Toeing the Line

Inspirational song: Bang the Drum All Day (Todd Rundgren)

At least twice this week, I hugged people with fevers who actively felt crummy. It being a holiday weekend last week, there might have been more bug hugs. So is that why I couldn't sleep at all last night, and had to mediate a fight between my inner child and inner grownup for over half an hour about getting up and going to work. I went, and it was a good thing I did, but man, I didn't want to. I did my training and was rewarded for forcing myself into the office by getting to schedule an open house this weekend. Then I went home, put a yummy stew into the crock pot, and took a damned nap for the first time in a week. This is not how I'm supposed to manage my disease. I'll be spending the next several days prepping for the open house by studying current inventory in that city, and prepping for my first rheumatology visit by finding my copies of my medical records and noting dates and complaints that never seemed to get tied together for twenty years. I have a lot of homework ahead.

I'm feeling pretty worn thin. Too much stress. Too many directions to turn at once. I need to start getting to bed earlier, to stave off any potential flares, now that I know what I'm looking for. I've been pushing it too hard and pretending that I'm not having extra trouble breathing without soreness. It's all well and good to say "get more rest," but it's freaking hard to accomplish it in real life. I told a coworker today that I wish I was the kind of person who could just vanish for a three-day bender. I'd already be gone by now. Unfortunately, sticking around for my obligations isn't optional. So I'll be here, in this same column, tomorrow night, trying to find the silver lining in something. See you then.

Mountain Holiday

Inspirational song: The Last Resort (The Eagles)

We spent the entire day in the mountains today. We started on the west side of Boulder, just at the base of the mountains, then headed up to Blackhawk (where we saw the worst eyesore, a casino that has a skyscraper tower which starts at road level and sticks up almost to the peaks of the mountains surrounding the valley) and Central City (where the old mining town feel has remained after the casinos came in). From there, we drove above Central City along some of the improved dirt roads from which we could see Mr S-P's mountain, even if we didn't go there, and a neat old cemetery, before heading along the Peak-to-Peak to see what we could see. It was cloudy and snowy for much of the day, so we didn't have many sweeping vistas, but we still had a good time on the way north to Estes Park. We did a once-around the Stanley Hotel, and gave my little red-headed dog a chance to bark his head off at a few skinny elk yearlings who were minding their own business, eating grass next to the road. Finally, we worked our way down the mountain, showing our guest all of the lasting damage from the biblical flood of 2013. I didn't take as many pictures of the lingering debris and alluvium fields. A small cell phone camera lens just doesn't capture the impact of the scars on the valleys.

I did take dozens of pictures along the way, and now, after another dinner that couldn't be beat, not a single one of us has anything left in the tank. So I'm going to let my pictures do the talking, and I'm going to go get into jammies and go to bed early. I might repeat a couple of views, from where I reframed some shots, but I'm not going to stress over which is better. I'll just give you the bulk of them. Enjoy!

Where Did That Come From?

Inspirational song: Piece of My Heart (Janis Joplin)

We have an old friend in town this week. She is someone the Mr has known since he was a teenager, and she became my friend as well when she came to visit us the first time back before we were married. I haven't gotten to see her at all since the kids were tiny. We spent part of the day in Boulder, revisiting some scenes from the past, and we had a very fancy dinner at a restaurant there that specializes in locally sourced, grass-fed meats. It was one of those nights when you take pictures of your food before you eat it, and we played the game exactly like we were supposed to. The meal was superb. I would go there again, but I'd probably save up a few weeks before a second visit, maybe skipping fancy coffees for a while to lessen the impact on the budget. But it was absolutely worth it tonight.

We shopped a bit on the Pearl Street Mall, but we didn't buy much. It was mostly just a chance to give our friend a "true Boulder experience." The only thing I bought today was a yellow silk scarf I've had my eye on for a few weeks. It was at my favorite hippie jewelry store, where I always went every trip back to Colorado the entire time we were gone. I saw it the last time I was there, but I just wasn't convinced to get it. Today, I ended up not being dressed for the cooler temperatures in Boulder. Luckily, I didn't need to get a whole extra jacket while I was on the mall. A single scarf was enough to keep me from feeling a chill. I was even warm by the time we left the restaurant.

I don't know what led me to speak so openly about my whole diagnosis and major lifestyle changes, but I ended up unloading on our friend as we went to her hotel. I hope I didn't say too much, but I'm pretty sure that I did. I don't know what was different about this time. I released months of pent up emotions about what lupus means about my future and what I've now learned about the past. I think I owe her a reward for having to listen to me pour my heart out. The dinner we had before doesn't count. I am completely drained after telling her everything that I did, and I probably barely scratched the surface of what has been stewing in me since early February. Maybe she ought to sit on the opposite side of Mr S-P from me for the rest of her visit, so she doesn't have to hear any more of it. I would understand.

