Candied Bacon!

I have to confess. Like many ex-vegetarians, I was undone by bacon. I've long been a fan, it was a staple of English Sunday breakfasts, was used to bard roast chicken and was added to soups and casseroles.

Lately I've succumbed to a Southern American tradition in which so many recipes begin "fry an onion in bacon grease", and it's one of the refrigerator staples that I'll rush to replenish any time we run short.

Imagine my delight when our dear friend Caroline presented me with a package of "Candied Bacon" today. Having conspired with Christine's cousin Nono she prepared a dozen strips of this strange sweetmeat for my delectation. Now my day is complete, apart from eating it all, of course.

Next year - bacon turducken!

Mammogram Day

It's almost 4½ years since Christine was originally diagnosed with breast cancer, and occasionally people will ask me how she is doing. These days my response is pretty much always the same: "She's doing pretty well, the cancer seems to be in remission", I'll reply, whilst thinking "why don't you ask how everyone else is doing?"

I think this because cancer affects everyone around the patient, and this week has been a classic example of familial cancer. A week ago, or thereabouts, Christine had a sore spot in her remaining breast. This is the continual dread of cancer survivors; every lump or swelling, pain or discomfort suddenly turns lives upside-down all over again. The bright hope of survival dims until the next test confirms or denies more cancer, more treatment, less life.

So we have a mammogram today. I say "we" because she has an entourage. I'm going and at least one of our friends will come along to keep us company and encourage us, holding our hands through the darkness of not-knowingness, and afterward to celebrate a negative (no-cancer) result or help us cry if it's positive.

I need to get this out of my system today because anyone who hasn't been through the whole cancer thing can't understand that the lump circus can occur at any time. My reckoning is that we go through this four times a year. A lump is found, then Christine's off to have a scan of some sort. Mammograms, PET, MRI, CSI, drinking contrast fluids, fasting for twelve hours, trekking hither and yon and all the while wondering if This Is It Again, while all we really want is five years free of cancer. Then we can call it "cured". Four times a year.

So being moderately brainless at the moment (see stress) I looked on an online thesaurus for "four times a year" because I knew that it wasn't quadrennial. The result of my search was "No results found...did you mean 'doomsayer'?" No, I didn't, thank you very much. Let's just hope that the doom is a long way off.

Update: Both the mammogram and subsequent ultrasound scans showed no evidence of worrisome stuff. But the stress and anxiety take their toll, nonetheless.

A writer's work is never done...

"Eleven hours I spent to write it over" - King Richard III

In today's news: area man loses job, gains opportunity to become professional freelance wordsmith.

Things were clearly not working out with the Davis Food Co-op. Christine has been badgering me for over a year to start working full-time as a writer. I am now in a position to report that I have made a start in this direction.

One of the things I've been up to lately is writing articles on my beer blog, reading the Writer's Market and plucking up the courage to write my first query letter to a publication. Oh, and I'm no Shakespearean scrivener, either; this one has so far taken be over a day to not write.

Articles is one matter, seemingly, the first letter requesting work is quite another. I can happily churn out thousands of words a day when on good form, six hundred when I'm not, but a couple of hundred to an editor? There's the mountain I needs must climb.

Were I gifted with courage and self-confidence, this chore would be a delight, there'd be no need of the spoonful of sugar, for the medicine itself would suffice to please the palate. In short, I can't write a simple letter to say "Hey! I can write stuff, how can I write for you?"

So I've created a web presence advertising my writing skills, but for now I sit in front of my computer electronically penning these words while opportunities are growing cold somewhere. Sooner or later I will get up the courage to churn out those vital paragraphs. Film at 11.

You don't love God, if you don't heal your neighbor.

I suppose that it had to happen sooner or later. The US and British political issues are so different that it was only a matter of time before the bubble of my patience burst and I'd weigh in on matters of politics.

One of the most heated debates lately has been on the issue of healthcare. The US has a pay-for-care system in which one buys, or an employer provides, health insurance. The UK has a system in which the National Health Service guarantees healthcare to all, without cost. Barak Obama is making it his business to move the US toward the UK model, and it's been a thorn in the side of some, for a variety of reasons. Various facts and figures are bandied about, and I've read a blog recently that quotes statistics that 37% of voters support his model, and 57% oppose it. Not surprisingly, 62% of Democrats support it, while 87% of Republicans oppose it.

