Since the title of this blog includes the word "BROKE," I think it's time you earned some tips on how to shop and keep kosher broke. This is in lieu of a recipe today, but I think these tips are worthwhile.
Here are Reina's best tips on how to do kashrut and other shopping on the cheap:
* Look at the unit price of each item, or how much each serving costs. For example, if a $1.50 box of pasta has eight servings, it actually costs approximately $0.19 per serving. Most grocery stores list them, but if yours doesn't, just divide the price by the amount of servings.
* Reconsider your proteins. Certain cuts of meat are much more expensive than others. In the kosher world, I find ground turkey to be a cheaper cut of meat, as well as ground beef. You can also get whole and cut-up chickens for not too much money, and they will last you a long time.
* Other cuts of meat that I like: London Broil and skirt steak (it will last you for many meals, cooks quickly and isn't that much at a kosher market), pepper steak and chicken thighs. Chicken breasts are a little more money, but I save a ton if I buy a bulk package and freeze them into their own separate portions. Bison is a low-fat option that is emerging in the kosher world, but be wary of the price.
* If all else fails, if your kosher market is fortunate enough to have a butcher, talk to them about pricing on your meats.
* Don't forget vegetarian options. When we were children, my mother would make us beans and rice, like her mother did when they were poor. Not only are they tasty and inexpensive, but they have lots of nutrients. Tofu and "mock meats" are cheap and a good source of protein, so don't hesitate to cook with them to replace meat several times a week.
* Buy seasonal fruits and vegetables. It's a lot less money than in the off-season, when they have to be shipped in from different parts of the world. However, certain items -- staples like potatoes, onions, garlic, celery, lettuce and carrots -- tend to have a lower price tag no matter the season. I'm particularly loving potatoes right now, as they're filling and have a ton of nutrients in them.
* Canned and frozen items are inexpensive and major timesavers in the kitchen. Stock up on canned corn, beans and tuna, or get spinach, broccoli and peas in the freezer aisle. For those who can't find kosher canned beans, purchase dried beans and rehydrate them when you're ready. The nutrients are still there and they will last longer than fresh items. Just remember: For canned items, drain and rinse them in order to get rid of that in-the-can taste.
* Look to your backyard. If you have the space and a green thumb, grow your own fruits and vegetables. If you feel uncomfortable, start with herbs: You can save lots of money by growing your own basil, parsley, rosemary, thyme or oregano versus buying them at a store. Tomatoes are also an easy-to-grow option.
* Certain kosher grocery items are much cheaper to purchase at a kosher market than at your regular one. I find that items such as kosher boullion, breadcrumbs and marshmallows are much cheaper there.
* Do a price comparison of your local grocery stores. Take a look at your reciepts from each place, and don't be afraid to talk to your neighbors about their preferences and the reputations of some of the shops. For example, I found that, through price comparison, Trader Joe's happens to be my lowest price option, along with Vons and my local farmers' market.
* I have heard from many people that one of the best ways to save money is to shop the perimeter of a grocery store. Supposedly, the most nutritious and lower-cost items are in this area. I don't always think that this actually works. But it is worth a try to see how much you save and how healthy you eat.
* If all else fails, do it the old-fashioned way: Look at sales at your local grocery store and clip coupons from your local newspaper. There are also sites that specialize in coupons (such as my friend Nicole at The Frugalista Diva), so you will be able to get coupons from there, too.
Enjoy!
Monday, February 8, 2010
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Hagbah
Everyone probably knows by now that I am an incredibly dramatic person. It’s in my nature, a thing that can’t be helped. But I can honestly say that I had the most spiritual experience in the most unexpected place.
This past weekend, I went on a women’s retreat up in Malibu. It’s beautiful up at Camp Hess Kramer, about a quarter mile from the beach, with stunning green foliage and a babbling brook. I figured it would be a great time to reflect on all the insanity that’s been happening as of late: the insanity of tightening purse strings, the fear of what’s to come and the heartbreak of not being able to help yourself out of this mess.
It led me to Saturday morning services, where I sat pondering my life. I felt so helpless, although I did not want to be. I looked out the windows at the beautiful light that was emanating off the emerald plants and deep, dark earth. And my mind began to travel to where it has through almost every religious service I attended in the months since my last blood clot and layoff shortly after.
