at Culloden. I just don't have time to do it, let alone spend an evening watching TV!
Now though I'm watching a documentary on today's earthquake and tsunami--a tragedy so huge it's hard to comprehend. In 2004 when a devastating tsunami hit Indonesia, I had never heard the word. Now I know of the damage it can do, damage that is beyond the imagination. It is pale to say that our thoughts and prayers are with the people of Japan, but they are. Help is rushing to them from many countries, yet we still don't know the full story I fear. I heard that Hillary Clinton had arraned to get coolant to the endangered nuclear plant but tonight they are saying that a nuclear disaster is perilously close. Yesterday one of those end-of-the-world sages predicted the worst earthquake in history would occur today--makes you wonder.
My friends vacationing in Hawaii report they are fine, spent the night in their van in a parking lot. This is their second tsunami in two years. I remember they reported both being swept up by a huge wave as they walked the beach but fortunately they made it to safety. I told them they better winter in South Texas after this.
But it is heartbreaking to think of the lives lost, lives forever changed, property damaged beyond recovery. I remember in 2004, a friend of mine who is agnostic, asked, "If there's a kind God, why does he send a tsunami?" I was at a loss, but a minister said, "Shit happens. God doesn't send it. He helps us recover from it."

The House in Madison Park

Last night my memoir class got to talking about the houses they’d grown up in and how you think the house is huge when you’re a child but if you go back as an adult it’s shrunk a great deal. I grew up at 1340 Madison Park in the Kenwood-Hyde Park neighborhood of Chicago’s South Side. Madison Park really was a park, three blocks long, with one way streets on each side. On our side, in our east end of the park, were mostly single family homes, though with one huge apartment called the Caverswall. I remember it to this day—very elegant inside. Across the park, the south side was lined with apartment buildings and residential hotels.
Our house was built, so I was always told, in 1893 for the Columbian Exposition. It was a duplex, though nobody knew that term back then. We shared a common wall with the house next door. Ours was red brick, with lovely stone work, a bay window, and a wooden front porch that my dad screened in every summer—it became our summer living/dining room. The house adjoining us was remodeled, totally flat in front, and painted stark white with concrete steps—a stark contrast. The house was narrow—16 feet wide if I remember correctly—with living, dining, and kitchen downstairs, three bedrooms and one bath upstairs, and a half third floor that went from student apartment to junk room to a cozy study for Dad. I guess I always knew it wasn’t big, but I didn’t think about it.
Dad bought the vacant lot next door, and it was a beautiful garden—his avocation. He spent weekends in disreputable clothes, on his knees in the dirt, but the results more than justified his efforts. We used to tell him it was embarrassing when students from the osteopathic college where he was president came by and found him dressed like that, but it didn’t bother my usually proper and quite British father.
In the 1960s, Mom and Dad sold the house and built a lovely home on an acre-and-a-half in Tryon, North Carolina, where they had honeymooned. Probably in 1972, we all went back to Chicago (I was then in Texas and John in Colorado) for a big weekend at the osteopathic college, and we drove to Madison Park and parked across the street. Standing there, I said, “Mom, it looks so tiny.” Her reply? “We didn’t know any better.” By then we had lovely, larger homes.
In the 1990s, a friend and I went back to Chicago for a nostalgic visit, and this time I knocked on the door. The wooden porch was gone, and I looked into the once-beautiful yard at a sea of mud, the garden ruined by dogs. Not one blade of grass.
When we explained who we were, the owner welcomed us and gave us a tour. The lovely marble fireplace had been replaced by a Swedish modern wooden mantel, and the flanking bookcases were gone. Upstairs, the banister had been scratched at by cats so much that it had one long raw dish down the middle. I was amazed at how small the rooms were.
The kitchen was still that kitchen that Mom had remodeled in the 1950s—truly her pride and joy. Now it was shabby. The owner, whose wife was out of town, asked if I wanted to see the basement and some alarm went off. I told him I’d seen enough of the basement when I lived there—it used to flood with stinky sewer water when there were storms and Mom scrubbed it with ammonia. Nancy said she was thinking, “Judy’s not going into the basement with that man, and I’m glad.” They tell us to listen to instinct, and I did.
I wish I hadn’t gone. I would love instead to carry my childhood memories of that house—and pretty much I still do. But Thomas Wolfe had it right. We can’t go home again.

