Dinner in the Chapel

When I walked onto the Memory Care Unit on the second floor tonight, I could smell fresh paint and I noticed new signs with the residents' names on them outside each door. As I rounded the corner down the long hall decorated with outdated carpeting, I came upon an empty dining room. Not a soul was around and there was none of the usual noise that fills the air at the home. It was incredibly eery. I walked back down to the lobby where the disinterested front desk girl was barely able to waste her time telling me that the folks were eating in the chapel tonight as she pointed down the opposite hall.

When I turned the corner past the "chapel" sign and the floor-to-ceiling bird cage housing six colorful finches, I saw a set of double doors and entered. Indeed, dinner was being served in the chapel. The room was quite large, with folding plastic banquet tables strewn about haphazardly on carpeted floors. I couldn't help but wonder how the food would come out of the carpet. Everyone was seated in different groups than usual, next to stained glass windows depicting various biblical characters and cheap prints of Jesus Christ. Nobody seemed aware that they were in a chapel, despite the bible quotes on the walls and the bibles along the shelves. I made my usual rounds, saying hello to everyone, gently rubbing their backs, challenging them to eat every last bite on their plates. When I came to Katherine, the meanest woman I've ever met, I asked her, apprehensively, how she was doing. "Shut up," she responded. It was an improvement over last week when, out of the blue, she called me a bitch. I couldn't help but think she was warming up to me.

I took a seat next to Mary, which also happened to put me next to John. Usually John is at the next table and I love to look over at him because he's really cute and smiley. He's gregarious and talkative, but nothing he says ever really goes anywhere. It always sounds as though he's going to say something normal but then it trails off along with his gaze. You can almost see the words extinguished in the air while his brow furrows. But he always recovers quickly. Every time I asked Mary a question, "Mary, do you want to drink some juice?" John would answer. Every time. I loved it. His wife visited him last year during the Christmas party and my heart broke in half for her, watching as she held John's hand while they sang carols with the group. I couldn't help but wonder while she was making sure John was well cared for, who was taking care of her?

When I finished feeding Mary mashed potatoes with gravy and pureed carrots, while completely avoiding giving her the ham that I knew wasn't pureed finely enough and would cause Mary to chew and chew and chew forever, I got up to say goodbye to everyone. Bernice sat crying gently over her still-full plate but assured me she was okay. I waved over at the new lady, Ethel, rather than going over to talk to her because, frankly, she scares me. She's terribly skinny with thin hair and skin so translucent you can see all of the veins in her forehead and face. She looks like one of those fish, so popular in children's aquariums, that are clear so you can see all of their internal organs. Last week when I said goodbye to her, she took my hand and asked me if I was going to call her husband. She went on to tell me that he lives at 3424 Dupont Avenue South and that she wanted to talk to him so could I call him? Her eyes pleaded with me. I said I would try and then Nurse Kollie added, "Ethel, I told you I tried to call him but he didn't answer. I'll try again later." I don't even know if her husband is alive or if Kollie really tried or if he told her that to calm her down.

Tonight when I saw Ethel sitting in the creepy, white PVC wheelchair, it looked like she had bloody stitches all around her mouth. Thankfully, it turned out to be chocolate, but I already had that image in my head from the Shutter Island movie previews and I was totally freaking out on the inside. But since I embarked on this whole experience to face my fears in the first place, I decided to say a personal goodbye to Ethel and walked over to her chair. She repeatedly beseeched me to open the little gate on her odd wheelchair that kept her from falling forward to the floor. I tried to change the subject but she kept asking me to open the little gate. Finally she said something I couldn't understand and I nodded my head in agreement, hoping to appease her in some way, and she seemed to calm down and sat back down in the square chair and allowed me to finally walk away. I have no idea what I agreed to. Chances are Ethel doesn't, either.

Chicken Wing Fear

I have never prepared chicken wings. There, I said it. I've been busy, who has time? Actually, I just am so enamored of the Buffalo wings at our own downtown Minneapolis' watering hole, Runyon's, that it doesn't seem necessary to try this at home. But yesterday that all changed when I picked up my Steamy Kitchen cookbook and read the recipe for Baked Garlic Chilli Wings. Baked, huh? Ok, that was tempting. I just don't need another deep fried food in my life, I have plenty that I already love, thanks.

