Reunions

I've taken pretty good care of myself since high school.  I eat right, except for those occasional lapses in judgement I have when faced with homemade ice cream or really dark chocolate.  I'm active; heck, I even gave in and joined DH's kickball league this spring.  I don't smoke, I avoid abusing my liver, and I am one of those people who never tried any drugs because I was pretty sure I would become instantly addicted and be forced to live in a gutter somewhere selling my blood to get money.

So when my ten year high school reunion rolled around, I was pretty pumped.  I have a bunch of fancy papers hanging on my wall, I feel like I look good, I'm thrilled with my life, and I have a charming husband.  This is a far cry from the oh-so-painfully nerdy chickadee I was in high school. I was going.

Of course, I was also looking forward to seeing everyone.  

The picnic they planned for lunchtime was rained out.  DH and I drove to the park in the downpour just to make sure that there weren't drenched children playing on the swing set with dry parents tucked under the pavilion.  There were not.

Reunion part two was a dinner at my least favorite restaurant in the whole town.  However, as I wasn't planning the reunion, I felt I had very little room to complain.  Around sixty people graduated from my class.  Not a huge class, but most of them live within a twenty minute drive of our hometown.  The majority of them live within a three hour drive of our hometown.  I live twelve hours away.   One would think that those who could walk to the restaurant without breaking a sweat might show up.

Counting myself, six people from our class showed up (plus spouses). Two of them are married to each other, so I think they should count as one person.

Six.

Now don't get me wrong - I was very happy to see those people again (plus spouses).  However, one of them hadn't even known there was a reunion happening until I called him two days before.  Which means the one organizing the reunion had a turn out of five counting herself and her husband (a fellow classmate).  So that brings her total down to three. I think I saw that many classmates when I was wandering through the Wal-Mart the day before.  It is a tiny, itsy bitsy possibility that this was poorly planned. 

None of that fazed me overly much, because of the most important part: I cleaned up pretty well. 

Wait up!

I had a lunch date with a dear friend of mine a week or so ago.  We had agreed to meet at Punch's Pizza, a Neapolitan pizza place that always convinces me I need to eat an entire pizza by myself and not share with anyone.  I have fork tines sharpened and poised to attack anyone who gets any ideas about sampling my Margherita without advanced notice.  All that gooey buffalo mozzarella and that heavenly basil and those juicy fresh tomatoes.....yum.  But I digress. 


I arrived shockingly early by an entire five minutes.  I was very proud of this.  The line was pretty long and getting longer, so I decided to go ahead and get in line while waiting for Linda.  Every few minutes I would let a couple of people go ahead of me so we wouldn't be throttled when she came in and slipped ahead of the growing crowd.  After about twenty minutes the door swung open to let in a new gaggle of co-eds, and through the downpour I saw Linda searching the crowd.  I waved and called her name.  Still she scanned the crowd. I waved again and hopped up and down a little bit.  She turned and headed up the sidewalk.  The heavy wooden door slammed behind her.  


Shoot.  I excused myself from the line and headed after her.  That woman walks fast.  She was about half a block ahead of me, and I was trotting after her in heels sans umbrella in the rain. 


"Linda!"  She must have thought I came and left when she was late.  Gosh the traffic is loud here.  Are there noise ordinances on these buses?  My eardrums hurt.  


"Linda!"   I'm gaining on her.  Just a few more steps.  Oh, come on!  Seriously Mr. Traffic Light?  You just had to change right before I got there?


"Linda!"  


I dashed across the intersection as soon as the little man turned white.  I grabbed her shoulder and stuck my head under her umbrella.  

"Linda!  Thank goodness!  I've been chasing you for three blocks!"




Her name was Stacey.  

Bubble wrap

I know that I may come across as more of a Rat than a Pig at times, but I like people in general.  It's people in specific that get to me sometimes.  Our first mortgage guy is an excellent example.

We'll call him Timmy.  It suits him.  We were referred to Timmy by a friend.  I have now vowed never to take mortgage advice from friends or family.

Timmy was aware that we were going to The South for two days to choose and make an offer on a house.  Because of the short time frame we had to choose the house, we needed to get pre-approval before we left.  He assured us this wouldn't be a problem since we had three weeks until we flew out.

He didn't call us for a week.

After we repeatedly called, he made an appointment for us to meet two weeks before we had to leave. He apologized briefly and explained he had been in training all week, but assured us we had plenty of time to get pre-approved.  He then explained that even though DH will be employed past the time I will start my job, he wanted to only use my salary for the pre-approval.  This seemed odd to me, but I'm not a mortgage broker. 

