The Daily Sweat

Salsa music erupts from the TV and I get lost in following the movements to a Zumba dance routine, sweat already gathering on my flailing limbs. I'm caught in the rhythms and melodies, stepping [mostly] in time. My only concerns are keeping up and not wearing away the lacquer coating on the wood floor.

Then I notice the mirror nearby. Every little bit of jiggle shows as I move. A list of all the recent junk food I've consumed seems to scroll by as I step and sway:
that strawberry rhubarb pie on Saturday
that Boston cream filled pie on Sunday...with the creamy pudding inside and the chocolate frosting outside (yummm)
the three choco-cherry brownie cookies and half a chocolate chip cookie today.

Some lifeless inner voice lectures me: if you ate more salad you could be all inspiring like the gleaming figures sweating on your TV screen, smiles plastered on as they effortlessly dance.


Then I'm aware of these thoughts and decide to take a swing at them:
Maybe if I was a gleaming perfection I'd be less inspiring.
Maybe what I am now and how I look now is no less inspiring than what might be or could be.

So I take another look - and I see a dancer, a woman sweating in a bra and shorts and not giving a darn if she's not tan and not perfectly toned.

And then I forget about looking. I place myself out on a gravel driveway on a starlit prairie night. The Latin music is floating out to me from the tall grass where crickets pluck their fiddle strings and fireflies dart in bright streaks of light. The breeze loosens whispering music from the treetops, and I'm moving because I can and because there's music and because it moves me.

And there's no body to me. There's no shape and there's no pinning me into one place. I simply am.

When I get to this state of mind in The Daily Sweat, it's like there's no limit anymore. I'm just lungs and sweat and doing and being.


It's a liberated state of mind.
It's a state of victory. =)

Ep. 20: Hotdog Trumps Ham

People are people, no matter their age. Some will be kind, curious, rude, condescending, bitter, or funny, and so on. I’m an “old people chef,” and this is my journal.
--

 

"I cannot have cake, I am a diabetic," says Sugarfree, lecturing me yet again about her diabetes that only shows its face when it is convenient for her. She'll eat pie, she'll eat brownies, she'll eat seven layer bars - but for some reason if you put cake in front of her, she suddenly remembers that she is a diabetic. This is why her somewhat sarcastic name given here is "Sugarfree."

Today Sugarfree informed us that she also wants to be "Ham Free."
This is because of tonight's supper:
Cranberry Glazed Ham

Yellow Rice

Steamed Baby Carrots

Cinnamon Baked Apples

Her response to this menu was, "I don't want rice. And I can't have ham. It's too salty. It makes me swell up like a balloon. I'd like to have a hotdog instead, with a side of carrots."

First, I've been working there over a year and the aide tonight has been working there for about six years, and neither of us has ever heard a complaint from Sugarfree about ham.

Second, a hotdog is not exactly a low-salt substitute for ham. It's like replacing salty pork with salty mystery meat.

Third, she was trying to order an alternative a whole hour after the cut-off. She knows better than that. I smell manipulation afoot!

For all these reasons, we told her no. She then asked to have a plateful of carrots since neither ham nor rice sounded good to her.

A half hour after that, she informed us that she would not be coming to supper after all.

She was going out to eat.
Out to the local Asian restaurant.
Because that couldn't possibly be salty.

The lack of logic here is amazing.

"I can't have salt, so I'd like to have a hot dog.
On second thought, I think I'll go have a pile of MSG."

Tell me about your special diet again, please?

Episode 19: Two Cents Times a Million

People are people, no matter their age. Some will be kind, curious, rude, condescending, bitter, or funny, and so on. I’m an “old people chef,” and this is my journal.
--

 

Every resident has an opinion to share, whether you ask for it or not.
Here’s a collection of real complaints we have received. Many of them contradict each other, as each person has a different definition of “good food.”

Most of them make us laugh. We can’t please everyone.

“
I wish the oatmeal bowls were smaller.

I only wanted half a grilled cheese!

This soup is way too hot.
This soup is lukewarm.

I’ve had so much scrambled eggs I’m afraid I’ll grow feathers!
I prefer hard boiled eggs.
(On sausage gravy and biscuit day) I prefer scrambled eggs.

These desserts are too big.

I wish you’d used a bigger noodle.
These noodles are too soft.
The noodles are too chewy – look at how everyone is chewing and chewing!