Further to that, I've been stunned to discover that there are many who profess the Christian religion who are opposed to changes, and that baffles me more than anything else. Pardon me if I appear to oversimplify this, but didn't Jesus say that the greatest commandement was to love God, and after that, to love your neighbour as yourself? Matthew 22:36- 40 has it:

36 Master, which is the great commandment in the law?
37 Jesus said unto him, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.
38 This is the first and great commandment.
39 And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.
40 On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.

"The second [greatest commandment] is...thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself". There's even a song about it - composed by one Carl Story. In part, it reads as follows:

There are many people who will say they're Christians
And they live like Christians on the Sabbath day
But come Monday morning 'till the coming Sunday
They will fight their neighbor all along the way.

Oh you don't love God, if you don't love your neighbor
If you gossip about him, if you never have mercy
If he gets into trouble and you don't try to help him
If you don't love your neighbor and you don't love God.

In the Holy Bible, in the book of Matthew
Read the 18th chapter and the 21st verse
Jesus plainly tells us that we must have mercy
Then a special warning in the 35th verse.

So according to this, what would Jesus do about healthcare? Well, let's take a look at his ministry, according to the Bible. He threw out demons. He cured the blind, made the mute speak, put a spring in the step of the lame. He even cured leprosy, and according to the Bible, he didn't just wave his hands about or tell them to be better, he showed enormous compassion by actually reaching out and touching him. Yes, according to Mark 1:40-45, he "Jesus reached out his hand and touched the man" and he was cured. Not only that, but he did it for free, and in the case of that one leper, he asked that he keep quiet about it, and not tell the whole world.

Now I'm not a Christian, though I have read the Bible many times over, and my understanding of Jesus' ministry was that he sought to do good things for no reward, and that he encouraged his followers to do the same, and in the same way. Compassionately, without prejudice and as a part of a Christian work.

So, here's the thing. I see supposed Christians opposing a publicly-funded healthcare system, a system which to my eyes, demonstrates a compassionate Christian love for neighbour. And it mystifies me.

The only thing I can think is that these people (who, I assume have paid health insurance already) don't see any social obligation to help those less fortunate than themselves to have the same. Where, I ask, is the Christianity in that? Surely, according to their Master's own words, they should take the view that "these people are our neighbours and we should love them as ourselves, if we are claiming to love God".

Maybe you may think that I'm oversimplifying this, but it seems so simple to me. I don't understand. Maybe these folk should prayerfully review these few verses, reflect on the tale of the Good Samaritan and then take stock again.

I would have no problem with paying less to the insurance companies (who think not of their neighbours but of their investors), and paying a little more in taxes. But then, I'm not a right-wing Christian.

Cross-posted at Everything2

Bandanas are folded square, everyone knows that!

I've never been much of a one for folding clothes. Shirts I'd hang in a cupboard on hangers, as that's what they are for. T-shirts get folded, and as long as the sleeves are folded flattish so they don't wrinkle too badly, I'm happy. Jeans, folded along the seams, then into four. Undies, folded into two if at all before being placed carefully in a drawer. Sheets and towels into whatever configuration fits best into the linen closet or airing cupboard. Everything else, tossed into whatever storage is available for it.

It was only recently that my dear wife told me that there were scientific and artistic ways to fold and store stuff. Her mother (who, sadly, I never had the chance to meet) taught her to fold sheets and towels in such a way that their final proportions approached a golden rectangle. This, apparently, is an æsthetically pleasing thing. What it means in real life is that when I'm folding sheets or towels, I have to check with her. Sometimes she nods, and I carry one. Sometimes she smiles gently and asks me to fold in into thirds or somesuch darned thing, at which point I roll my eyes and undo my work to the point where she nods, and try again.

Further to that, there's the dreaded fitted sheet. Now in the past, I'd make several attempts to get these unruly blighters into something resembling a flattish parcel, and leave it at that. Imagine my surprise when I found that there was a scientific approach. Apparently, the secret is getting all the corners together and tucked into one another before folding into the desired rectangle. I could not possibly explain this in words, so courtesy of YouTube, here is a video showing you this particular bit of household magic. Now all I need to do is fit the quart that is our duvet into the pint pot that is the duvet cover.