I handed over my five year contract and salary to Timmy the Wonder Broker. 

He read it.

Timmy reads really slow.

"So, you're sure you're going to be working there for five years."

Well, it is a contract that has dates equaling five years written on the front page, so yeah, Timmy, I'm pretty sure.  

"Yes, that is correct."

"This salary says that it's correct starting July 25, 2009.  What will you be getting paid?"

Since it's correct starting in 2009, and we are now in 2010, odds are that I'll be getting paid that amount Timmy. 

"That's the listed salary for my position."

"But what will you do for income after five years?"

Maybe he doesn't understand medicine.  I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. 

"I'll probably do a fellowship for three years.  I get paid for that too."

"But then what will you do for income?"

Nope, he's just a doofus.  

 "Then I'll be a surgeon.  I get paid for that too."

"But are you guaranteed a job then?"

You have to be joking. I have a five year contract, and he's worried about what I will be doing for work eight years from now.  Does everyone applying for a mortgage have to prove they will have work for the next ten years?  My job is more secure than his job right now.  I'm willing to bet you don't have a five year contract Timmy-boy.

"I'm not guaranteed a job, but the odds are very good that I will be working somewhere.

"You guys are great on everything else, but this is highly unusual.  I'll have to talk to my manager about this.  It shouldn't be a problem."

That's the last we heard from Tim-Tim-Cheree.  We called.  We emailed.  No response.

We found a house I loved.  The only problem was another couple loved it too. We had our bid in first, but we needed one more thing.

A pre-approval letter.

We called Timmy-poo.  He said he was working on it, but that it was unusual and no one he worked with had ever seen a salary like mine. I found this hard to believe as thousands of people graduate medical school every year,  a large portion of them get mortgages during their residency, and he worked for a large bank.  Niche market, maybe. Unusual, no.

So I gave his number to our real estate agent.  She is a Southern woman through and through.  Sweet as sugar with a backbone of steel.  She talked to him for about five minutes.  He told her he was trying but that it was a very unusual case, and that he would have the letter to her in 30 minutes.  Three hours later, we had the approval letter and Timmy had really ticked me off.

We were easy money. He hadn't been forced to expend any effort to find us.  We came to him.  We gave him all the documentation before he even met with us.  We had a 20% down payment.  We were both employed. We had rock star credit scores.  All he had to do to get his commission was put the paperwork into the system.    He just blew us off.  I guess I'm just used to people thinking doctors make too much money instead of worrying that they won't make any money.

When we made it back to The North we switched to another broker at the same bank. Let's call him Tommy.  He entered a new request and had everything ready to go in two days. Tommy also used part of DH's income because 'we assume you will be working somewhere when you move since you have had stable employment for the past five years.' Tommy is awesome.

Timmy....well Timmy makes me feel a bit more like Rat.

*Pearls Before Swine is copyrighted by Stephan Pastis and is my absolute favorite comic strip.

Bless his heart

DH and I were taking pup for training this weekend, and the conversation turned to aprons as it rarely does.

I had found some adorable aprons on sale, but resisted buying one.  DH has a thing for women in aprons. I think it's the whole "Susy Homemaker" thing.  Barefoot, not pregnant, and cooking.  That's me lately. Anyway, DH was all excited because he thought  I meant manly aprons - the kind with bottle openers and barbed wire built in.  I did not.  I meant frilly feminine aprons that made me feel all 50's housewife.

DH sighed.  "At least I still have the apron from my mom."

Oh dear lord.  Have I told you guys about this apron?

From the front, normal apron.  Nice pattern, big pockets.  Then you look at it a little closer.  Something seems.... amiss.  Something seems.... different.  Something seems... bulging.  So you look a little closer.  The apron flaps up in the brisk breeze from the kitchen fan.

And you see them.  Twigs and berries.  Mr. Goodwrench and the Michelin Brothers.  The family jewels.  This apron has a fake set of male genitalia made from pantyhose and pillow stuffing attached.

My husband and brother-in-law love this apron.  Which brings us to the next point:

"Matthew and I are going to be be fighting over that apron. It's the best apron in the world."

I peered at this adorable man I married over the top of my sunglasses.  "Matthew can have it.  If it makes it into our house, Mr. Apron will be singing soprano post surgical removal of his business."

DH glared at me.  "You wouldn't dare.  Q, that apron is a work of art.  Would you go hacking away at a Monet with a scalpel?  No.  It takes real genius to create something like that."

Wait.

Hold the phone.

Did my husband just equate Monet to a pantyhose penis apron?

I made the right decision on procreation.