Finding yourself through memoir

My memoir class met tonight for the second session of the spring semester. It simply amazes me how those women have bonded and will share the most personal secrets--sometimes blurting them out, which is what I did tonight. Something we were talking about touched a nerve in me, and I told about an incident I had never ever mentioned to anyone--not my bad, but that of someone close to me at the time. It's wonderful to be in a group where there is such trust--what is said there never leaves that room. And, as Jordan always warns me, "Don't blog about this, but . . . ." and then she proceeds to tell me some tidbit. So, no, I can't share. But take my word--it's fascinating. This much I can share:
One class member recounted a story about a strange woman she met periodically over the years, and she said it was only in the writing that she realized the significance of those meetings and the message she was supposed to get from them. Memoir is indeed a way of discovering yourself. Another woman described her parents' descent into old age, and I suggested I wanted to hear more about her, more about how she felt. We have moved into fiction, and one woman read a part of a short story that was gripping, though she had some things to work on.
The whole time I was leading the class, I was babysitting--sort of. Jacob was in the back watching a DVD, but close to the end of the class he called for me and said he was hungry (I had bought a Lunchable for him that he despised) so Linda and I collaborated on fixing a pbj. He came in to greet the ladies as they arrived and charmed them all. After they left he was through with TV and decided to follow me wherever I went--we had some interesting conversations, but it's no wonder I find myself bone-weary tonight.
I did mention to the class that this morning I heard Diane Rhem interview a woman named Stacy Lannert, author of Redemption, a memoir about her father's sexual abuse of her and her sister and her ultimate act of shooting him, for which she spent time in prison. In the interview she came across as a remarkable woman, charming, open, frank, and dedicated to seeing that no children suffer as she had. I recommend the book highly, even though I haven't read it. It sounds like everything a memoir should be--looking back and making sense out of your own life experiences. That's what I hope I can lead these women to do--and maybe do myself. I'm going to write a piece for next time, though I never read my pieces unless we run out of class material.

Oh, the things you can do with Spam

I've frittered away the evening with one of my favorite occupations--looking through recipes. My friends Elizabeth and Weldon are coming for supper next Sunday night. They are on a gluten-free, dairy-free diet and both feel much better for it. I knew what I wanted to cook--a top sirloin beef roast with a recipe from Cooks' Illustrated--but I couldn't find it in my appalling collection. I have two folders: Entrees Tried and Entrees Never Tried. I got mixed up about which one I'd gone through and probably went through both twice, but I finally found it in the Entrees Tried, where it shouldn't have been because I've never tried it. Cook's Illustrated tries several cuts of meats cooked several ways and then reports on which is best. I subscribe to it off and on but really should take it all the time, because it's a reliable guide. In this case, they say for a less expensive roast use top sirloin; second choice is a blade roast; stay away from bottom round roast. Recipe calls for lots of garlic, so it should be good.
Then I switched my attention to Spam--yeah, the canned meat kind not what you get on your email. Beth and Weldon also have a blog, "From Cows to Quinoa," about GF/DF eating. The title is a little misleading because they eat meat with relish, as long as there's no wheat or dairy involved in the prepration. But they do eat a lot of quinoa. Recently Elizabeth challenged readers to report on their experiences with Spam. It just so happened I had a cooking column ready on the subject, though it had never been published. So I'm to be a guest blogger.
Hormel has a huge Web site for Spam, plus lots of recipes, some of them mind-boggling. I culled through them looking for GF/DF recipes and came up with a beans and Spam dish, Spam and eggs (now I love lox and eggs, but Spam--I don't know), a Spam salad, and a State Fair prize-winning grilled Spam with raspberry, soy, honey, mustard sauce.
Don't get me wrong. I ate Spam as a child and loved it, and I would probably eat it today, except the fat content scares me away. I liked it in a sandwich, made with mayo and lettuce. 
A cool, damp, dull day in North Texas today and it was good to stay in and clear my desk of stray things, read papers for my class tomorrow, and so on. Tomorrow I'll get out and about in the world. Meantime, I'm watching one of my favorite TV programs--"Diners, Dumps, and Drive-ins" on Food Network. Guy Fieri rocks.