We want more meat and potatoes.
We’d rather have potatoes than rice or pasta.
We have too many mashed potatoes.

The kraut soup is too salty.
The kraut soup is not sour enough.

I really love these chicken strips.
Chicken strips are not an acceptable entrée.

These eggs are not fit.

”

Episode 18: Crafty's Salad

People are people, no matter their age. Some will be kind, curious, rude, condescending, bitter, or funny, and so on. I’m an “old people chef,” and this is my journal.
--

 

A certain resident was pressing on the boundaries of sanity this last weekend. This person can go by no other name than Crafty. She is continually working out how to manipulate things to her own purposes.

It should not have surprised me when a couple resident assistants approached me at 9:15 and said that Crafty had just called to change her lunch order. I explained about the deadline (9:00), and we all agreed that Crafty had called them because she hoped they wouldn't know about the deadline.

Then about 11 a.m., she showed up with a new list of alternatives for the week, including the change she had attempted at 9:15. It was still too late, and I just shook my head at her further clumsy attempt at gaining exception where no other resident could.

She had requested her meal sent to her room, so at noon the tray with her salad went up. About ten minutes later, I had the delight of receiving a phone call from her.

"When I talked to you earlier, you said I could have a hot dog," her indignant words bit through the receiver.
"You did not talk to me. You spoke with the gals on the floor."
"Well, they told me I could have it." Her indignation was growing, and the grating scrape of her voice rising in volume.
"Then they were mistaken. And you know that the deadline is 9:00. You had ordered a salad and so that's what we sent."
"Well," she screeched, "I WON'T EAT IT!"
As if it was going to really bother me. We all know she has piles of junk food in her apartment.
"I'm very sorry," I stated, and hung up before she could continue.

Later she accused the RAs of not supplying her daily pain pills - as in, she wanted double pain meds.
Then she screamed at someone in her room that she had never received her noon meal - even as it was visible on its tray across the room on her countertop.

Crafty was on a roll.

Now today she left a note asking to please be moved from Table 1 to Table 9. We change seating monthly and we do not change seats unless there is serious conflict between two residents at a particular table (which has happened maybe three times in the last year). I tore up the note as I've torn many others. It was a surprise to see that she didn't swap her place card with one at her desired table. That has happened many times before.

The fact that these things are even issues boggles me. Screaming at someone about a salad. Bold faced lying about a salad. Acting like deadlines apply to the other 69 people in the building and not to you.

Over a salad.

If it wasn't real, it'd be sheer comedy.

Episode 17: The Dragon Smiles

People are people, no matter their age. Some will be kind, curious, rude, condescending, bitter, or funny, and so on. I’m an “old people chef,” and this is my journal.
--

We ran out of water goblets for noon dining set-up again today, so I ventured over to Special Cares (aka The Dragon's Lair) to see about borrowing a few from them.

Dragon Lady was there, strangely calm. She greeted me by name, so I greeted her by name. I thought I'd better mention why I was there, so I explained and then braced for impact.

Instead of a roar and a pounce, she merely told me that I could certainly take several goblets, since they don't need that many in their community anyway. "In other words, help yourself," she concluded. And then she smiled. The smile was not followed with a mocking laugh or a derisive comment. A smile. On the corners of the mouth of the dragon.

Wonders never cease.

DIY Apple Press

 

My pa put together his own apple press. Here's the low-down on all the bits and pieces! Plus some fun prairie moments...

 



Here's the wooden supports for the grinder (left) and press (right).



Mama looking oh-so-joyous.



Dad assembling the hopper for grinding apples.



The hopper assembled. The cast-iron parts are the only part he
purchased instead of making himself.



The hopper wheel.



Adding water to the wheelbarrow of apples.



All set for grinding some apples!! The pieces will go into a
lined stainless steel bin underneath.



A bin full of crushed apples all ready to press. There's a hole
in the underside for the juice to run out into the bucket below.



There's bar drain pieces on the bottom and along the side above the drain hole to allow juices to
flow easily down and out of the bin.



He adds a hydraulic jack between the press board and the board above.



After the apples have been pressed as much as possible
with the original board, he adds blocks between.



Beautiful fresh pressed cider!



Running the hopper.

 

Pasteurizing and canning the cider.

 

 

 

It was a great time with the padres at home! Plus they sent several gallons of cider home with me. Now, to make some hard cider and some apple cider vinegar...

Fall Apples

A day at my parents' place, picking apples and pressing cider.