Matched

"Congratulations, you have matched."

I had been waiting to read that sentence since my rank list was certified in February. I hadn't slept well for weeks. I had been nursing a darling little stomach ulcer. I had been superstitiously afraid to jinx the process in any way, and so had forbidden anyone to say "when you match" in my presence. I had resigned myself to moving to Antarctica and working with a group recovering lost whiskey for the next year.

But one Monday, I got The Email.

Congratulations, you have matched. 

I wish I could appropriately convey the relief and elation that slammed into me at reading that one sentence.

I can't.

I spent the rest of the week wandering in a complete daze wondering where I would be moving in May. I forgot to eat. I forgot to return my library books. I remembered to brush my teeth. Thursday morning DH and I sat in our living room trying to ignore the fact our future would be set (for the next five years) in just a few hours. DH was doing a great job; I was failing miserably.

About 9 a.m. I checked my email for the eighty-sixth time that morning, and noticed a new message :

Congratulations! We are so excited that you matched with us here at World Famous Medical Center. (WFMC from here out.) We look forward to working with you in June. Let us know if we can be of any assistance in your upcoming move to The South.

I read it five times.

"We're moving to The South......oh my goodness, we're moving to The South!!"

Medicine can taste a little bitter...

If you aren't a medical student, a physician,  a friend or relative of a doctor, or sleeping with someone who is, the whole becoming a doctor process can a little bewildering.   The conversation I have with an uninitiated usually goes a little something like this:

“So you’re in medical school.  What are you going to be, a nurse?”

“No.  I’m going to medical school.  To be a doctor.  Of medicine.”

“Oh, that’s great.  How long does that take?”

“Eight years, usually.  Four years of undergraduate, and then four years of medical school.”

“Then you start practicing?  Eight years isn’t too bad.”

"No, but almost.  After medical school we go to residency – it’s like an apprenticeship.”

“Oh.  How long is that?”

“Three years for some specialties, up to six years for others.”

“Oh.  Then you start practicing?”

“Some people do.  Some others go onto special training called fellowships.  That’s how you become a heart doctor, a lung doctor, a heart surgeon…”

"So you get to pick where you do this residency then?  Where are you going?"

"You don't get to pick a place.  You pick the specialty you want to go into.  Then you spend a whole lot of money applying to programs across the United States.  Then you wait for some of them to give you interviews."

"That's great!  They fly you all over the U.S. to interview ~ how fun!"

"Well, not exactly.  You have to pay to fly there.  And for your hotel.  And for your rental car or taxi. A lot of people have to take out more student loans to pay for it."

"Huh.  Do you get to pick where to go then?"

"No, then you make a list of all the programs you interviewed at in order of how much you liked them.  And all the programs make a list of the people they interviewed in order of how much they liked them.  Then the lists go into a magic computer, and they match you with a program."

"So you find out right away?"

"Not exactly.  The lists go into the computer in February, and we find out in March."

"But everyone goes somewhere, right?"

"No, some people don't get matched and don't go anywhere."

"So let me get this straight.  You go to eight years of school.  You pay a lot of money to apply to residency.  You have to take out loans to go to places to interview.  You make a list and then wait a month to find out IF you have a job, and you don't get to pick where you will be moving for the next three to six years. Sheesh.  At least you'll be making a lot of money during residency."

"Around 40,000 a year for 80 hour weeks and three weeks of vacation.  It averages out to a little more than $10 an hour before taxes.  Plus we have to start paying back our school loans."

"Remind me not to let my kids be doctors."

Japan and Thailand

After C. picked us up and another obligatory round of hugging and laughing was taken care of, we went to the Japanese garden.  It closed at 5.  We arrived around 4:50.  So we peeked over the wall instead.

It was pretty.








Very Japan-esque.


We went to  Pok Pok for dinner.  Dear Lord above, was that good Thai food!  Imagine the best pad thai you've ever had. Take everything you know about Thai food in the U.S. Now forget all of it.

We had sil krohng muu yang - ribs marinated in whiskey, ginger, and Thai spices. Kai yaang - a roasted game hen with dipping sauces.  (I liked the vinegary one.)  The curry (kaeng om neua) was light and spicy, not heavy and milky. It was so good that we started dipping the other meats in the curry so we didn't wasted any. The papaya pok pok was cool yet very spicy.  We actually ordered to cool our mouths from the other dishes.  Poor planning on our part.  It was definitely the hottest dish we had.


Full bellies, delighted to be back together, we fell asleep scattered across C's apartment - a lovely start to a lovely week.