Apparently all of this is necessary so that when the item is placed in the linen closet (last fold facing out, of course) it looks good. For myself, I don't much care. As long as I can see the perishing things in there, and pick out the item I seek, it's of little concern how they look. But to an artist like Christine, it clearly matters, as it did to her mother before her.

Some people take this to even greater extremes. Apparently there is a whole subset of Martha Stewart skills that, if I cared enough, I would apply to each and every piece of linen and towelling that I own. I have seen guest towels folded into careful packages tied with ribbon. I've seen them carefully wrapped in tissue paper, banded with coloured tapes, bound in silk parcels and much more. Now correct me if I am wrong, but I very much doubt that this is necessary, unless you have the kind of houseguests who, before unpacking their suitcases, demand an examination of the linen.

I can only think that there are people for whom this is sufficiently important that they Need To Know. I imagine them arriving chez wertperch with a little ticklist, checking to see what sort of hosts we will be, getting to the linens and suddenly shrieking with horror before fleeing to the nearest hotel to scrub themselves off under a scalding shower. Thankfully, we know of no such people. Our guests are presented with a neatly folded set of face flannel, hand and bath towel. They are clean, smell of clean, and are as neatly folded as I can be bothered to whilst approaching artistically mathematical perfection. For the rest, let them eat cake.

I write this conversation because I found a random bandana in the closet this morning, and in jest, asked whether it needed to be specially folded into the golden ratio (1.618). Quite seriously, she answered me the the following words: "Bandanas are folded square, everyone knows that!" I stand corrected.


P.S. Christine just saw the video. Guess what she said? "He didn't fold it into thirds".

Farmer's Market Magic and Madness

I first came to California in the winter of 2004, and have only a few jet-lagged memories of my first few days here. There was meeting Christine for the very first time, the bigness of American roads and shopping malls, and then the Davis Farmer's Market. Christine (in the photo, left) helped one of the vendors, Jim Eldon of Fiddler's Green Farm. Of course I went with her on my first big outing in Davis, hence my first Saturday in the US was spent serving customers at the market stand.

I quickly came to realise that this marketplace was magical. Here was a social space, not just a place to buy veggies. People would stop and chat, swap recipes, admire babies, compare notes on the past week and generally support and encourage one another. The magic is in the people, you see.

Since then I have continue to go down to spend a little time with Jim and his customers, some of whom have become my friends and supporters during the long months of Christine's cancer treatment. When I started working at the Davis Food Co-op, I'd still go down on my days off, to schmooze with people, learn about my new country and its ways, and occasionally baffle people with my British English.

My accent came in handy sometimes (though Christine points out that I'm frequently chatted up!) in starting conversations, though occasionally there were moments of confusion. For example, I had to learn that what I'd known in England as a courgette was in fact a zucchini, the French loan word swapped for an Italian. Coriander herb was suddenly cilantro, and even basil was different - not the word this time, rather the pronunciation (we say ba-sil, Americans say bay-sil). Of course, this soon became part of my lexicon, though while I am quite happy to use a different word, I tend to stick to my British English pronunciations. You may say tomay-to, I still say tomah-to.

Then over time, as the seasons changed, I watched the progression of vegetables. Winter squash gave way to melons, the huge variety of summer squashes and a profusion of greens from the plain cabbage to the exotic mizuna. There was far more than just the plain courgette, of course - here were crookneck, Romanesco, Zephyr and their kin. There were peppers of all shapes, sizes and heats; likewise heirloom tomatoes with real old-fashioned flavour and a bewildering palette of colours.

Oh, and the people. They fascinated me. I'd talk and learn about America in general, California in particular. I learned about the history of the West, about farming in different parts of the country, about a dozen family histories, about their holidays and customs. In turn, they'd learn from me. I told people about the three-cent piece, about why the US pint was a different size from the Imperial pint, about British ways and language. It was a wonderful time, and you know, it still is.

Here's a piece of real America, the social marketplace, the gossip fence, the cultural exchange built on what colonised America in the first place - a place to farm and live in peace. Long may it last.


I wrote this after reading a customer's blog. She stopped by on Saturday as I was having a bit of a laugh with Jim. There are good words, and a good picture too, here.

Better you than me?