Searching for Salpicon in El Paso

Salpicon is ubiquitous in El Paso restaurants. It's a salad of shredded beef (or chicken or whatever but usually beef) with peppers and a vinaigrette dressing. Carol had it Thursday at the restaurant friends took us too, but I was afraid of the peppers and had a club sandwich was was, at best, ordinary.
We stayed at the Camino Real which, in the good old days used to be Paseo del Norte, a grand hotel with a magnificent Tiffany dome, now over the bar area. The hotel is to be blunt a bit shabby, though they were quick  to fix a leak in our sink and a lightbulb that wouldn't work (we didn't know to turn on the switch by the door!). But downtown El Paso is a strange mix of decline and update--lots of empty buildings, cheap store fronts, mixed with apparently recently redone plazas, a great museum, library. Many things were under construction, and it got worse Saturday as they blocked off areas to prepare for Mardi Gras. So we were hard put to find restaurants.
Thursday night we had a drink in the hotel bar--pretty watery chardonnay--and then went across the street to The Oasis, which surprised us. Really nice food, wonderful presentation, all with an Oriental touch. I had smoked salmon on whipped cream cheese--ok, not culturally indigenous.
Breakfast was a problem. We had been warned away from the hotel coffee shop which only offered a buffet for $13.99 that wasn't very good. But friends who arrived a day earlier had found a home-cooking style restaurant about four blocks away, so we went there both mornings and were greeted by hordes of others who were attending the Texas State Historical Association meetings. I never did try the Mexican breakfasts, though they looked good. Carol had menchaca one morning and choked on a piece of jalopeno, so I knew it was not for me. But I had grand hash browns, eggs, and, one morning, the rare treat of breakfast links.
Lunch was another problem. Thursday a friend took us to a restaurant out by the University of El Paso, and I got a chance to view the campus. We were four jolly females and had a good time at lunch in spite of my ordinary club sandwich--I should have ordered salpicon.
Friday was an awards luncheon for the convention and a TSHA board member who shall remain nameless snuck us into the luncheon--Carol had a ticket but had left it in the room, and the board member passed me off as an author. Well, it turned out that an author named Alter had won an award but wasn't there to accept it--so I ate his lunch. Except his wife turned up to accept the award. No one evicted me, and I enjoyed a good lunch of chicken with a cherry sauce, on spinach and rice.
The highlight of our El Paso dining came when we explored, on recommendation, and went to a new restaurant, La Jolla Kitchen, way out in a strip mall. It was worth the long trip. The management was still experimenting, so they served us two complimentary amuse bouche--one a hamachi with too much pepper for me, the other a marvelous sea scallop on risotto. For an entree Gayla and I shared a rack of lamb with asparagus and fingerling potatoes, and Caitlin and Carol split a rib-eye steak (grass fed). Absolutely delicious. Lamb is such a treat to me, and this was cooked to perfection--still pink but warm. The waiter convinced us that one rack of lamb wasn't enough for two people, so we ordered crispy quail with hoisin bbq sauce--too hot for all of us but Caitlin, and I noticed they didn't charge us. For dessert, which we wouldn't have ordered, they brought two samples--a cheesecake with agave sauce (superb) and a chocolate cake that was too dry. All in all, it was a wonderful dining experience. I don't expect to be back in El Paso soon but if I am, I'll go back to La Jolla Kitchen.
Saturday lunch was more problematical. The Oasis was closed, the Central Cafe, a block away but fondly remembered by Carol, was closed. Someone recommended a restaurant about four blocks away--hah! More like eight. We walked and walked. Carol walks fast, and I got winded. She'd sit me on a bench and go ahead to explore. When she finally found the restaurant it was closed. So we went back to the hotel, to that much maligned casual restaurant, and had a fair to good meal. I finally had salpicon, although the chicken wasn't shredded. It struck me as nothing more than sliced chicked on greens witha chipotle lime dressing. But it was good.
I've since looked up recipes for salpicon--I thought it was pronounced with a soft "c" but Carol thought it was a hard "c" and turned out to be right. I made it once several years ago. The recipe included poblanos in adobo sauce, and I had no idea how hot adobo sauce is. Even the first night it was too hot for me, and I gave it to a friend who said it kept getting hotter and hotter until they couldn't eat it. Now I'll try again, with a better idea of what it can be and a better control of the flavors.