Job one: buy chicken wings. I didn't want to go the frozen route, so I drove over to Northeast Minneapolis' favorite butcher shop, Ready Meats, and tried to casually ask for two pounds of chicken wings after I noticed they were whole wings, not just the cute little drummettes I'm accustomed to. Once home, I immediately accessed the Internet to find out how to break down the huge chicken wing clusters in my possession. I had an idea of how to do it, but I needed a little encouragement. I found it in the form of a southern gentleman making wings in a two minute video. Thank you, kind gentleman. The whole experience was pretty easy, I just wasn't prepared for the thick folds of chicken skin webbing the drummette and the wingette, nor was I ready to find tiny little feathers. Yes, I understand the chicken once had feathers, I just didn't realize I was going to possibly eat them. Unless it's baked super crispy, I don't even like poultry skin, so this was a bit much for me. But I persevered, cut the pieces up, and threw them in a Chinese marinade for a few hours. Then I baked them up and did a quick stir fry of them in a wok filled with aromatics like garlic, green onions and ginger. Voila.

The result? Nice looking, good flavor, but I still struggle with the rubbery skin that results most of the time when you don't want to deep fry your bird. My friend Maria really liked the wings, so it was a success as far as I'm concerned, but I think I need to try again.

Astoria

A second visit to the theater to see Crazy Heart this morning brought me straight back to my short time spent living and working in New York City twenty years ago, and it's proof positive that the sense of smell is the sense most closely tied to memory.

About thirty minutes into the movie today, a guy came in and sat down two or three rows ahead of us. I didn't think anything of it, so engrossed in Jeff Bridges' performance as Bad Blake I was. But suddenly, without warning, the foulest human stench wafted across my face, so thick and tangible I could almost feel it touching me. Not certain where it was coming from and hoping it would pass quickly, I buried my nose in my scarf and tried to enjoy the movie but the odor didn't abate. We had no choice but to move mid-film.

That smell immediately made me think of the time I was living in Astoria, Queens, at the last stop of the train at Ditmars, where the subway was above ground like in The French Connection but without the speeding car. I was meeting a friend for drinks in Manhattan so I walked to the train platform and entered the car while it waited to move. Oftentimes the trains just sat there since it was the end of the line. It was late enough in the evening to be dark out so I chose the first car where there would be a conductor in the little aluminum box up front. I couldn't see him, but I assumed he was there. I was alone in the train car, or so I thought, just waiting to leave the station, when all of the sudden, just like today at the theater, a stench stung my nostrils, leaving them begging for mercy. The doors were open on the car, warm enough out to allow this, and I wondered from where the smell emanated. Just then, the conductor entered the train from the platform and was visibly struck by the smell permeating the subway car. Obviously seeing something I couldn't, he walked over to one of the seats and woke a sleeping passenger that wasn't visible to me. When the man sat up, with a struggle, I could see he was just barely in human condition. He looked like Mickey Rourke in almost any movie he's made recently. He had crusted blood on his face, obviously not new, and tattered clothes. His hair was matted and he looked like life had gotten the best of him, and smelled worse. The conductor politely demanded the man exit the train, I'm certain it would have been nearly impossible for him to do his job with that stench in the air. The conductor asked me if I was okay, if the man had been bothering me. I told him I was fine and thanked him for checking on me.

I have no idea what ever happened to that man at the Ditmars station, but I'd be shocked if he were still alive today. To be able to get to that level of filth and degradation means nothing is going right in your life and hasn't been for awhile. I wonder about the man at the theater today, about how long he'll be around and what brought him to the point that not even basic hygiene is a part of his reality. As usual, I have many questions and not a single answer.