When Christine was newly diagnosed with cancer four years ago, we talked, as many couples must in such circumstances, about the injustice of it all. One of the things she found so hard to deal with was that, after years of looking after her body so well, it nonetheless rebelled against her. The body she'd honed through being active (she was a firefighter and forest ranger) and fed (lots of good fresh food) let her down. I remember saying that it would be more just had I had the cancer, having abused my body with drinking to much, smoking and not exercising. But we play the hand we're given, and play it as best we can. "If wishes were horses", the saying goes, "then beggars would ride".

So it goes. Christine suffered the indignities and discomfort of chemo and radiation therapy, and I stood by and watched, supporting her and Tess by doing shopping, cooking, laundry and all those little things. But it's hard to be a carer. It exacts an emotional and mental toll that is seemingly unending. Worthwhile? Of course. But a toll nonetheless.


The worst part of it was watching her pain get worse over the long months. Spring meant recovery from surgery, watching violated tissue knit, heal and scar. She mourned the loss of her breast and I could only watch, in my widow's weeds, crying my own silent and hidden tears over her poor lopsided body. We married in May, the weekend her hair really fell out, so our wedding pictures are of my scraggily-bald bride and I together.

Summer was for chemotherapy, and trying to keep her mind and spirit active and healthy while the poisons stripped not just the rebellious cancer, but her hair, skin and energy. When she couldn't face a full meal, I'd cook up rice, potatoes; bland foods for easy digestion. When she could barely stir from the couch, I'd hold her and comfort her with touch and words. She'd cry as she watched Tess and I playing and forging our relationship in the heat of the California summer; crying because she no longer felt alive, shackled in the house, separated from the real world by a veil of pain and fatigue.

Autumn meant radiation, the third dreadful blow. This was the cruelest time for me, watching her go every day for treatment. Each day a new horror on her tired flesh, each day the burns flushing brighter until they wept. And we wept too. She with the pain of happening, I with the pain of watching. She'd cry in her sleep each time she turned, a childlike whimper that belied her daytime stoicism; she'd cry, and my heart cried with her.


Our honeymoon had been the baptism of fire. Of course, we still talked; talked of how things should have been, how we wished it had been otherwise. I of course talked of the injustice I felt, and oft said that, in the words of the song, "it should have been me". But the cards were dealt, and Christine would often say that we had the right cards, that I would have been a far worse patient. I don't suffer well.

Now, years along, that is still true. At this moment I'm in bed with a cold, and I hate it. I hate being weak and in pain, and I'm assured that I'm a poor patient. I moan and make demands, and Christine, despite her own problems, fusses over me in a reversal of roles that she adapts to far better than do I. She of course, reminds me of this whenever I moan about my poor, pathetic lot. I may have been a hero to come and support her years ago, but now, struck by my own viral Kryptonite, I have to admit that she's right.

Sometimes it's like housework...

"It's not all beer and skittles", they say, and it's true. Sometimes, life is harder than we'd like it to be, the cards we are dealt are not the cards we'd like. I was talking to a poker-playing friend once, and I wondered aloud how the heck anyone could want to play a game where the odds are apparently stacked against you. His response was fairly simple. He said that in poker you get to fold, take a little loss, and come back in the next hand. That and you can work out the odds, or you can bluff and still win with a poorer hand.

The hand I currently hold doesn't seem to be entirely a strong one. I have an Ace of hearts in Christine, a Queen of hearts in Tess (who is 10½), but for the most part, I feel that I have dross in the rest of my hand. Not that I'm going to fold, not that I'm going to lose entirely, but playing the hand right is important for me and the rest of the family.

Christine is treatment-weary, the chemo is hard on her both physically and mentally. I'm treatment-weary too, just in a different way. One of the things that I am finding as a carer is that I feel I should always be doing stuff. If it's not making drinks, or meals, or juice, it's laundry or housekeeping or shopping. If I'm not doing one of these things, I tend to feel guilty. I fret if I'm sitting and relaxing. I agonise if I sit down to write.

I was talking with my sister-in-law a few days ago, and she came up with an expression that I'm going to share here. To put it into its proper context, we were talking about why some doctors really seem to enjoy their jobs, and some don't. Part of her reply was this - I think lots don't enjoy it because it isn't what they thought. They thought they would make people better. But it turns out to be messy and complex and the person gets sick again, damn it. It's like housework.