The Seasoned (?) Traveler

Home tonight after two-and-a-half days in El Paso. A seasoned traveler, I'm not. Got the DFW only to discover that my drivers license and debit card were in my blue jeans at home. They settled for a TCU i.d. card, a cedit card, and a health insurance card. Same thing today at the El Paso airport only it was worse--singled out for a mild pat-down because of the metal zipper on my jacket--forgot to take the jacket off and they have the full body scan, which DFW doesn't have yet. Then they announced they'd have to check my luggage--never did find out why, but a polite man rummaged through my small carry-on, passed some kind of cloth-covered wand over all of it, and then said he'd have to re-scan my bag plus two individual items--my metal collapsible walking stick, which I had collapsed and put in the bag and the jar of ceramic bits that are supposed to dry out my hearing aids at night. I had to explain to him what that was. Doesn't anyone else take those things when they travel, of all the hearing challenged people in our world? Finally he asked if I'd like help repacking, and I was tempted to say, "No, you've done a good job of jamming it all back in there," but he was really so polite and so courteous when he wished me a good flight and a good day, that I simply thanked him. And went and had a glass of wine at the airport cafe.
If I'm not a seasoned traveler, I'm not an easy one either. I feel like the little old lady who when taken for her first plane ride and then asked how she liked it said it was fine but she never put her full weight down. I never put my full weight down when I'm away from home. I used to be much more nervous about flying than I am now and I still don't like to fly alone, but I'm pretty much okay on a plane--with some wine. But when the friend in front of me said if the plane crashed, there'd be a whole lot of history teaching jobs in North Texas, I told him it wasn't funny (we had been to the Texas State Historical Society meeting). And in the cafe another history prof managed to tell me that one of the survivors of the Titanic had been inebriated, and he always took that into consideration.
I went to the TSHA meeting to deliver a paper, another thing--not that I'm not good at it (everyone says I am and several people went directly to the exhibits to buy my books where, of course, they weren't available but could be ordered!). But it makes me nervous. Once again though the relaxation of retirement came through, and I really felt better about this paper--very non-scholarly in a highly scholarly atmosphere. At first I said I'd write the paper and someone else could read it  since I wouldn't be in El Paso, but good friend Carol Roark persuaded me to go with her and share a room, and she was a saint about letting me hold on when I lost my balance (which is often in a strange city). I also went because I would see lots of old friends--and I did, including people who said kind words about my work at TCU Press and particularly a historical biographical series that I had helped get started. Mostly though I visited with people near and dear to me, so it ws a good time.
But I'm glad to be home and catching up. I had looked forward to seeing my dog and cat, eating a pimiento sandwich, and settling at my desk, all of which I've done. The animals were ravenous, but I know they were fed this morning.
Tomorrow: adventures in El Paso, because I mostly travel on my stomach, and outside the meetings, our adventures almost all involved food, some good, some not so good.