I questioned why I was doing everything I do, why I live a Jewish life. Why should I follow G-d’s words when he does not hear my cries? Everything was taken away from me, right down to my own ability to bear children. Does G-d not see the my and my husband’s suffering as I watch him fall further away with every day that he’s left to continue to be unemployed? Why should I fulfill my commitments to G-d when he hasn’t fulfilled his to me?
We eventually got to the Torah service, and were called up for aliyot. The women draped talitot over their shoulders and prayed, looking over as others read the portions from the ancient scroll, which talked about the journey to Mount Sinai. But then it was time for hagbah.
For those who don’t know, it’s the person who lifts the Torah after the portion has been read, and displays it for all to see -- and for the record, the Torah is not light. Traditionally, it’s a very strong man who does it.
“Who here has not done a hagbah?” the rabbi asked, her smile friendly and engaging. A few ladies raised their hands, myself included. I found out later that many girls who are bat mitzvahed in Long Beach are asked to do it for themselves. At my bat mitzvah in Thousand Oaks, my cousin Paul did it.
Sure enough, me being the young, very tall and very strong-looking person that I am (the broad shoulders I inherited from my father don’t help), I was called upon to do it. My mind went into shock. All I could think was that if I dropped it, these women would all have to do 40 days of fasting because of my sorry butt.
Lift from the knees, lift from the knees, I kept thinking. I wasn’t quite sure what else to think other than “Don’t drop it.”
I approached the Torah, it’s perfect text seeming to look back into my soul. I faced all these women, most of which who barely knew me, but saw me as a tall and broad-shouldered woman. Suddenly, the rabbi stepped forward, wrapping me in a prayer shawl.
“This was my first talit,” she said softly to me in my ear. “This is for your first hagbah.”
I saw the unbalanced sides of the scroll, wondering how it would balance in my hands. I was told to move it out a little first, and then lift. When I gripped, I wasn’t sure. My left hand felt the strong weight of what it was about to lift, but I was determined. I had to do this. It was time.
And then I lifted. My eyes seemed to pop open as I saw the living Torah before my eyes. My hands shook slightly, part of the amazement and the glory. I saw the text, the true text, in my vision, and I was awed. My mouth was open, as if I wanted to breathe in every moment, and yet was gasping for the glory in the air. I couldn’t quite describe it.
As I sat with the Torah, and watched as those around me were dressing it, I was in complete amazement. I had never done such a thing, and was now looking lovingly at this scroll with a smile on my face, the combined forces of joy and relief that I didn’t drop it. The woman who was dressing the torah, Heather, had never done that before either. She was also amazed at what she was doing, and began to cry.
After that moment, I rose, and I cradled this sacred book like a newborn baby, kissing it and loving it. I handed it off to Heather, who handed it off to the Rabbi. When we finished, Heath and I embraced, and suddenly, as if it were something more than rain, it began to pour hard outside. The rain hit the windows and the ground with such force that I only have heard several times in my life. Those times, from what I can remember, were moments that were darkness at one point, but then found a way to joy. Today, it almost sounded like applause.
I stared at this rain, not paying attention to anyone else, feeling a strength and power emanating from my hands. I felt something stir inside of me. Is it really possible that G-d has a way of communicating with us in the subtleness of nature? I don’t know if it was really a message for me (and even if it was, I wouldn’t even know if I got the message right), but I found strength. It was as if my spirit was saying to that inner voice of doubt to shut up about questioning my faith. I was stronger than that. To prove it, I just had lifted a Torah.
So this writing is for anyone who needs to find strength, who finds themselves doubting and questioning. I’m not telling you to go lift a Torah. But I am telling you that the answer to if you’re strong enough is inside, and all you need to do is prove it to yourself.
In honor of our weekend away at the camp, I bring forth the egg salad. This is reminiscent of Camp Ramah weekends, where they would serve us hard-boiled eggs every Saturday morning, and we'd all make our makeshift egg salads from the packets of mustard and mayo that they would leave us. Personally, I love dill with hard-boiled eggs.
EGG SALAD
6 hard boiled eggs
1/2 cup mayonnaise
2 cloves garlic
2 tablespoons lemon juice (or juice of ½ a lemon)
3 tablespoons fresh or dried dill
¼ cup dried chopped onion
1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
Hard boil the eggs and let them cool. If using fresh dill, chop it finely. Meanwhile, finely mince the garlic and add to the mayonnaise. Add lemon juice and dill. Set aside for about 30 minutes. (see Quick Tip)
Crack eggs and add to bowl. Smash them finely with a fork. Add the onion, mayonnaise mixture and mustard. Mix. If using fresh dill, you can garnish it with a sprig in order to look super-fancy.