Staying Behind

Moving away is difficult.  Remaining behind seems like it may be even worse at times.

Because of a little snafu with a branch of the military last year, I ended up staying in The North for an extra year getting my master's degree instead of starting residency.  Most days I have a pretty cheerful outlook on it.  It may have taken me a month or so to get the outlook, but it's there now.  There have been many challenging things about this situation.  A medium sized one is the huge chunk of my friends who moved up, up, and away to start their residencies.  

Two of my best friends, J. and C., are in Chicago and Portland, respectively.  J and I promised to make a valiant attempt to get away together once a year.  She is infinitely more valiant than I, and so gave up a week of her vacation to meet me in Portland.  I gave up a week of studying and classes.  It was quite a sacrifice, but it had to be done.

I think when you haven't seen someone in awhile, they freeze in your mind. You maintain a snapshot of the way they were the last time you saw them.  That's why high school friends stay 18 and your great-aunt squeezes your cheek and tells you how much you've grown.  It's also why I really dislike funerals, but I digress.

The last time I saw J was at her wedding last fall.  My mental J was glowing and happy and beautiful.  The J I saw in the airport was tired and happy and beautiful.  Plus her hair was about six inches longer.  We squealed and hugged and laughed as women are wont to do when they reunite.

It took me two days to place what it was that was different about her.

She's a doctor now.

She has developed that lovely confidence in her abilities and decisions that make patients believe that you know best.  She's brilliant, of course, and that hasn't changed, and patients have always liked her.  (It's rather difficult to dislike the girl.)  But this...this is new.  I love it and am horrifyingly proud of her.  I am at the same time sad that I am missing out on a year of growing and developing as a physician.  It's a strange place to be.

Billy beer

My brother in law came up to visit DH and I a couple of weekends ago.  I really like that guy.  He's such a solid man.  Hard working, loyal, funny, resistant to change.  Everything my potential sister-in-law will love if he ever gets around to finding her.

M. and I had wasted a good hour of our lives one day watching VH1's "Best of I love the 70's".  It was our first introduction to Jimmy Carter's brother Billy and thus to "Billy Beer".  The slogan was (I may be wrong here), "I think it's the best I've ever tasted.  And I've tasted a lot."

The three of us were on our way to a micro brew party later that day and started talking about favorite beers we've had.  I'm not really a beer fan since I think most of it tastes like water that didn't make it through a properly functioning Brita system, but in Czech M. and I discovered something in common.  We loved Velkopopovický Kozel Cerny.  (It helped immensely that it was half the price of properly filtered water.)  DH prefers lighter beers and thus does not share our infatuation with this heavenly creation. (DH just informed me that he does NOT prefer light beers.  He prefers lagers.  I don't drink enough beer to know why this distinction is important, but the record has been set straight.) 

Talk naturally turned to our trip to Czech and the absurd amounts of alcohol that the locals consumed.

Which brings us back to M. who proclaimed, "People in America think they can drink.  They are wrong. Even if you took Billy Carter over to Prague - he'd never be able to hang.  And that guy looked like he was a serious alcoholic."

Unknown future sister-in-law, I'm glad you appreciate this guy as much as we do.


*Kozel picture is the property of Kozel's brewing company.  I did not take that picture.  I do love that beer though.  Sadly, it is unavailable in the U.S. as far as I know. 

Get off the plane

I thought there was an established etiquette about how to disembark from an airplane. These are the rules I thought were understood:  

Rule 1: We unload from the front of the plane to the back. Each row empties before the next row starts.  

This is slightly unfair as the people in the very front also got to board first. However, as they paid an additional couple hundred dollars to sit in plane seats with slightly more leg room and get free cheap alcohol, I can overlook this class seperation. This rule can be bent for the following subsets:

a) People who are in actual danger of missing their connecting flight. Few things are worse than dashing to your gate to watch your plane taxi away in front of you. These people can get off first. Pretending to have a close connection just to get off sooner is evil. I have faith these people will be punished at some point by actually having a close connection and missing it.  

b) People with screaming children. For goodness sake, let them off the blipping plane. They aren't making it more pleasant for anyone by staying on the plane, and if you had a bladder that small you would scream to go potty too.  

c) Medical emergencies and women who have decided to go into labor on the plane. They win. Always. It cannot be bent because you are in the back of the plane, impatient, and want to scurry off the plane in a sad attempt to 'win' by starting your three hour layover ahead of everyone else. 

Rule 2: Help old people, small people, and people carrying small people with getting luggage down.  