Scotland the Brave

Today I got two small booklets in the mail from James McBain, the chief of the clan and the McBain of MacBean. In case anyone missed it, my maiden name is MacBain, and I'm going to Scotland this spring. I had written the clan headquarters for directions to the MacBain memorial park outside Inverness, and they referred me to the chief. He sent cordial emails and said he would send me a booklet he'd written on the story of the clan from prehistory until the present. I can't wait to dig into it. He also sent me a booklet by his father, titled An American Scottish Chief. His father, Hughston (being a Texan I misspelled it as Houston) was Chief of the Clan when I was growing up in Chicago, and he used to talk on the phone to my dad about how they were related. I have a file of correspondence between the two after Dad retired to North Carolina. From a brief glimpse at that booklet, I see that the clan was without a chief and without land for about 200 years, not recognized among the clans of the Highlands. I gather Hughston brought it back to life, so I'm most excited to read these two books.
Spent some of the afternoon hyperlinking the short stories in Sue Ellen Learns to Dance back to the Contents page for the Smashwords edition--something they require for their "premium" catalog. It took me a bit to go back and figure out how to do that, although I'd already mastered linking the chapters to the content page. But it makes me proud when I can do it, so I'm gloating a bit tonight. We'll see if they accept it. I spend a lot of time revising my electronic books.  But in some ways Smashwords offers a much better product than Kindle. Just now I got word from Smashwords that the short story I've posted, free, The Art of Candle Dipping, has too many consecutive paragraph returns. Scarlet-like, I'm going to worry about that another day.
Tonight Betty and I had tapas at Sapristi, one of our favorite restaurants, and then I blew it--ordered chocolate mousse which I can rarely resist. Betty just watched me eat it, the wretch. Tapas were good--smoked salmon on toast, a skewer of chicken and mushrooms, Spanish torta (an egg and potato baked thing), dates baked in bacon, and endive filled with blue cheese, diced apple, and walnuts. A really good and healthy dinner if I hadn't had the mousse. But everyone's entitled to a splurge.

Need a doctor? Read this book

I just finished reading and reviewing The Color of Atmosphere by Maggie Kozel, MD. The review will appear sometimes soon online at Story Circle Network.
 Dr. Kozel did her internship and pediatric training in the Navy, then served on board a ship and at a base in Japan. After ten years in the Navy, she and her husband, a neurologist, returned to New Jersey with their two daughters and went into private practices. Kozel draws a sharp contrast between military medicine, which she describes as the most socialized in the world, and private practice, which she says is essentially shaped by insurance policies, pharmaceutical advertising, and fear of malpractice suits. Morally unable to turn away uninsured patients, she found herself struggling to balance her compassion with the need to earn a decent living--no thought of the income that made doctors of previous generations wealthy. She found herself discussing toilet training, eating habits, and sleeping through the night more than doing what she was trained to do: keep children healthy. Patient expectations were a problem: parents wanted something for their money. A cold? Give us antibiotics. A backache? Do an MRI. Obesity? Fix it but don't ask us to change our eating habits. Her counsel of practical, preventive medicine fell on deaf ears.
After twenty years, Maggie Kozel, one of the brighteest and best pediatricians in the country, left medicine to teach high school chemistry. She teaches bright and receptive girls at the private school her daughters attend, she spends more time with her family, and sleeps through the night. But yes, she misses practicing medicine.
In her memoir, laced with patient stories well disguised, and just a bit of her personal life, she boldly addresses such issues as universal health care, a national electronic health database, and Medicare and Medicaid. It's an eye-opening look at today's medical care, and I recommend it to everyone interested in health care reform, from President Obama and Speaker Boehmer to the elderly and uninsured. Something's got to be fixed.
I grew up in a medical family, married a doctor, have a brother who's a retired physician--but these problems were not as acute thirty years ago when I was associated with, indeed enveloped by medicine. I am fortunate to have good insurance and good medical care, but this book, in addition to making me even more aware of the problems of our health care delivery system, has made me determined not to chat with my primary care physician. After all, he only can spare twenty minutes on me--I usually take a lot less.
The Color of Atmosphere makes no attempt to explain the complexities of the health care bill that was passed nor the current fight against it, but it will open your eyes to the problems.