Quick Tip: Believe it or not, in that simple mixing of mayonnaise, you created an aioli, or garlic mayonnaise. Feel free to use that as a dip or a topping on a burger.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
A lot of people wonder, with a blog like this, if I have any other loves besides food. What else do I do, after all, besides stand around in my kitchen and make food, not to mention kayak?
The truth of the matter is that I do have another love. It’s film. I am enamored. The experience of watching film is something incredible to me that I can’t even quite begin to explain.
It’s been a long-time love affair – from going to the movies with my father as a child, smelling that greasy movie popcorn lingering in the air, sitting in cushy chairs and getting to take in our movie. But my adult love started at 16. Ironically, it was around the time that the AFI list of top 100 movies was first released. I became determined to see them all, and start at the beginning: “Citizen Kane,” considered by many to be the greatest film ever made.
I sat down to watch it with my dad, and I was entranced: the angles of the camera, the clarity of the film and that gorgeous storytelling. Needless to say, I became a junkie after that, absorbing great filmmaking. I watched “The Godfather” with glee (and before anyone challenges me, I think the first one is the stronger film of the two) and really understood what I was watching before – such as my childhood favorites, “The Wizard of Oz” or “Yellow Submarine.”
As I got older, my tastes diverged from my father’s – while he favored more classical filmmakers, I enjoyed watching the crisp dialogue of Quentin Tarantino and absorbed Marty Scorcese’s beautiful cinematography work. But I never gave up appreciating it, loving it, sucking in everything each movie had to offer. Netfilx has been very helpful in being able to get all these films into my home (except “Forbidden Planet” – still waiting for that one to come out).
Although my dad is still trying desperately to get me into a basic film class, I enjoy interpreting and enjoying the film, even without the criticism that goes with it. And what do we get from these films? We get the ability to laugh together, to cry together, to be a part of each other’s lives. You don’t need to take a film class to appreciate what film brings to our experience as human beings. We share in cultural experiences and truly appreciate what a crew of potential crazies bring to us.
For me, film is a sacred form of storytelling, and it is important to preserve the originality instead of trying to retell stories that have been done over and over again with motion capture, Robert Zemekis (you’re on my not-nice list, as you are going to destroy one of my favorite childhood memories). I look to current films, such as “(500) Days of Summer,” “Inglorious Basterds” and yes, even “Avatar,” to help keep strong filmmaking going – to make us wonder, laugh, cry, understand and find a way to be a part of this world.
In honor of the free spirit of film and everything it has to offer, I am offering an alternative to greasy movie popcorn – a favorite of mine, but insanely fattening. You won’t get much better with White Chocolate popcorn, but it is a sweet treat.
WHITE CHOCOLATE POPCORN
1 large bag of kettle corn popcorn
½ cup white chocolate morsels
Pop the popcorn according to package directions. Pour into a large bowl and set aside.
Pour the morsels into a small bowl and put into the microwave. Microwave for 30 seconds and stir. Repeat this until the mixture is smooth without any lumps. (see quick tip) Using a spoon, pour over the popcorn mixture. Allow it to cool before serving.
Quick Tip: If there’s anything else that burns faster than popcorn, it’s chocolate. White chocolate is particularly susceptible, so keep a close eye on your microwave. If unable to use a microwave, put a bowl on top of a saucepan of boiling water and melt that way. It’s known as a “double boiler,” and is the traditional way of melting chocolate.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
In the Trenches
This afternoon, after finagling my way to a lower price for my oil change, I immediately settled in the lobby of the Jiffy Lube in Lakewood to look at magazines. I settled on Newsweek.
When I was growing up, Newsweek was one of my favorite magazines. Well-designed, intelligent and interesting, it was somewhere where I would dream of working if I had advanced far enough in my journalism career. It’s a different magazine now – thinner, badly designed and forgetting about who the heck reads their articles.
And there I was, thinking about my husband, who is having a difficult time getting over his loss of confidence and lack of job, not knowing where to turn to. I think about the bills that we have to pay, the care that I take in what I put on my credit card and the fear that I face when it comes to how my husband and I are going to deal with our expenses.
