Sunday, July 8, 2007
No blackberries. The apricots looked like...
...shit. There were only a few flats (24 each) left. The bottom couple contained green apricots. The top couple contained bruised apricots. Most of the flats were missing fruit, probably to taste testers. So, I didn't bake a pie, yesterday.
Just as well. I used the oven enough, yesterday. If it were hot and dry I don't think the house air would be much affected. Our dew point, though, is, today, officially 45%. It's probably been at least that since a couple days ago. The evap is still cooling...some; but not the sharp cool that's usual on very dry days.
I've decided, if I make an apricot pie, it will be an apricot ginger pie. The filling will be sweetened (partially, if I use fresh fruit; fully, if I use Turkish apricots) with candied ginger. Not sure whether I'm going to add nuts. The almonds in the peach pie are adding only crunch. The almond flavor seems to have enhanced the peaches at its own expense. No wonder this peach pie filling recipe called for 1/4 tsp almond extract.
I don't think nuts are necessarily an enhancement to pie; unless it's pumpkin, pecan (guess that had better have nuts, huh), mincemeat, or I'm thinking of that Granny Smith apple pie I made last year around this time: Apple slices (peelings on); dried cherries; walnuts. Even I liked that one, and I'm not an apple pie fan. I consider most apple pie akin to white food and, thus, inedible unless heavily disguised.
So. Not sure what we're going to be doing, today. Mom's light went out at 0130, after a brief reading-silently-in-bed session. Oh, last night, before dinner, I remembered to take stats. I'm hoping to do the same when I awaken her today, probably about 1330. Guess I'd better return to The Dailies. It's been nice, though, not to be following my mother around with my nose up her ass, a contraption on her arm, stabbing her with a needle and quoting specific stats. I figure I'd better get her in for a blood draw one of these days, though.
As I think about past-intended posts (about which I am always thinking when I'm writing here and have fallen behind), for some reason an old one comes to mind which I think I'll mention here.
Cutting to the chase, my mother was not a virgin when she married. This may come as a surprise and shock to my sisters. It didn't to me when I learned it in January of this year, but it would have had I learned it earlier in my life. In my teens I may not have believed it.
Here's how this was revealed: Although I would not have guessed this in the first few years of my mother's and my companionship, she finds programs and movies about sex as fascinating as do I. I've become very comfortable with this. Witness, our shared love for Sex & the City. The History and Discovery channels each also have interesting and lightly titillating series in their archives dubbed things like "The History of Sex". They have a variety of editions of these shows and broadcast at least one of the editions a couple times a year. We always manage to catch whatever edition they're broadcasting. This January one of the two was showing an abbreviated version of their 5 episode (90 minutes per episode...it was fascinating) series. It ran so quickly through the highlights of its parent that it was hard to glimpse a shot of genitalia or the details of a suggestive pose. But, it was a provocative reminder, nonetheless, and provoked conversation, as these programs usually do.
I can't remember how the conversation got started...I think it was as a result of a short video treatise on Victorian married sexuality. For some reason, I got it into my head that my mother may not have been a virgin (although she wasn't Victorian, she has a very private streak about her that suggests an internal propriety) when she married. I remember (probably almost exactly), the words I used to pose the question: "Mom, I'm wondering; you don't have to answer this if you don't want to, were you a virgin when you married Dad?"
I remember her turning deliberately toward me (I was sitting on the floor next to her rocker) her face impassive but soft. I think she was deciding whether to joke her way through this one. She decided otherwise, looked back at the TV, which I'd muted, asking the question during a commercial break. She was smiling and almost-not-smile. "No," she said. "May I ask, [long pause] why do you ask?"
I did not express surprise. "Well," I said, "I'm not sure, but, you know, this will come as a surprise to your daughters. I considered it possible, but I'm still surprised."
She didn't say anything. Continued staring at the TV, smiling.
"So," I asked, becoming brave, "was it Donald Stonehink?"
Again, a steady look at me. "Stone-king. Which one?"
She was not teasing. "Oh," I said. "Um, how many?"
I didn't give her a chance to answer. "Were you and dad, uh, intimate, before you married."
Mom glanced at me and grinned. "Heavens no," she said, "we never saw each other!"
"Oh!" That surprised me. "So, what about Donald..."
"No."
"Did it come up?"
"Yes."
"Is that why you didn't marry him?"
"I don't think it was him I was going to marry."
"Oh. Okay. So, tell me. Did you expect your daughters to be virgins when they married?"
She studied the pattern of pyracantha branches shading the window to her left. "I don't think I ever worried about it."
"Really! I can think of at least one daughter who thought you did!"
"Well, maybe I did. Not much, though."
Suddenly, I was flooded with questions: Considering, for instance, my unfortunate familiarity with my father's very drunk assessment of my mother's sexuality and how that, despite my distaste for it, influences my opinion of my mother's sexuality:
"I know Dad was head-over heels for you from the day he met you till the day he died," I ventured.
She continued grinning. "Yes he was," she said.