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

I'm too tired from reading seemingly thousands of resumes for days and days at work to tell you how tonight at the Memory Care Center, Bald Lorraine, who is tiny and white and lacking in hair on her round, shiny head called the tall, black nurse "Mommy." I'm much too exhausted to mention how when I was feeding Mary and asked her "Are you thirsty, Mary?" she answered "I'm everything." I'm unable to relate to you how I showed a book full of photos of residents of the unit, many of them in the photos sitting just feet away from Mattie, and she couldn't name one of them even though she lives with them every single day. She tried to fake it, but I could tell she had no clue who was in those photos. I'm lacking the energy to tell you how Melvin poured his baked beans all over his hands and pants and then his head dropped to his chest and he fell fast asleep at the dinner table. I don't have the strength to talk about how Bernice blushed and smiled coyly and drooled slightly when I showed her a photo of herself at the Christmas party and told her how beautifully she photographs and that she's practically a supermodel.

Fortunately, I'm not too tired to post this photograph of my mom and me, taken a couple of (hundred) years ago. See, there are beautiful things in this life. My mom's dress just isn't one of them.

You Are the Man That Ruined the World

I know I posted the trailer from Crazy Heart previously, but here's the Golden Globe-winning song from the film, The Weary Kind, in its entirety as sung by its writer, Ryan Bingham. I saw the movie today and loved it every bit as much as I thought I would, and it didn't hurt that Mr. Bingham has a minor role in it. It's not a perfect film, but it's damn good. And I can't believe how much I'm still in love with Jeff Bridges. I remember seeing him in Starman in 1984 like it was yesterday. I was on a first date and I was so nervous but I forgot all about it watching Jeff Bridges play an alien pretending to be a dead man that night. Whenever I watch him, I always forget it's him, which is the biggest compliment I can give an actor. Go see Crazy Heart.

Fried Prosciutto Will Save the World

Recently invited to attend a four course dinner cooking class at Kitchen Window where we prepared everything from beef Wellington to cashew brittle, I found something that makes me swoon in a way that usually only Hook & Ladder Pinot Noir and Seth Rogen can. That thing is fried prosciutto. Notice the reddish blob on top of the salad that looks like a sun-dried tomato. That is actually an achingly thin slice of Italian bacon, called prosciutto, that has been dropped into a deep fryer for just seconds until it becomes a crisp, salty beacon of hope for all that is good and positive in this world. I will not have it again any time soon because I have a strict no deep frying policy in my home (which is, sadly, not because of the health aspect but rather because of the odor), but I can still dream about it.

Seth Rogen

I love this man and I don't care who knows it.

The First Harvest

Check out those huge basil leaves! The plants grew so tall I had to raise the lamp arm so they wouldn't burn. The large basil leaves on top were actually blocking the light from the lower leaves so today I was forced to harvest my first herbs from the Aerogarden that I started on December 14. I took several large basil leaves and cut them into a nice little chiffonade which I then added to scrambled eggs, along with some diced tomato and shredded Parmesan cheese. Simple, delicious and, best of all, homegrown.

Next up: mushrooms with homegrown thyme.

I Still Hate Winter

Don't get me wrong, I don't care for winter. But every once in a while even a cold, snowy day can be pretty.

Flip-It!

Apparently I live quite a sheltered life because last weekend at one of the two meat raffles I attended (wait, I guess I don't live a sheltered life!), I learned to play a dice game I've never heard of. Do you know about Flip-It? I tried to google it, but really didn't find anything in five seconds so I gave up (what can I say? I'm of the MTV generation). Essentially it's a hexagon with the numbers 1 through 10 on tiles each of up to six players can flip over. Without going into all of the details, it's a very simple, fast moving game of strategy. It moves along at a good clip and is much improved if one is drinking alcoholic beverages as they play. Here we are in this photo playing the game Friday night, drinking our cocktails, just as recommended.

It's a Jungle in Here

Hello? Is that you out there? I'm having a hard time seeing you through the thicket of herbs overtaking my home! The chives are as high as an elephant's eye (if that elephant stands just about four inches tall) and the thyme is expanding sideways and the basil, well, the basil almost grows before my very eyes. Things are getting good.