Newsweek is probably still in some lofty building. But they seemed to have forgotten what it’s like in the trenches. It’s most obvious in a section that’s called “My Turn.” This used to be the section where normal people got to tell their stories, how they were fighting, how they were learning to live with whatever problem they were faced with. Now it’s replaced by “more important” people, like Bill Gates or the archbishop of Canterbury talking about whatever is important to them.
What is more crucial to our lives than the common man? Who shaped America, who helped drive change? Who really plays the most important role in our lives? You can say the American government, but I would say that if the Senate was anything like it is today, it’s not the case. I think the people come first, and then the Senate gets so scared out of its wits that they have to go through with things.
I think that, in today’s economy, the common man is more important than ever. We are the ones who are digging in the dirt, finding a way to survive despite the difficult times, while the wealthy are sitting far and away from this struggle, looking at it as simply observation. They just sit there, scratching their heads trying to figure out how to help us – when, in truth, many of us have found ways to help ourselves despite them.
I think that we are led to believe, as common people, that we really don’t have the power. We just have to sit back and let other people make decisions about our lives, and then be helpless and follow them no matter what.
Common people are better than this. We need to stand up and tell the world that we matter. We are important, and we are the ones who really make a difference. There is a quote: “Be the change that you want to see in the world.” Do you really think we would be if we just sat up in those fancy Senate offices just thinking?
I hope that journalism remembers that. Charles Kuralt , the American journalist, travelled this country telling the stories of regular human beings, finding the beautiful and fascinating stories in all of them. It was always a dream of mine that I would pursue that beautiful kind of journalism of loading up in a van, going to different places and meeting the ordinary person, yet find that they are more extraordinary than anyone thought. It is because of drive, determination and that ever-beautiful hope that exists in the heart of every American.
Meanwhile, like those regular Americans, I refuse to surrender. From the age of two, I learned that I had to fight for everything – even the ability to speak. I was born to fight it all despite everything. You will never see me give up. I want to fight for my right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. The truth of the matter is that I will always stand for the common man, no matter where that person is. It is a part of who I am.
So I salute the common man by giving a common recipe: deviled eggs. A part of me wonders if there is anything more American than this picnic food – and don’t say hamburger.
DEVILED EGGS
6 hard-boiled eggs
½ teaspoon mustard
2 tablespoons mayonnaise
¼ teaspoon dried garlic powder
1 teaspoon dill
Salt and Pepper
Paprika
Hard boil the eggs. Once cooled, peel them and slice each egg in half. Very gently, pop the yolk out of the white part into a small bowl and mash.
Combine the mustard, mayonnaise, garlic powder, dill and salt and pepper to taste in with the yolks. Mash and make sure they’re evenly combined. Put the yolk mixture back into the whites. Sprinkle with paprika and serve.
Quick Tip 1: Because the eggs should look pretty, you may want to make several extra hard-boiled eggs, just in case some explode during the cooking process.
Quick Tip 2: If you want them to look super-fancy, you can always use a piping bag to put the filling back in. If you don’t want to buy your own, take a heavy-duty plastic bag, put the filling in and cut off the tip.
Quick Tip 3: Feel free to play with your food. I’ve seen fillings of deviled eggs with goat cheese, minced celery or relish. The best thing I can suggest is to experiment and see what you like best.
When I was growing up, Newsweek was one of my favorite magazines. Well-designed, intelligent and interesting, it was somewhere where I would dream of working if I had advanced far enough in my journalism career. It’s a different magazine now – thinner, badly designed and forgetting about who the heck reads their articles.
And there I was, thinking about my husband, who is having a difficult time getting over his loss of confidence and lack of job, not knowing where to turn to. I think about the bills that we have to pay, the care that I take in what I put on my credit card and the fear that I face when it comes to how my husband and I are going to deal with our expenses.
Newsweek is probably still in some lofty building. But they seemed to have forgotten what it’s like in the trenches. It’s most obvious in a section that’s called “My Turn.” This used to be the section where normal people got to tell their stories, how they were fighting, how they were learning to live with whatever problem they were faced with. Now it’s replaced by “more important” people, like Bill Gates or the archbishop of Canterbury talking about whatever is important to them.