Silence while the commercials ran down. Just before the program returned, I said, "I think you picked the right man. I know you know I think this."
Her face registered only mild surprise, probably for the compliment, not for the opinion. "Well, thank you! I do, too."
I am reminded of a junior high school friend of mine when I was in high school, "Jimmy"; he would refer to his parents as "the virgins". We'd all laugh. We never got tired of hearing this.
Funny thing, though, I was already beyond not being able to imagine my parents having sex. By that time I'd seen them 69-ing on the living room couch, where they were sleeping in our hotel in Hawaii, during a late night stroll from our girls' bedroom to their bathroom, so I was beyond virginizing my parents. By that time, too, I was no longer prone to considering the graphic peculiarities of the actual sex act hilarious.
I considered telling Mom this (not the part about me seeing them), but didn't. The subject seemed to be covered and closed.
So, what does this have to do with caregiving? Well, nothing. And everything. I am aware, at least a couple of times a week, how grateful I am that I am in a position to keep my relationship with my mother as a person from becoming stagnant. Neither she nor I are stuck in our fond (or furious, depending on the deed) imaginings of one another. It doesn't necessarily happen that when adult children care for their elders their relationship is enriched. Sometimes the very act of elder care, especially demential elder care, shrivels the relationship, and the questions, as well.
I have no prescriptions for how or why my relationship with my mother emphasizes our companionship over her and my care status to one another. I'm not sure, in fact, which came first, the chicken or the egg, although I heavily expect the egg. All I can tell you is that when I compare my mundane, intimate relationship with my mother with the relationships between other children and parents I see exhibited, I am even more grateful that we were and are persons, first, to one another, when our odyssey began and have come to fill several roles for one another through the years of our companionship. I believe this has made my dedication to her life worth it, and the added worth to the expansion of my character is a bonus. I can also see, though, how this sort of relationship with one's elder is random, in regards most families, and how the shriveling of a relationship might also be worth it, for all parties involved. Or, perhaps, a better word would be "stagnating"...as in a photograph...to which, and I say this without sarcasm or judgment of any kind, many people are addicted in lieu of the relationships behind the images.
Hmmm...so, looks like I'd better consider awakening the Mom. Not sure what we'll do, today. Although I know it's gotten progressively warmer outside, our house has gotten progressively cooler, which means the dew point is falling. Hallelujah.
So. One backed-up post down, several more to go, but I can delete that one.
Later.
Just as well. I used the oven enough, yesterday. If it were hot and dry I don't think the house air would be much affected. Our dew point, though, is, today, officially 45%. It's probably been at least that since a couple days ago. The evap is still cooling...some; but not the sharp cool that's usual on very dry days.
I've decided, if I make an apricot pie, it will be an apricot ginger pie. The filling will be sweetened (partially, if I use fresh fruit; fully, if I use Turkish apricots) with candied ginger. Not sure whether I'm going to add nuts. The almonds in the peach pie are adding only crunch. The almond flavor seems to have enhanced the peaches at its own expense. No wonder this peach pie filling recipe called for 1/4 tsp almond extract.
I don't think nuts are necessarily an enhancement to pie; unless it's pumpkin, pecan (guess that had better have nuts, huh), mincemeat, or I'm thinking of that Granny Smith apple pie I made last year around this time: Apple slices (peelings on); dried cherries; walnuts. Even I liked that one, and I'm not an apple pie fan. I consider most apple pie akin to white food and, thus, inedible unless heavily disguised.
So. Not sure what we're going to be doing, today. Mom's light went out at 0130, after a brief reading-silently-in-bed session. Oh, last night, before dinner, I remembered to take stats. I'm hoping to do the same when I awaken her today, probably about 1330. Guess I'd better return to The Dailies. It's been nice, though, not to be following my mother around with my nose up her ass, a contraption on her arm, stabbing her with a needle and quoting specific stats. I figure I'd better get her in for a blood draw one of these days, though.
As I think about past-intended posts (about which I am always thinking when I'm writing here and have fallen behind), for some reason an old one comes to mind which I think I'll mention here.
Cutting to the chase, my mother was not a virgin when she married. This may come as a surprise and shock to my sisters. It didn't to me when I learned it in January of this year, but it would have had I learned it earlier in my life. In my teens I may not have believed it.
Here's how this was revealed: Although I would not have guessed this in the first few years of my mother's and my companionship, she finds programs and movies about sex as fascinating as do I. I've become very comfortable with this. Witness, our shared love for Sex & the City. The History and Discovery channels each also have interesting and lightly titillating series in their archives dubbed things like "The History of Sex". They have a variety of editions of these shows and broadcast at least one of the editions a couple times a year. We always manage to catch whatever edition they're broadcasting. This January one of the two was showing an abbreviated version of their 5 episode (90 minutes per episode...it was fascinating) series. It ran so quickly through the highlights of its parent that it was hard to glimpse a shot of genitalia or the details of a suggestive pose. But, it was a provocative reminder, nonetheless, and provoked conversation, as these programs usually do.