Don't look blankly at the four foot eleven eighty year old woman who is struggling to open the overhead compartment. Help her. Or else you deserve to have items that may have shifted during takeoff and landing fall on your head. Karma, my friend. Enjoy the reverse Samsonite logo tattoo on your forehead.  

Rule 3: If you have luggage stored more than two or three (although three is pushing it) overhead bins behind your seat, you have to wait to get it. You cannot elbow your way back through the crowds. This is only acceptable if you may miss your connection. See Rule 1. I understand it may not be your fault it is so far back. Maybe some other doofuses filled up the bins around you with their winter coats so you had to use one farther away. I understand, but I don't care. Wait.  

Rule 4: When it is your turn, get off the plane.  

This one sounds easy. It is apparently not. Please look for your keys/makeup/cellphone/flask, fix your hair/makeup/nails, and text/email your spouse/lover/friend/archnemesis after your feet have hit the actual airport carpet. Not in the plane aisle and, for heavens sake, not in the jetway as soon as you get off the plane. This makes me (and most everyone behind you) think thoughts that involve bodily harm to your person. I have to then repent of those thoughts. Which makes me angrier at you.  

Those are the main ones. Four rules. Teach your children, your friends, your sister. I'm pleading with you.

Curses

My last interview of the season was this week. I am suspicious that this interview was cursed.  

Courtesy of another two inches of snow and a flight that left ages before snowplows ventured out again, I had to drive on rather slick roads. Courtesy of the woman in the red Suburu who felt the need to drive recklessly in both of our lanes at 4:30 this morning, I missed my exit. Courtesy of my abysmal sense of direction, I got hopelessly lost immediately after this. All of this added up to having to park in the airport at the exhorbiant rate of twenty American dollars a day. I like to say it like that... American dollars. As opposed to un-American dollars. They only accept patriotic cash at my airport.  

(On a side note, I just found a bay leaf in my pocket. No idea why it's there.)  

Back to my disasterous trip. I made it to the airport a little too close to the check in deadline and had a lovely discussion with the counter man about the advisability of printing my boarding pass in spite of that. I dashed to my favorite security checkpoint and slipped past the brimming Casual Traveler aisle down the empty Expert Traveler aisle. A middle age couple in Hawaiian shirts proceeded to berate me for cutting in line. I tried to explain to them that it wasn't cutting - there were two lines. Like at the grocery store - just because my line is moving faster doesn't mean I cut. It means you picked the wrong line. And that you probably have a huge carry-on, a laptop in a separate bag still zipped up, shoes that don't slip off, none of your liquids out in a bag yet, a winter coat and a fleece still on, a huge purse, and a backpack that you are planning on stuffing your purse into to qualify for the "one carry-on, one personal item" rule. You earned the slow line. I said it in a much nicer way though.


Boarded the plane on time (hooray!), and then sat on the tarmac for 45 minutes waiting on deicer. Deicer is an important part of the flying experience when one lives in The North. Except someone must have forgotten to place a refill order. They ran out of deicer. I would understand this if I were flying out of Hawaii; I imagine they have little to no need for deicer. Running out during a freak snow storm is acceptable.


However, I live in The North. We haven't seen grass in my neighborhood since November. There is a solid two feet of snow on my yard. My side road has been covered in snow and ice since December. I don't know if the pavement underneath even exists anymore. When we live in a place like this, there is no excuse for running out of deicer. We should have deicer stockpiled somewhere.


The only explanation: Cursed.

Ready for kids?

DH and I aren't yet blessed with munchkins.  I am still able to enjoy the bliss of sleeping in on weekends, the joy of spontaneous vacations, and the indulgence of indulging myself.

DH is gone on his annual President's Day weekend fishing trip, so it was just me and Pup last weekend.  She started my day bright and early 3 a.m. Friday morning by barking her pretty red head off to be let out of her kennel. I sleepily rolled over and opened the door.  She excitedly jumped on the bed.

And promptly threw up.

On my bed.

At 3 a.m.

I was displeased. She looked miserable, but I hardened my heart and put her back in her kennel.  It wasn't as difficult as one might think.  I changed the sheets and blankets, rinsed out the gross ones, and crawled back into my chilly but clean bed.  All was well until approximately 5:37 when she started barking again.

I wasn't taking any chances.  I let her out of her kennel and walked her around in the snow outside just in case she had to use the bathroom or, heaven forbid, throw up again.  She took this opportunity to make friends with the neighbors by barking at a rabbit under their window.  We're quite popular in the mornings, Pup and I.

Back inside where I snuggled up under the blankets, and she settled in at the foot of the bed for about five minutes.

Then she threw up.

On my bed.

Again.