What is more crucial to our lives than the common man? Who shaped America, who helped drive change? Who really plays the most important role in our lives? You can say the American government, but I would say that if the Senate was anything like it is today, it’s not the case. I think the people come first, and then the Senate gets so scared out of its wits that they have to go through with things.
I think that, in today’s economy, the common man is more important than ever. We are the ones who are digging in the dirt, finding a way to survive despite the difficult times, while the wealthy are sitting far and away from this struggle, looking at it as simply observation. They just sit there, scratching their heads trying to figure out how to help us – when, in truth, many of us have found ways to help ourselves despite them.
I think that we are led to believe, as common people, that we really don’t have the power. We just have to sit back and let other people make decisions about our lives, and then be helpless and follow them no matter what.
Common people are better than this. We need to stand up and tell the world that we matter. We are important, and we are the ones who really make a difference. There is a quote: “Be the change that you want to see in the world.” Do you really think we would be if we just sat up in those fancy Senate offices just thinking?
I hope that journalism remembers that. Charles Kuralt , the American journalist, travelled this country telling the stories of regular human beings, finding the beautiful and fascinating stories in all of them. It was always a dream of mine that I would pursue that beautiful kind of journalism of loading up in a van, going to different places and meeting the ordinary person, yet find that they are more extraordinary than anyone thought. It is because of drive, determination and that ever-beautiful hope that exists in the heart of every American.
Meanwhile, like those regular Americans, I refuse to surrender. From the age of two, I learned that I had to fight for everything – even the ability to speak. I was born to fight it all despite everything. You will never see me give up. I want to fight for my right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. The truth of the matter is that I will always stand for the common man, no matter where that person is. It is a part of who I am.
So I salute the common man by giving a common recipe: deviled eggs. A part of me wonders if there is anything more American than this picnic food – and don’t say hamburger.
DEVILED EGGS
6 hard-boiled eggs
½ teaspoon mustard
2 tablespoons mayonnaise
¼ teaspoon dried garlic powder
1 teaspoon dill
Salt and Pepper
Paprika
Hard boil the eggs. Once cooled, peel them and slice each egg in half. Very gently, pop the yolk out of the white part into a small bowl and mash.
Combine the mustard, mayonnaise, garlic powder, dill and salt and pepper to taste in with the yolks. Mash and make sure they’re evenly combined. Put the yolk mixture back into the whites. Sprinkle with paprika and serve.
Quick Tip 1: Because the eggs should look pretty, you may want to make several extra hard-boiled eggs, just in case some explode during the cooking process.
Quick Tip 2: If you want them to look super-fancy, you can always use a piping bag to put the filling back in. If you don’t want to buy your own, take a heavy-duty plastic bag, put the filling in and cut off the tip.
Quick Tip 3: Feel free to play with your food. I’ve seen fillings of deviled eggs with goat cheese, minced celery or relish. The best thing I can suggest is to experiment and see what you like best.
In the meantime...
I will be posting something new later today, but in the meantime, I found a few kosher-oriented articles.
This one is a survey of people who purchase kosher meats. Turns out the main reason is food quality, not kashrut.
Here's an article from the New York Times citing similar facts.
Here is another article from Nina Rastogi from Slate. It asks if Kosher and Halal meats are better for the environment. Turns out, not much, but we do have some advantages.
I give a special shout-out to Nina -- I went to elementary school with this girl in Northern California before we moved away!
Post to come later today...
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Barely Breathing, Part I
Hi everyone!
After a long day, I'm going to go slow and post one of my favorite articles from the past. It's called "Barely Breathing." I'm going to do it in stages, though -- it's a long sucker.
BARELY BREATHING, PART I
“Oh my G-d, mom, I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!”
I had collapsed under a pine tree at Cal State Fullerton, on a clear day in late January. I was talking to my mother on my cell phone.
“Reina, stop being so hysterical. Just come on home.”
That was me, the great medical hysteric. But I felt like I was dying. The pain in my chest had become excruciating.
Picking myself up had to be the hardest thing. I went to my apartment, grabbed my Vicodin and cell phone charger, and with only a backpack, I went down to my car and started driving home; it was like driving drunk without a single drop of alcohol.
The next 36 hours weren’t even there. I don’t remember anything, except perching myself on the couch, holding slightly onto my chest and only moving when I had to go to the bathroom. At 10 o’clock Wednesday night, when I coughed so hard that something came up, that something was blood. I may be a medical hysteric, but even I knew this wasn’t a good sign.
