FEBRUARY FLOWERS
Winter Flowers~Taco Bell tacos for dinner, for only the second time in my life~the hunt for morels & baby artichokes~my kitchen mobility
February Farmers’ Market Flowers
A recent dinner . . . .
Taco Bell tacos, for the second time in my life, both in the past couple months. And, did I like them? Yup. Accompanied by guacamole, which my bride makes very well.
The only other fast-food franchise I frequent is Chick-fil-A.
A recent day’s meals . . . .
For breakfast, peanut butter on Bays English muffins. For lunch, a PB&J sandwich. And for dinner, cream chicken on toast. Yup, carbs all three meals but yummy peanut butter for two of the three.
What I’m looking for . . . .
Baby artichokes are reportedly in season but I’m having no luck finding any the last two weekends of farmers’ markets. And morel mushrooms are coming up, but not everywhere, including for sale at farmers’ market.
When you lose kitchen mobility . . . .
So, what’s kitchen mobility? And, really, does it have anything to do with a cute puppy? Nothing, really . . . . well, maybe just a little.
January 16th, one sweet Sunday, was my birthday. Dolly Parton and I were born three days apart. For what it’s worth, I’m way older than she is. I just happened to be dogsitting that day and went to a dog park to give Beau, a medium-sized cream-colored charmer, a shot at running around, since our condo doesn’t have a backyard. Had been to the same place the day before when he showed scant few signs wanting to grow up, develop some confidence, be courageous, and run with dogs considerably more substantial than he rather than endlessly sniffing up tiny, tiny, high-pitched yippers, who were sometimes way sassy. Low and behold, right when we arrived he joined a pack of bruts. Big boys. They ran. He chased them. He ran. They chased him. And so it went. I got engaged in conversation with another couple with a medium-sized black dog. It ran, too, but with a different crowd. Well into our conversation about the woman’s life as a nurse, I found myself swept violently off my feet and lay dazed on the ground with a throbbing left leg attached to a fully traumatized body! I’d been side-swiped from behind by a couple 80-pound dogs chasing one another around the dog park running at least 150 miles per hour!
Oh, the pain! But surely it would go away and I could get up in a few minutes. I’ll have to be on the lookout for more big dogs when I do. The nurse crouched down and felt the swelling in my ankle. Without a second’s hesitation: “Hello, I’m a nurse and am at the Heather Farm dog park. A man seems to have been hurt pretty badly. Can you send an ambulance? Great. Thanks!” It took half an hour of me laying on there on the ground with dozens of dogs and their owners glancing my way. Two ambulances came since it would take more than one truckload of EMT’s to lift me onto a gurney. All the dogs there would have to be put on leashes before the EMT’s would perform their rescue. What dog did it? I wondered. No one could seem to remember, and no one came up to apologize and pay for the impending emergency room visit!
While Beau wasn’t a perpetrator and no way is a certified EMT, he tapped into the gene pool of his wolf ancestors and stood guard over me that whole time I lay on the ground, monstrously barking away any and all dogs, whatever their size, who came sniffing around. As it happens, I later learned that such protectionism isn’t doled out willy-nilly. Only a canine’s favorite person in the whole world evokes the vicious-guard-dog response! While my wife had spent much more time walking, feeding, and cooing over Beau, I seemed to be more worthy, a fact my wife vociferously resents.
Bad sprain. That would be it. Back on my feet in a couple days. Well, maybe that was just being a little optimistic. Five hours in the ER, x-rays, MRI’s, COVID tests, and a splint cast. What a blow to my ego. I could no longer define myself as a home cook. I was nothing more than a cripple. The very next Wednesday I was treated to an eight hour operation. I was now nursing a lower left leg broken in three places and held together with a four-inch plate with a dozen screws on the outer side of my calf and one big screw and a metal wire through my ankle on the inner side that needed eight weeks of no weight on it to be made possible only by crutches, a walker, a wheelchair, an office chair on rollers, a no-stairs-required 18”-deep blow-up bed in the living room, the services of a private cook/waiter/valet/nurse/housekeeper/private secretary/and shoulder to cry on. All this support for a guy who used to cook most all the meals in the family. I couldn’t stand up on one leg. I couldn’t prep vegetables for dinner. I couldn’t fetch a young chicken from the refrigerator just a couple feet away without a device for support and shooting pain. All of a sudden, there were a hundred things I couldn’t do now even though I used to be able to do them all in the kitchen. I used to have mobility.
That long, long operation was a length of time, designed or not, that would give me a foretaste of slowed-down time the next many weeks that I’d never experienced before. Both morning and afternoon naps became mandatory in order to kill time. In bed at 6:30 p.m. on an average night. Up at 8 a.m. on an average morning. As the days tediously trudged on, I began to reminiscing about the comforting watchfulness of Beau—that cute protective beast!—more and more.
After a couple weeks passed by, I went to the doctor for a status check. Everything looked great, he said. Ya, everything except the itching . . . except I’m trapped in my too-small condo . . . except there are weeks and weeks to go. Soon my kitchen mobility will return. I’ll be a home cook again! Prepping vegetables. Fetching chicken from the frig. Filling the sink with pots and pans used in a big ravioli dinner. Soon my primary caregiver and I will be moving to a house with a back yard. Soon, Beau will be visiting us and being just a cute puppy running safely, running solo, in our backyard.
Hi Wayne! I am excited to read about your cooking/food adventures! I remember delivering baked goods to your house from my bread business, Little Red Hen Breads, at the Farmer's market. I always appreciated your support! When my son had a life-threatening accident in 2013, I had to put the business to the side. I can relate to your immobility and am so sorry you had to endure it. I hope you are fully recovered now. Just a couple months after your accident, I also experienced one that left me immobile with very similar circumstances. I just had my 4th surgery last week and am back down to non-weight bearing for 6-8 weeks. But I am better at it now! I am glad to connect and look forward to reading more of your editions. Cheers!
Great description of your traumatic event. So sorry you had to go through this. And so glad you’re on the mend!