I can't remember how the conversation got started...I think it was as a result of a short video treatise on Victorian married sexuality. For some reason, I got it into my head that my mother may not have been a virgin (although she wasn't Victorian, she has a very private streak about her that suggests an internal propriety) when she married. I remember (probably almost exactly), the words I used to pose the question: "Mom, I'm wondering; you don't have to answer this if you don't want to, were you a virgin when you married Dad?"
I remember her turning deliberately toward me (I was sitting on the floor next to her rocker) her face impassive but soft. I think she was deciding whether to joke her way through this one. She decided otherwise, looked back at the TV, which I'd muted, asking the question during a commercial break. She was smiling and almost-not-smile. "No," she said. "May I ask, [long pause] why do you ask?"
I did not express surprise. "Well," I said, "I'm not sure, but, you know, this will come as a surprise to your daughters. I considered it possible, but I'm still surprised."
She didn't say anything. Continued staring at the TV, smiling.
"So," I asked, becoming brave, "was it Donald Stonehink?"
Again, a steady look at me. "Stone-king. Which one?"
She was not teasing. "Oh," I said. "Um, how many?"
I didn't give her a chance to answer. "Were you and dad, uh, intimate, before you married."
Mom glanced at me and grinned. "Heavens no," she said, "we never saw each other!"
"Oh!" That surprised me. "So, what about Donald..."
"No."
"Did it come up?"
"Yes."
"Is that why you didn't marry him?"
"I don't think it was him I was going to marry."
"Oh. Okay. So, tell me. Did you expect your daughters to be virgins when they married?"
She studied the pattern of pyracantha branches shading the window to her left. "I don't think I ever worried about it."
"Really! I can think of at least one daughter who thought you did!"
"Well, maybe I did. Not much, though."
Suddenly, I was flooded with questions: Considering, for instance, my unfortunate familiarity with my father's very drunk assessment of my mother's sexuality and how that, despite my distaste for it, influences my opinion of my mother's sexuality:
- What is her view of their sex life?
- Was she ever angry with Dad for being so completely unavailable to her?
- Does she think he ever recognized her innate sexuality?
- Did he ever acknowledge it?
- Is my intuition that there was a magnetic physical bond between them, even up to the day my father died, accurate?
- Did she ever have an affair in her marriage? - the possibility has been discussed among us sisters.
- What, anyway, does she think of blow jobs?
"I know Dad was head-over heels for you from the day he met you till the day he died," I ventured.
She continued grinning. "Yes he was," she said.
Silence while the commercials ran down. Just before the program returned, I said, "I think you picked the right man. I know you know I think this."
Her face registered only mild surprise, probably for the compliment, not for the opinion. "Well, thank you! I do, too."
I am reminded of a junior high school friend of mine when I was in high school, "Jimmy"; he would refer to his parents as "the virgins". We'd all laugh. We never got tired of hearing this.
Funny thing, though, I was already beyond not being able to imagine my parents having sex. By that time I'd seen them 69-ing on the living room couch, where they were sleeping in our hotel in Hawaii, during a late night stroll from our girls' bedroom to their bathroom, so I was beyond virginizing my parents. By that time, too, I was no longer prone to considering the graphic peculiarities of the actual sex act hilarious.
I considered telling Mom this (not the part about me seeing them), but didn't. The subject seemed to be covered and closed.
So, what does this have to do with caregiving? Well, nothing. And everything. I am aware, at least a couple of times a week, how grateful I am that I am in a position to keep my relationship with my mother as a person from becoming stagnant. Neither she nor I are stuck in our fond (or furious, depending on the deed) imaginings of one another. It doesn't necessarily happen that when adult children care for their elders their relationship is enriched. Sometimes the very act of elder care, especially demential elder care, shrivels the relationship, and the questions, as well.
I have no prescriptions for how or why my relationship with my mother emphasizes our companionship over her and my care status to one another. I'm not sure, in fact, which came first, the chicken or the egg, although I heavily expect the egg. All I can tell you is that when I compare my mundane, intimate relationship with my mother with the relationships between other children and parents I see exhibited, I am even more grateful that we were and are persons, first, to one another, when our odyssey began and have come to fill several roles for one another through the years of our companionship. I believe this has made my dedication to her life worth it, and the added worth to the expansion of my character is a bonus. I can also see, though, how this sort of relationship with one's elder is random, in regards most families, and how the shriveling of a relationship might also be worth it, for all parties involved. Or, perhaps, a better word would be "stagnating"...as in a photograph...to which, and I say this without sarcasm or judgment of any kind, many people are addicted in lieu of the relationships behind the images.
Hmmm...so, looks like I'd better consider awakening the Mom. Not sure what we'll do, today. Although I know it's gotten progressively warmer outside, our house has gotten progressively cooler, which means the dew point is falling. Hallelujah.
So. One backed-up post down, several more to go, but I can delete that one.
Later.