At noon the next day, I was in Dr. Gonzalez’s office. He was a good-looking, older Latin man, the kind you were sure the ladies swooned about when he was young.
I was paler than a ghost as he studied my left leg. “Your leg is warm, not to mention extraordinarily swollen.”
“Yes,” I whispered. I couldn’t talk that loud. “It’s been that way since I was in the walking cast.”
After the tests, he looked at my mother. “Don’t take her home. Don’t take her anywhere. Take her straight to the hospital. I’m 90 percent sure that it’s a blood clot.”
He should stand corrected: It was five blood clots, three of which had lodged themselves in my right lung, which go by the medical term of pulmonary embolisms. By 5 p.m., I was lying on a hospital bed, while nurses kept poking me with needles, desperately trying to save my life.
Meanwhile, six months before, I had started a new life. I moved away from my parents’ house in Thousand Oaks to Fullerton, a place where the only people I knew were my cousins 20 minutes south. But it didn’t take too long for me to pick up friends.
Each friend played his or her own significant role in my life, and took on a very strong meaning for me. My classes were amazing, and I felt like I was in a place that fit perfectly for me. Orange County had its own culture and sound, which I drank in. My friends from back home didn’t really come to visit, but the fact was that now I was living two very separate lives: one in Orange County and one at my parents’ house.
When winter break approached, I returned home and spent time with local friends. The last day I really felt fine before all of this, I was with my friend Michelle at a mall in the Valley. I bought shoes, and she bought some clothes. We had a good time. I really wish that I cherished that day more, because what would happen afterwards would change my life.
The day after, I had pain in my ankle. That pain led to a walking cast, due to the readjustment of bones in my foot (due to flat feet). That walking cast led to a very swollen leg, followed by food poisoning, and the never-ending pain in my chest, to the point where I couldn’t even laugh.
At 5 a.m. on the Tuesday before my hospital visit, I went into the E.R. in Fullerton, because my chest pain became so bad I couldn’t even lie down. They misdiagnosed me with bronchitis and a chest wall strain, for which the prescription was an antibiotic and Vicodin. I took a winter class, and I remember storming out of the classroom, because I couldn’t breathe, as if going outside would help it. Needless to say, the rest came to be a trying experience in my life.
I lay down gently on the hospital bed after I was taken for tests, and little did I know it would be a while before they let me get up again. I was the youngest person on the ward as the nurses moved my bed into a room. They moved me next to the window, where I could see a hill that set the background for Thousand Oaks. There was nothing more I wanted to do than run up that hill and curse at G-d for putting me into this situation.
That night, I couldn’t breathe, and the nurse stuck an oxygen tube up my nose. My mom was sitting there, and for every night I was terrified I wouldn’t wake up again, this was the night where I tried to stay awake in fear of it, but the vicodin overpowered my will. I wanted to just cry in terror of what I had become.
Of course, everyone found out almost immediately, and the calls came pouring in. The most memorable always came from Martha Wendy. She was my mom’s best friend since they were teenagers. She called almost every day to check up on me.
“Babalee,” she said. “You know, you’ve got to be more assertive. If you want to get what you want, you have to stand up and say, ‘I need this.’”
“Uh, Wendy, I’m kind of not in the state to do that,” I replied. “And I’m not allowed to stand, anyway.”
“Oh well. At least do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“When they bring you some Vicodin, save some for me, okay, honey?”
Parts Two and Three to come later this week!
After a long day, I'm going to go slow and post one of my favorite articles from the past. It's called "Barely Breathing." I'm going to do it in stages, though -- it's a long sucker.
BARELY BREATHING, PART I
“Oh my G-d, mom, I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!”
I had collapsed under a pine tree at Cal State Fullerton, on a clear day in late January. I was talking to my mother on my cell phone.
“Reina, stop being so hysterical. Just come on home.”
That was me, the great medical hysteric. But I felt like I was dying. The pain in my chest had become excruciating.
Picking myself up had to be the hardest thing. I went to my apartment, grabbed my Vicodin and cell phone charger, and with only a backpack, I went down to my car and started driving home; it was like driving drunk without a single drop of alcohol.