I was out of clean sheets and patience, we were both miserable, and all I could think was "she's only a dog ... what on earth will I do with children ... I don't think I'm allowed to put them in a kennel."

Just looking for the pharmacy

I miss my patients today.

Taking this year off to get my masters degree has been fabulous ~ I've gotten to cook and play and hang out with my family.  I've finally caught up on my sleep. Although that will go straight back out the window come July, I appreciate every single day that I get to snuggle under my pierzyna, sip steaming hot tea, and watch snowflakes fall outside my bedroom window.

I miss my patients today though. They make me laugh and make me cry.  They infuriate me, and they break my heart.  I'm bored without them.

Once last spring I was rounding with my attending, and a healthy looking man approached us.  He had a prescription in his hand.

"I'm looking to get this filled doc."

My attending took it and gave it a quick once over.  He handed it to me to read then gave it back to the gentleman.  "The pharmacy is on the second floor."

The guy happily headed toward the elevators.

Through his laughter my attending told me, "The pharmacist will know exactly what to do with him.  On to the next patient."

The script had read:  "MOFEEN   1 lb."


*We warned the pharmacy. The script was confiscated and destroyed.  I do not know what became of the gentleman.

Oh la la!

There's a new love in my life.

He's strong, flashy, and cooks like a dream. He stands out from my usual crowd. He's making Valentine's dinner this year - the famous bouef bourguignon from Julia Child's cookbook.

He's my new Le Creuset French oven.

Isn't he a hottie?  DH surprised me with this hefty beauty for my birthday.  I have a feeling he and I will be very happy together.

Must be the butter

I love to cook.  Baking....baking, I'm not so good at.  It's all so very precise.  "Measure 14.2 grams of flour and 1.3 grams of salt."   Blech, I say.

I have plenty of preciseness in my chosen profession.  I am very precise when tying flies or when building furniture. I cook when I need to stop thinking. Cooking should not be about preciseness.  It should be about smells and tastes and textures and adventure and daring. Most of my favorite dishes I know by heart and have made my own.  A little more cayenne pepper here, a dash of turmeric there.  The recipe is merely a starting point from which you can throw yourself headfirst off the cliff.

Not that all my cooking adventures have ended well.  There is the infamous case of "The Purple Chicken".  Usually, however, it works out famously rather than infamously.

Baking is an entirely different matter.  Crusty French breads, rich challah and babka, flaky croissants - I adore them all.  I have been more than willing to pay a little more for the masters of flour and egg to make these heavenly creations for me so that I am not crushed by the failures coming out of my oven that I dare not call 'homemade bread'  This winter though, I have some time on my hands.  I have decided to learn to bake.

It is not going well. Today there were "The Croissants."

"The Croissants" actually had their start this weekend.  The detrempe has to sit in the refrigerator for 24-48 hours immediately after it is made. Apparently it needs a time out.  Detrempe is a fancy French term that I think means sticky water yeast butter flour goo.  One would normally cover the sticky ball of dough that one shoves in the back of the fridge.  However, the book I'm using does not mention this step.  I was committed to actually following the recipe this time.  I didn't cover it.

I should have covered it.

Two days after I made the detrempe and had almost forgotten it existed, I pulled it out.  There was a thin hard dough-exposed-to-cold-air crust on the top.  Yuck.  I took a sharp knife, had DH hold the bowl, and sliced off the grossness.  Underneath it was golden, yeasty, yummy-smelling dough.  It was ready for the butter. 

Step 15 in this process is to make a butter block.  Croissants take a lot of butter.  No, I mean a lot.  Three sticks.  Fourteen croissants.  You figure it out.  I used my lovely cherry rolling pin (thanks Grandma!) and a scalpel to roll out and square up my butter block.  I don't have a pastry knife people.  I have a scalpel.  This is how my kitchen works.  

Then you take the detrempe and plop the butter block on half, fold it, let it rest, roll it out, fold it, let it rest, roll it out, fold it...you get the point.  You do this until you have 81 layers of thin, buttery, doughy goodness.  At this point, I'm supposed to roll it out v..e...r...y...c..a..r..e..f..u..l..l..y so the layers don't tear, cut triangles, and magically shape them into croissants.  Mine weren't quite croissant shaped.  They were more straight line than C-shaped.  But they were done.

After all of this, you let the croissants "proof" for 2-3 hours.  This has something to do with proving that you haven't killed the yeast.  Not a problem in my kitchen.  The yeast in that little red jar know they better pull their weight or it's off to the compost pile for them.  I met DH for lunch while the little yeast soldiers did their work. The soldiers got a little overzealous. 