The Mind Boggles

Inspirational song: Cold (Annie Lennox)

My usual basement den, in the rocking chair where I blog from under an electric blanket that's warm whether it's turned on or not, is out of commission. All of the furniture is pushed to the center of the room, while the last of the burgundy (borscht) paint dries and the ceiling gets its final sanding, primer, and first coat of whitest pink. I couldn't spend the evening in my usual haunt, so I cleaned house a little (just a little) and spent the remainder of the night reading lupus information on the internet and alternating between being a little more scared and a little more resigned. It's still a lot to deal with, and I still have nearly a full month to go before my first visit with the rheumatologist. Even now, I keep finding more data that makes me fill in gaps in my life review, and I get angry all over again that no one caught this in over twenty years of me asking what the hell was wrong with me. Maybe if I could have afforded to go to a doctor in those first couple years after daughter #2 was born, when I remember clearly complaining that I was 25 but looked like a hard-used 50 year old, then someone might have diagnosed me correctly from the beginning. I know for certain I had the classic lupus rash on my face and my hair was like straw. I may have lost lots of memories, but I've retold that part enough times to have it permanently etched into my consciousness. I shudder to think how much organ damage was done in all these years of not treating the root cause of my problems. I just have to hope that it is not too late to heal a little now. I'll try regardless, but still.

I had a bit of a migraine day, and I needed a time out mid-afternoon. Luckily, while the TV room is in shambles, the downstairs bedroom is nearly complete, so I was able to sleep off my headache in a very quiet, very dark place. Unfortunately it was a little chilly in that room, what with the concrete walls and no heat source, but I managed. I even felt somewhat better when I got up. I came upstairs to prepare for our dinner date, and walked barefoot into the bathroom. The floor by the toilet was unexpectedly cold and moist. I searched around, assured myself that the toilet had not overflowed, and had started wiping up the thin layer of water on the floor when I noticed a drop fall past my face. I looked up. The ceiling was dry. Where did it come from? Kept looking, and traced back another drop. And then another. Then I found it. There was a tiny droplet forming on the metal grill under the vent fan. The Mr took a look at it. He unscrewed the vent cover, and several ounces of water spilled out. So his next stop was on the roof. He took a snow shovel up with him, and pushed the remnants of last week's storms off and inspected the situation. It looks like the best case scenario, that just the seal around the vent pipe is bad, and once it all dries he can go back up and caulk it. I can only imagine how bad it could have been. I much prefer this simple fix.

We had a double date with the realtor who worked with us on all of our Colorado deals to date (assuming that going forward I'll be handling our stuff). She's been a good friend to us for years, and we loved getting to hang out at one of the local breweries with her and her man. I couldn't drink beer like everyone else, but I could have root beer and keep my wits about me while we played games. There was a stack of kids' games in an alcove, and I convinced everyone that Boggle was the one to start with. We played about 10 or 12 rounds of it, until we were all mentally exhausted. But we had a great time. That was always my favorite game to play when the kids were growing up, and I've missed getting to play it in a group. I tried playing online briefly several years ago, and it just wasn't as much fun. Over drinks, my realtor idol and I talked about the local market. She said that she was looking for houses under $600,000 in Boulder today, and couldn't find a single one for her client. Not just nothing he wanted, no houses whatsoever under that price. It should have floored me, but really, it's not that surprising. When people say there is no inventory here, they aren't kidding. We also talked about the last house she sold us, Park West. I told her I ran the comps for this house, and today, three weeks after the last time I ran them, the estimated value for this place is up another $2,000. It was already up about $14,000 from where we bought it. That doesn't take into account all the repairs and upgrades we've already done (especially the big things like the new front window and garage doors, roof repairs, and new fence). She quoted a price where she thinks we would start if we were crazy enough to list this house today (We Are Not, repeat Not) that is close to 18% higher than our purchase price. Let that sink in. Since last summer, eight or nine months ago, our house has appreciated almost 18% in this hot market. I'm fairly terrified to imagine where that market is going to go over the next year. My mind reels.

Before Sunrise Service

Inspirational song: Shot in the Dark (Ozzy Osbourne)

Our neighbor up the street, unbeknownst to us, left his house around 5 am for breakfast. Half an hour later, someone was in front of his house, emptying a full magazine of a 9mm pistol. It was a horrible way to wake up. We had no idea who, what, or where. We just knew it was close. It sounded like someone was hammering on sheet metal right next to our pillows. Mr S-P went outside with a flashlight (still in his jammies and a robe) to investigate, and he talked to the cops when they arrived. They found the shell casings (something like 15 of them) scattered in the street, but for all their searching, there was no sign of a target. There was no person bleeding anywhere, no ambulance called. There was no damage to property, either a house or a car. There wasn't even a hint that a tree was hit. So as the man said, either the gun was fired into the air or this guy was the world's worst shot ever. This wasn't just not hitting the broadside of a barn. This was a neighborhood full of houses, and not a one was nicked. The neighbor whose house was closest to the action didn't even know it had happened, until Mr S-P walked down to let him know there was action while he was gone.