The next 36 hours weren’t even there. I don’t remember anything, except perching myself on the couch, holding slightly onto my chest and only moving when I had to go to the bathroom. At 10 o’clock Wednesday night, when I coughed so hard that something came up, that something was blood. I may be a medical hysteric, but even I knew this wasn’t a good sign.
At noon the next day, I was in Dr. Gonzalez’s office. He was a good-looking, older Latin man, the kind you were sure the ladies swooned about when he was young.
I was paler than a ghost as he studied my left leg. “Your leg is warm, not to mention extraordinarily swollen.”
“Yes,” I whispered. I couldn’t talk that loud. “It’s been that way since I was in the walking cast.”
After the tests, he looked at my mother. “Don’t take her home. Don’t take her anywhere. Take her straight to the hospital. I’m 90 percent sure that it’s a blood clot.”
He should stand corrected: It was five blood clots, three of which had lodged themselves in my right lung, which go by the medical term of pulmonary embolisms. By 5 p.m., I was lying on a hospital bed, while nurses kept poking me with needles, desperately trying to save my life.
Meanwhile, six months before, I had started a new life. I moved away from my parents’ house in Thousand Oaks to Fullerton, a place where the only people I knew were my cousins 20 minutes south. But it didn’t take too long for me to pick up friends.
Each friend played his or her own significant role in my life, and took on a very strong meaning for me. My classes were amazing, and I felt like I was in a place that fit perfectly for me. Orange County had its own culture and sound, which I drank in. My friends from back home didn’t really come to visit, but the fact was that now I was living two very separate lives: one in Orange County and one at my parents’ house.
When winter break approached, I returned home and spent time with local friends. The last day I really felt fine before all of this, I was with my friend Michelle at a mall in the Valley. I bought shoes, and she bought some clothes. We had a good time. I really wish that I cherished that day more, because what would happen afterwards would change my life.
The day after, I had pain in my ankle. That pain led to a walking cast, due to the readjustment of bones in my foot (due to flat feet). That walking cast led to a very swollen leg, followed by food poisoning, and the never-ending pain in my chest, to the point where I couldn’t even laugh.
At 5 a.m. on the Tuesday before my hospital visit, I went into the E.R. in Fullerton, because my chest pain became so bad I couldn’t even lie down. They misdiagnosed me with bronchitis and a chest wall strain, for which the prescription was an antibiotic and Vicodin. I took a winter class, and I remember storming out of the classroom, because I couldn’t breathe, as if going outside would help it. Needless to say, the rest came to be a trying experience in my life.
I lay down gently on the hospital bed after I was taken for tests, and little did I know it would be a while before they let me get up again. I was the youngest person on the ward as the nurses moved my bed into a room. They moved me next to the window, where I could see a hill that set the background for Thousand Oaks. There was nothing more I wanted to do than run up that hill and curse at G-d for putting me into this situation.
That night, I couldn’t breathe, and the nurse stuck an oxygen tube up my nose. My mom was sitting there, and for every night I was terrified I wouldn’t wake up again, this was the night where I tried to stay awake in fear of it, but the vicodin overpowered my will. I wanted to just cry in terror of what I had become.
Of course, everyone found out almost immediately, and the calls came pouring in. The most memorable always came from Martha Wendy. She was my mom’s best friend since they were teenagers. She called almost every day to check up on me.
“Babalee,” she said. “You know, you’ve got to be more assertive. If you want to get what you want, you have to stand up and say, ‘I need this.’”
“Uh, Wendy, I’m kind of not in the state to do that,” I replied. “And I’m not allowed to stand, anyway.”
“Oh well. At least do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“When they bring you some Vicodin, save some for me, okay, honey?”
Parts Two and Three to come later this week!
Monday, February 1, 2010
Baking Vs. Cooking
For those of you who have seen the show “Top Chef,” you may notice something when it comes to the chefs on the show. They have no problems in most of the challenges, and skate by with ease. However, when it comes to making dessert, they become panicked. These all-confident chefs become lumps of fear when dessert is mentioned.
I can relate, as when it comes to baking, I start to cry in a corner and rock back and forth. I can cook you anything -- if you need a soup, entrée or appetizer, I’m your gal. But baking? Oy vey. You don’t want to be around for that one.
Mind you, I can follow baking recipes. If I have one for a cookie or cake, I can make it. But coming up with my own is a scary proposition. It’s not like with cooking, where I can start with next to nothing and come up with something. In baking, things have to be exact in order to get your desired result. Everything has to be in the house, ready for you to make it.