When Bad Things Happen to Good Fingers

I am a big baby and I don't handle injuries well. So imagine my horror when, while taking out the garbage, I caught my index finger in the heavy duty gate latch that surrounds the dumpster. I was stunned, both sides of my finger gouged and bleeding, as I tried to figure out what to do next. If I stayed at home to tend to my wound, I'd be late for meeting my friends. Also, my car was running in the parking lot illegally while I was loading it up for a weekend out of town. Oh, the conundrum. Picturing myself running it under the tap made my skin crawl (no pun intended, since it looked like it really was crawling), so I did the only thing I could think of in my state and wrapped it in a washcloth and drove to my friends' house. The entire way, like a big baby, I tried to think happy thoughts but would suddenly be jolted back to reality by a sharp pain in my damaged finger. I actually moaned out loud several times during the drive, trying to keep it elevated the entire way and wondering if any other drivers thought I was giving them the finger. Really I was only giving myself the finger for being in a hurry in the first place and allowing it to happen.

When I got to Tom and Karen's, they ushered me to the sink where I rinsed the new gaping flaps in my finger under the tepid water. No fun. Then Dr. Tom and Nurse Karen went to work, wrapping it in gauze and tape and shoving me in the truck so that we could get to the bar and I could enjoy some "medicine." It's really not that bad of a wound, but being a baby, I am appreciative that my peeps could help me out in my time of need. I think I'll play the piano after all. Once I learn to, that is.

In Dreams

Subzero temperatures for days, maybe even weeks, force my mind to wander to places warmer and sunnier where yellow limes and coarse salt pair together to make a sweaty beer an even more powerful experience. Watching the gentle ocean waves, I can almost taste the cold, sweet liquid as it cools my throat, and I move quickly to finish it before the napkin it's wrapped in is soaked. It's okay to drink your beer fast, there's always more where that came from...

The Best Camera is the One That's With You

I've been practicing manipulating photos taken on my iPhone using the Best Camera app. It's based on the saying that the best camera is the one that's with you. So true. While it's lovely to have super nice equipment, you can't always have it with you. So in the end you should enjoy using whatever camera you have with you, even if it's only your cell phone.

Just look how Best Camera can make a super cute American kitty look like a sophisticated Parisian kitty!

Crazy Heart

Sometimes it's all a person can do to get from one day to the next. People need something to motivate themselves to keep going on, to have a reason to get up in the morning and to keep doing what they have to do to make this life into something real. For me, currently, that motivating something is the upcoming film Crazy Heart, starring Jeff Bridges and Maggie Gyllenhaal. While it has opened in the important cities on the coastal fringes of our great nation, flyover country will have to wait till January 15. It's less than two weeks away but feels like a million.

I bide my time waiting by watching the Crazy Heart movie trailer endlessly. The theme song, The Weary Kind, was written by none other than Mr. Ryan Bingham, whom I last wrote about in July after his show with the Dead Horses at the Varsity, and co-written by the well-known T-Bone Burnett. I hope after this movie comes out and Ryan wins any number of awards for the song including, I predict, an Oscar, Ryan won't be selling his own t-shirts to his fans like he did at First Ave not that long ago and, instead, will be well-known in his own right.

Romantica and Carrie Rodriguez, Part Three

Another fantastic Romantica show for the books. Friday night they appeared at the Dakota Jazz Club downtown, a venue that I visited for the first time in its twenty-five year existence this week. It's a really nice club with good cocktails and a fine-looking menu, but with too many "smooth jazz" acts for my taste. However, now that I've been there, I will endeavor to return. The sound system is top notch, even if the table service during the music is distracting.

Romantica appeared there with another favorite of mine, Austin, Texas' powerhouse voice in a cute, teensy body, Carrie Rodriguez. She brought her fiddle and her highest declaration of love and respect for the Romantica boys and together they made our subzero temperatures seem like just a distant bad memory. Each act did separate sets and, like in concerts past, they did some songs together. The song I always wait for is a gorgeous ballad called Big Kiss that Carrie sings solo on her record, Seven Angels on a Bicycle. It's an amazing song sung individually, but it's kicked up a notch when she and Ben Kyle perform it as a duet. And they ended the show in style with a cover of Merle Haggard's Today I Started Loving You Again that made all of my dark thoughts about the winter chill fade away.

My cousin Megan and I have seen these two perform together at the Varsity in Dinkytown and again at tiny Steve's Guitars in Carbondale, Colorado, and now at the Dakota. I don't tire of hearing them, how could you ever tire of beautifully crafted songs sung in perfect voices?