We stayed awake for a while, drinking coffee and trying to come down off the adrenaline. By 7:30, I knew I was going to need to try to sleep a little more or I wouldn't make it through the whole day. By 9 I knew that the coffee was a mistake. I tried to sleep and failed miserably. I'm definitely not staying up for the late news tonight, but I probably will record it, in case our neighborhood gets a quick mention (I doubt it, as there were no cameras visible this morning).

I wanted to be chipper and awake today. We got together with the family for a holiday dinner, and it would have been better to be alert than flagging by mid-afternoon. I made it through most of the day, until we had an Easter egg hunt for grownups, after which we all sat around eating jelly beans and M&Ms from the plastic eggs we'd found. Sugar coma took me down hard after that. But lunch was amazing, the buffet was delicious, and our niece was an excellent hostess. It was a really good chance to get caught up with the family. Conversation is always lively, and our alarming morning certainly added to the discussion.

Prison Biscuits

Inspirational song: In the Jailhouse Now (v. Soggy Bottom Boys ft. Tim Blake Nelson)

I bought a new ingredient to experiment with this week. I've never really taken to coconut flour like my fellow grain-avoiding peeps. To me, it's like eating sawdust. I'm particularly fond of a certain brand of frozen pizza made with a tapioca-based crust, so I decided that I needed to try out some recipes with tapioca. Got the starch. It never really seemed to do well with baking like I imagined it would. Then, several months ago, I bought a pancake mix made with cassava flour as the main ingredient. The texture of the pancakes ended up the closest thing to real bread I'd had in two years. Unfortunately, it was sweetened with monkfruit, which it turns out I don't like. So I never bought the pancake mix again. I did a little research and learned that cassava flour and tapioca starch are made from the same plant, the yuca root. They're just processed differently. I've been looking for months in all the health food stores for cassava flour, and coming up empty. I can find tapioca starch in quantity, but cassava, which apparently has a little more heft (more fiber, perhaps?) and the ability to substitute nearly 1 to 1 for wheat flour, is as rare as a unicorn, even in health-conscious northern Colorado. So I did what any girl in my situation would do. I ordered it on Amazon. And when it arrived in a box with a book and some Jeep parts, torn and huffing a fine dusting of flour all over the inside of the box, I complained to customer service and got a second bag sent tout suite, for free. (Thanks, Amazon customer service!)

The first thing I made was peanut butter cookies. I found a recipe on Pinterest for them, and they sounded like a great breakfast, along with some bananas we already had. The cookies were phenomenal. I had to cook them a mighty long time, but when they came out of the oven, they were perfect. Considering I've only had cookies about three times since I went grain-free, this was a bliss I worried I'd never again experience. I'm already planning ahead for next Christmas, when I'll be making this recipe with Hershey's kisses in the middle of them.

Yesterday morning, I felt a little more daring. I was craving buttermilk biscuits, and I knew I had something that could approximate real bread in my kitchen. I tried going through Pinterest again, but I didn't find anything that really sounded right for what I wanted to achieve. I also didn't have any buttermilk, nor did I have the wherewithal to dress and run to the grocery store before I ate. So I decided to fake it. I poured a capful of apple cider vinegar into half-and-half, which I vaguely remembered would make a buttermilk-like substance. I mixed cassava flour, a little potato starch and xanthan gum for stability, salt, and baking powder together in a bowl. I didn't really measure anything, even though I was using measuring cups and spoons to scoop ingredients. I mixed some coconut oil and butter in with a pastry cutter. I whisked a couple eggs, and dropped those in, along with a squirt of honey and the "buttermilk." I told the man that I was making "prison biscuits" in the same imprecise manner that one would make prison wine. He should have been happy I wasn't stirring it together in a metal toilet bowl to complete the experience.

I think I put in a tiny bit too much fat, because they were sizzling on the parchment paper when I pulled them from the oven. Much like the peanut butter cookies, they needed to cook an extra long time. But when we tried them, holy cow, they really worked! They were slightly chewy, as I expected them to be with the cassava, but the flavor was perfect. They were a little denser than the rolls made by the same company as those pizzas I like (Against the Grain). But they were wonderful, especially with a little butter smeared on them, and we ate every bite. The man said they'd be great for biscuits and gravy (which is very easy and delicious with garbanzo flour, btw), so next time we have a hankering for breakfast sausage, they will make a reappearance. I didn't take any pictures of them, or write down any measurements, so I will have to work up a recipe for an Annie's Test Kitchen episode to come. I'll wait until I have real buttermilk to mix them with, but I promise, they'll still be called prison biscuits. From now on, that's my trademarked term.