When I came back, the croissants had not doubled in size.  They had tripled.   The croissants were all scrunched together in one tiny little pan trying to elbow each other out for more real estate.  I did what any baker would do.  I stuck them in the oven. I had low hopes for these guys, but I refused to waste all that butter.  We were going to eat them.  DH ate that purple chicken.  He would choke these down too because he loves me. Forty minutes later, I had enormous golden croissants.  

They were amazing. 

Holy smokes, were they amazing.  It was like eating buttered air.  Warm, flaky, close-your-eyes-they-were-so-good buttered air. 

I can't wait to see what they taste like when I get them right.

Poor helpless me

In general, I love being competent.  I have little time for the helpless female role.  The other day, however, I wished I were more of the damsel in distress type of girl.

It was snowing and freezing, but I was on a mission.  I needed to get to Wal-Mart, the doggie park for my darling Pup's don't-drive-me-crazy exercise, Sam's Club, the grocery store, and the library.  All those stops and a two and a half hour window in which to do them.  Not a problem.  Until I got to my car.

Stuck on ice in the driveway behind my landlord's van.

Three flat tires.

No windshield wiper fluid.

Gas gauge hovering above E.

At this point the damsel in distress music should have begun, but I pointed out earlier I'm not really the type.  I put pup in the car, switched my heels for those infamous snow boots, and chipped out the snow and ice to get traction to get around the van.

I knew there was an air pump at the gas station a block down on the corner.  I inched the car there only to be greeted by a large "Out of Order" sign covering the air pump.

Sigh.

I filled up with gas and topped off the wiper fluid.  Then I inched back out onto the road.  I knew there was another service station three blocks up.  I very, very slowly drove that way.  The man in the car behind me was less than appreciative of this fact and did not seem to care one whit that my tires were flat.  He honked his horn at me. Continuously.

For three blocks.

This is why I sometimes think being competent is overrated.  DH would never have let this sort of thing happen if I were the helpless maiden type.  He would have puffed out his manly chest, checked everything, and taken care of all problems beforehand so his dainty little wife wouldn't have to dirty her pretty hands. I explained this theory to my neighbor and revealed my new plan to be helpless.

He smiled and in his darling Polish accent informed me, "That's good idea Q, but no one who has met you will buy it."

Boots

I've been "transplanted" to the North now for almost five years.  All those cliches about time flying are true.  It seems like just a couple of months ago DH and I had piled everything into our cars (and my father-in-law's trailer) and headed off on the grand adventure of medical school.  I was reminiscing this weekend about our first months here in the tundra and how living in the North has been rather an adjustment.

Fabulous shoes are a distinct weakness of mine, a harmless but expensive flaw that I share with many of the female population.  I can't say the entire female population because I have been treated to viewings of truly terrible shoes in my lifetime.  Usually at Wal-Mart after 10 p.m.  What is it about Wal-Mart and nighttime that brings out the fashion victim in so many people?

I had oodles of beautiful shoes when I moved North. Stilettos, sandals, espadrilles, cowboy boots, biker boots, flip flops.  I did not have winter boots.  These are winter boots:

Ugly, aren't they?  They are Sorel boots, tested to -40 F.  I didn't know those kind of temperatures existed in the populated world.    I also didn't know these boots (or anything like them) existed. So when my Northern-born-and-bred friends told me to get boots after I slipped and fell (multiple) times in my first Northern snowstorm, I took their advice.

I bought beautiful boots.  Buttery chocolate colored suede boots.  Four inch heel boots.  Fabulous boots.  They looked a little more like this: 

They are NOT winter boots.  This explains why I fell twice more on my way to class the next day while proudly wearing my new purchase.  I skinned my elbow,  I bruised my bum, but they were fabulous.  My friends assured me of this after they recovered from their giggling fit.  I protested heartily that I had taken their advice.  I bought boots!  Why was I still falling?  They then each grabbed an arm, man-handled me back to my Jeep, and took me shopping to learn what Northern winter boots were.  

I now am the not-so-proud owner of a fully insulated, very warm, waterproof, disgustingly practical pair of winter boots.  (And I kept the beautiful ones.  I accept my weakness.)

*Boots are Sorel and Louboutin, respectively.  Images are from brands' respective websites.

Telephone fly

I've been practicing my fly tying skills lately. This pleases DH inordinately. He claims that for every fly I tie, I save him $1.50. Having compared my flies to some of the ones in the stores, I seriously doubt this. It does keep me occupied over the winter though, so I appreciate his cheerleading.