The Herbs Are Still Alive

I haven't managed to kill them yet. I had my doubts, and it's only been three weeks so anything can happen, but so far the basil, chives and thyme are all thriving. "Thriving" might be overstating what's going on with the chives, I don't envision a bright future for them based on the small bowl size and what I've read on the Internet, but the thyme might be okay and the basil, currently the smallest of the three, stands to be the king of the herbs. If that works out, I'll be excited to order some other basil varieties and simply grow them. I can't wait to see what happens next.

Yes, that's all I've got today. It's too cold outside to be clever.

Making Christmas Memories

This year's Christmas party on the Memory Care Unit was an extravaganza of Santa, presents, food and music. My parents, Jude and Gord, came along and even agreed to wear Santa hats and reindeer antlers to help make the second floor south feel more like the North Pole.

It started out with volunteers passing out lefse and julekage, sweet treats from Scandinavia that probably meant more to Gudrun (above) from Sweden than to Rosalie from New Orleans. The residents that can't tolerate solid foods enjoyed chocolate Snack Pack pudding instead. Nobody seemed disappointed by this, no matter what I might have thought. After snacks, the lyrics to several well-known Christmas songs were passed out to everyone and I'm pretty sure not one of them was used. Folks either sang from memory or they didn't. Lorraine, one of my favorites, knew the words to every song and happily sung along, her tiny little mouth ringed with chocolate pudding and shaped into a huge smile. I've never seen Lorraine so happy and just that alone made the whole party worth the effort. Singing Christmas carols while using the lyric sheet always reminds me how few of the words I actually know to the classic tunes. Lorraine had it all over me there.

When the three carols had been sung, suddenly a very feminine Santa showed up, much to the delight of the residents who didn't seem to know Santa wasn't a dude. I knew there had been trouble finding a Santa, I think in the end they had to use a female employee. But it was neat because she knew sign language so she was able to communicate with Inez. I never see anyone communicate with Inez, who is deaf and mute, so that made for a nice Christmas itself. Santa brought two gifts for everyone and we assisted residents in opening them and then labeling their new stuff so that they would be sent to the proper room. Presents ranged from new shirts and track suits to socks and boxes of fancy shortbread cookies. Don, below, was thrilled with his fancy new pen and notebook and immediately wrote his name in an old man scrawl on the first blank page. Don already sports quite a fine pen collection in his shirt pocket that I comment on every time I see him. You can't say too many things about a four-color pen!

Today someone asked me if it's sad for me to visit the nursing home every week. I really had to think about it because, in a way, it certainly is. It would be nice if the folks could still be in the homes they loved, near the people that adore them, and it is sad that this is no longer a possibility. But since that's not reality and as sad as it is that the Memory Care Unit is home now, I think it would be even sadder to think of nobody visiting them at all.

Instant Christmas Classics

On a whim, I whipped up this Almond Puff Pastry on Christmas Eve day, for no more reason than I had all the ingredients on hand and I love to bake. Who knew it would turn out to be the most delicious almond pastry of all time? Decadently infused with crispy and doughy and buttery layers of goodness and topped off with a sweet, almond icing, this dessert was off the charts.

On Christmas day, when my family traditionally gets together with a group of friends at someone's house, this year we opted to meet at a local Northeast Minneapolis bar. The 1029 was the scene of Christmas, at least a barfly sort of Christmas, and it was spectacular. While the weather outside was frightful, inside all of us shared some Christmas cheer and hoisted more than a few lagers, then headed over to the 331 Club for some more. These are the sort of Christmas traditions to warm your heart, indeed.

How Does Your Garden Grow?

The chives are growing like crazy, if "crazy" means "two inches tall and not even remotely useful yet." Still, I'm excited every day to see the progress of my lush herb garden. I thought the grow light, which is quite bright and stays on for seventeen hours per day, would drive me nuts since in such a small home it's pretty much visible from everywhere, but I've come to enjoy the light and how it brightens up the dining corner of my living space. Now if I could just come to enjoy waiting for my herbs to grow to fruition!