Well, what do you know. That's just like looking after someone with cancer. You do a thing, and do it well, only to have to do it all over again soon afterward. Chemo is like dusting. While it's going on, it seems never to end. There's always more tiredness, always more painful and inconvenient symptoms, always the fatigue. What respite there may be after a few days is too short-lived. The dust will be back on the bookcase all too soon, and out comes the feather duster once more.

This is how it is - if Christine stays in, I stay in unless there's an errand to run. Once she goes out, then I feel free to go out myself.

That's the tiring bit, that doing it all over. So why do we do it? I don't know about doctors, but I do know this. Looking after Christine (and Tess too) is a lot more rewarding than you might think. We know right now that Christine has no evidence of disease (NED, nice acronym from her oncologist), and the last round of three sessions is an insurance policy. Whilst it's expensive (in terms of the short-term suffering), it's worthwhile in the long term. Even if all this means just a few years (and we're hoping to beat all the odds), it will be worth it.

I am starting to realise that the way to tackle this is not to try and do it all at once. Vacuum the living room carpet, have a cup of tea. Tidy those books away, sit and read a few chapters. Make the bed with clean sheets, treat yourself to a wee snooze, not forgetting to set an alarm. For the love and the pride and the honour and the joy, I carry on. I just need to remember to take some time to look after me, too.

Spit or Swallow? Truly a beer to cheer.

So here's a funny thing. I recently wrote an article on the topic of American beer, having sampled many exotic beers in the past few years. Imagine my was utter delight when I stumbled upon (I avoided saying "came across") this delightful label in the Davis Food Co-op.

Now I'm not normally given to judging a book by its binding, any more than I buy a beer based on the label. This time, however, the New York Shmaltz Brewing Company did it for me, with one of their "Freak Beer" brews.

Now did I say "exotic" or "erotic" earlier? Because here's a practically pornographic freak snake blow-job fetishist beer label from Hell, that manages to hide a beer that is almost certainly from Heaven.

Thankfully, the label is not the only thing that stands out. The beer itself is reminiscent of Hoegaarden, a weissbier-styled lager with a sweet and slightly spicy finish. It's malty enough for me, and hoppy enough to stay balanced from the first sniff to the last swallow, and with a 22-ounce bottle, there is, thankfully, plenty of swallow to go around.

I managed to procure the last two in the store, one of which I gave as a birthday gift to a friend (Hi, Tom!), one of which four of us demolished at home. Sadly, that wasn't enough, and I eagerly await the arrival of the next batch at the Co-op, so that I may chase the snake to my heart's content.

Fingernails and whatnot; it's all about the chemo

So we're down to the last round of three chemo treatments, which will start in a little over a week. Meantime, Christine gets a week off (no chemo this Friday!) and I will be taking three weeks of leave to nurse her through those last few dreadful days.

Chemotherapy is hard, let no-one deceive you by saying otherwise. In addition to the reduction in skin growth (tender skin and a painful and less-effective digestive system), there's neuropathy (a reduction in peripheral nerve sensation), hair loss and now, to cap it all, painful fingernails. Yes, her fingernails are not growing properly. Her nail beds are painful, so picking things up, cooking, typing - all these things are now painful. Oh, and did I mention mouth sores? Shame on me.

It's hard to be a carer. Watching the one you love suffering because everything hurts, there's a lot of emotional pain that goes along with that. Coupled with the fact that the medical bills are flowing in at a time when the State of California has enforced two furlough days a month to save money, and everything's under stress.

What could be worse? Well, how about my being suspended from work for three days? Yes, that's what's happened. This was after I had been called into work on my day off for the disciplinary meeting. Truly it was Saint Bastard's Day. So now I have a few days to kick about at home, wondering what happens when the disciplinary action is re-opened, and what happens when (if?) I am able to return to work. Time to worry about paying bills, putting food on the table, time to worry about Christine's future (both health- and job-wise). Time to make a new start? Possibly. Watch this space.

On the upside, the trees are starting to show green, shoots and flowers are appearing all over the oche, and life is rearing its delightful head. Hope? Always.

Scribble. Like Scrabble, only sillier.