I really want to tie the "telephone fly." It's a beauty of a wet fly - all blues and reds and flash.  If I were a trout (or even a bass or salmon) I'd be all over that fly.

I fished with it on a couple of the loughs in Northern Ireland and had great success. It brought in my very first Irish trout, a sweet little rainbow that put up a heck of a fight. My guide gave me the fly to commemorate the catch. The next day he gave me a list of the materials to tie it.

The story behind the fly is that some guy called his friend from the pub where he had been celebrating an excellent day of fishing.  He gave his friend explicit directions for how to tie the amazing fly he had been using all day.  The friend, being an accommodating sort of fellow, tied a half dozen or so of the flies for him.  The pub guy said 'thank you very much lad, but this is nothing like my old fly".  A few weeks later the guy was on Lough Carra and decided to try the fly.  Ten fish later, he was back in the pub calling his friend. "Tie up more of them flies," he said. "What flies?" the friend asked.  "You know lad.  The telephone flies."

 I think it may be beyond my modest fly-tying capabilities, but I am willing to attempt it. I'll let you know how it turns out. For now, it will be bead head pheasant tails for me.

Anybody have a match?

DH is reading a handbook for guides right now. Some of the advice is excellent, like how to splint a broken bone or start a fire if you only have wet kindling. Some is less than excellent.

"Honey, how would you get a snapping turtle to let go of your finger?"

"Shoot it," I promptly responded. (P.E.T.A, I know we will never be friends. Let's just face that fact now.) "Why would you have a snapping turtle on the end of your finger anyway? What kind of idiot sticks their hand in a snapping turtle's face?"

"Well, that's not what the guide book says," DH replied.

My interest was piqued. Perhaps there was an excellent way to get a snapping turtle to let go of your finger of which I was unaware. Perhaps P.E.T.A and I could end our long standing feud and share a beer.

"You're supposed to light a match and stick it under its chin. Or you can poke a stick in its nose, but they say that takes too long."

I sat there for a moment and pondered this. First off, a snapping turtle can break a broom handle in half when it bites. I've never been bitten by something that can snap a broom handle in half, but I would wager it hurts. I pictured myself with ten pounds of angry turtle attached to my hand. In that situation, I seriously doubted my ability to calmly pull a match out of my pocket, strike it successfully, and then stick my non-turtle-attached hand next to the angry turtle's chin.

As I was about to comment on this excellent advice, DH spoke up again.

"It also says that if you are attacked by a cougar or bear or lion, you should spit in its mouth. That makes it stop long enough for you to run away. No one can argue with that. If it works, you just saved your life. If it doesn't, you aren't going to be around to write in and contradict them."

I looked at DH.

"P.E.T.A. isn't going to like that."

For sale: one rattlesnake

My little cousins called DH and I a couple of days ago. They are near and dear to my heart (as is all of my family), but they call in spurts. The littlest guy, D.J., calls about five times a day for a couple of days, then won't call for a week or so.

This time they were so excited they could hardly speak. The only punctuation in their speech was exclamation points.

"Guess what guess what we caught a rattlesnake it's a little one we're going to give it to the nature conservatory or the zoo or something we had a gun but we caught it isn't that cool!"

"You caught a what?"

"A rattlesnake he's little and we have him in the 4-runner!"

"Wait. You have a rattlesnake....in your car. Is it alive?"

"Yeah yeah he's alive and in the 4-runner in a sack in a container and we caught him!"

"Why didn't you kill him?" (My apologies to you P.E.T.A. people out there, but my cousins are young. I would prefer the snake they apparently have in their car be dead. It would have little qualms about making them dead. Plus, there is not a Rattlesnakes for the Ethical Treatment of Humans to protect my cousins.)

"We had a gun and we were gonna shoot it 'cause it was gonna bite us but it was cold and slow so we caught it and now we have it and it has two rattles on its tail and big teeth isn't that cool!"

"So let me make sure I understand this. You two were out somewhere with a gun. You found a rattlesnake. It tried to bite you. So instead of killing it, you caught it, and now it's in a sack in your car. And it's still alive."

"Yeah but dad was with us he had the gun it's okay and we're taking it to the conservatory or we could send it to you do you want it we can mail it hey dad can we mail it to Q!"

"Oh dear Lord."

I called my aunt to make sure they weren't pulling my leg. They weren't. They actually have a real live rattlesnake in their SUV. I told them to kill it or give it to the conservatory. I also may have told them it was illegal to mail a rattlesnake to me. Rattlesnakes and explosives cannot cross state lines.

*Snake image is not mine.  It is from http://sdssnake.com/Rat.htm  Thank you!