This reality didn’t hit until yesterday, when I was planning to make a cookie for my friend Lisa. She was hosting a cookie exchange, where people made their best cookie recipe to share. I was planning to make a cookie with ollaliberry preserves, a hybrid raspberry/blackberry only native to Northern and Central California (which has the power to confuse people and get them to think of “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory”).
Then it happened: Everything went wrong. The preserves were way past their prime. The pasty blender that I purchased immediately clumped up. Flour began to fly all over the kitchen. To paraphrase a former high school teacher of mine, “Murphy is quite alive” -- and kicking me in the butt every step of the way of my cookie-making fiasco.
Luckily, there is always a plan B, and mine happened to be a concoction known as cookie pizza (see the recipe in the blog post “Telling Stories”), which looked pretty as could be for a last-minute disaster. Although one day I would love to be able to bake and develop my own recipes, I think for now, I will have to just be the cook who can make a soup out of almost anything out of nothing – not to mention an entrée.
In the spirit of Reina-can’t-bake, I am going to post a soup recipe.
BLACK BEAN AND CORN SOUP
3 cans black beans
2 cans whole kernel corn
3 tablespoons oil
1 red pepper
1 large onion
1 large carrot
3-4 cloves garlic
3 stalks celery
1 bay leaf
3 cups water plus 3 teaspoons beef bullion
1 teaspoon ground cumin
Chop the onion, celery and garlic, and sauté them with a bay leaf in a soup pot with the oil. Once the onions are translucent, add the red pepper and let soften. Add carrots. Drain the beans and corn and add to the mixture. If desired, some of the beans can be mashed to thicken up the soup.
Add the water, bullion, and cumin and allow to simmer for 20 minutes. Serve.
Quick Tip: You can drain and rinse the beans in a drainer in order to remove all the packing liquid. However, in a soup like this, I don’t really mind it so much. You should drain and rinse the corn, though.
I can relate, as when it comes to baking, I start to cry in a corner and rock back and forth. I can cook you anything -- if you need a soup, entrée or appetizer, I’m your gal. But baking? Oy vey. You don’t want to be around for that one.
Mind you, I can follow baking recipes. If I have one for a cookie or cake, I can make it. But coming up with my own is a scary proposition. It’s not like with cooking, where I can start with next to nothing and come up with something. In baking, things have to be exact in order to get your desired result. Everything has to be in the house, ready for you to make it.
This reality didn’t hit until yesterday, when I was planning to make a cookie for my friend Lisa. She was hosting a cookie exchange, where people made their best cookie recipe to share. I was planning to make a cookie with ollaliberry preserves, a hybrid raspberry/blackberry only native to Northern and Central California (which has the power to confuse people and get them to think of “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory”).
Then it happened: Everything went wrong. The preserves were way past their prime. The pasty blender that I purchased immediately clumped up. Flour began to fly all over the kitchen. To paraphrase a former high school teacher of mine, “Murphy is quite alive” -- and kicking me in the butt every step of the way of my cookie-making fiasco.
Luckily, there is always a plan B, and mine happened to be a concoction known as cookie pizza (see the recipe in the blog post “Telling Stories”), which looked pretty as could be for a last-minute disaster. Although one day I would love to be able to bake and develop my own recipes, I think for now, I will have to just be the cook who can make a soup out of almost anything out of nothing – not to mention an entrée.
In the spirit of Reina-can’t-bake, I am going to post a soup recipe.
BLACK BEAN AND CORN SOUP
3 cans black beans
2 cans whole kernel corn
3 tablespoons oil
1 red pepper
1 large onion
1 large carrot
3-4 cloves garlic
3 stalks celery
1 bay leaf
3 cups water plus 3 teaspoons beef bullion
1 teaspoon ground cumin
Chop the onion, celery and garlic, and sauté them with a bay leaf in a soup pot with the oil. Once the onions are translucent, add the red pepper and let soften. Add carrots. Drain the beans and corn and add to the mixture. If desired, some of the beans can be mashed to thicken up the soup.
Add the water, bullion, and cumin and allow to simmer for 20 minutes. Serve.
Quick Tip: You can drain and rinse the beans in a drainer in order to remove all the packing liquid. However, in a soup like this, I don’t really mind it so much. You should drain and rinse the corn, though.
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