One of the great joys of holidays is being able to relax and enjoy the scenery. Now today is Lincoln's birthday, and we're up stayng with friends in the delightful Capay Valley, and right just now I'm enjoying a game of Scrabble, which is in itself a great joy, provided it's not taken too seriously, which as you can see from the picture above, it's not.

Getting to confound my American friends with British English spellings and usages is also part of the fun, but Jim trumped me with "Plutoish"; a planet resembling Pluto. Well done.

The last few rounds

So we had some good news recently. In short, Christine's cancer seems to be on the run, at least for the moment. When she was first diagnosed, we were devastated to learn that we the docs weren't looking to cure it, rather to manage it as a "chronic disease". Since then, the various chemo drugs have taken their toll. She's tired, her body aches, she's nauseous and has little appetite.

The change from the original Taxol drug to the newer Paclitaxel NAD has given us a couple of breaks. Firstly, the Paclitxel does seem to produce less neuropathy, so the feeling in her feet and toes is returning. Secondly, it turns out that the new drug gives a better response rate, which is good for the long-term outlook.

All this means that Christine can carry on her ballet lessons. In fact (and I'm proud of her for this!) she recently did some pointe work for the first time. Given that this was a long-term dream for her, see why I'm so proud of the acheivement, not just that she did it, but did it partway through a long and arduous chemotherapy regime. It may not sound like much, but from the look on her face it was worth every moment and every penny, by gum.


After thanking Doctors Dollbaum and Laptalo, I'd like to reserve a moment of silence for the insurance company. Silence, because I lack the words to describe how I feel about you, Anthem Healthcare. Thank you for picking up the Paclitxel, no thanks for declining the anti-nausea drug. Having a wife whose belly is in turmoil is no picnic, and taking a swipe at her quality of life over a few dollars strikes me as pretty bloody poor. They say that the new regime causes less nausea. Well, they are right, but the statistics show that 3% of patients suffer extreme nausea and vomiting. Guess what? Christine is in that 3%, you unspeakable gits.

Speaking of quality of life, I find myself struggling at this point. Goodness knows how Christine is coping, fraught with worries about the future, and with a body poised on the brink of falling apart from the inside. All I have to do is make a few meals, juice her now and again, and try to keep her spirits up. God knows I try, and God knows I fail all too often.

I'm angry. Angry that the damned cancer came back, angry over the health insurance and pharmaceutical companies squeezing every penny for their shareholders. Angry that we have to fight for better treatment, angry that we fail. Angry at myself for failing to cope, angry that I'm probably not looking after myself as I should, which means that ultimately, I'm not best able to look after my family.

I find myself snapping at them, snarling at the world outside, being grouchy and grumpy. And inevitably, we fight. Every weekend, Christine tells me. I have to take her word for this, as I'm not tracking. Only today really exists. Yesterday is a ghost of time, tomorrow is so uncertain.

Finally, I'm sorry. Sorry I rant. Sorry I shout. Sorry I vent and want to throw things. Sorry I'm not caring as I feel I should.

Oh, look at the muscle!

The muscle car, that is. Larry ain't no muscleman, that's for sure. The car's a Plymouth Belvedere, 1956 vintage, just like me. It represents what I'm coming to think of as "classic America", big and gaudy with '50s chrome. Here's the same smooth, shiny lines of the Happy Days diner and the Harley.

When we were in Port Townsend we visited such a diner, where I had a fabulous clam chowder and creamy milk shake. The chrome-and-formica counter, the curvy jukebox and the old-fashioned Coke fridge were all present and correct. It was almost as romantic, for me, as seeing the old gold towns. Or visiting Billy the Kid's grave.

But I digress. Here's this big ol' car with massive metal chassis and body, big leather bench seats, and the proud driver alongside. He cares not a fig for the terrible mileage (15 miles to the US gallon), he'd get another in a moment.

Me, I am caught between nostalgia and horror, and right now I'm not sure which will win in the end.

Top Ten

Wot? No fag ends? That was Number One in most UK pubs.

Oh, and for the American audience, "fag end" = "cigarette butt".

Tahoe igloo

So here's a test of the G1 phone, updating my blog by email over a wireless network. This was science fiction not many years ago, and I wonder what the next few years will hold.

My sense of childlike wonder trembles.