The Main Course

A beginning of a photo-blog series of humbly homemade dishes…

::Walnut Pesto w/ Fusili Pasta::

Mom is growing basil on the deck and her plant, like many basil plants, is quite full with sweetly spicy leaves. So much so that there have been numerous sprigs bathing in vases of water above our sink as a not-so-subtle reminder that pesto needed to be made. Needed to be made by me. At some point I, unknowingly, inherited all of the cooking duties in the household. Apparently, if you’ve prepared family meals for 24 or so years, you get to retire and pass the spatula.

We were out of pine nuts and they are rather expensive to buy in bulk, so I opted for walnuts in the hopes of achieving a slightly different taste and texture.

I followed this recipe from Kiss My Spatula – one of my new culinary blog obsessions – to get the ratio of cheese to oil to nuts correct. The walnuts make a thicker, crunchier pesto than pine nuts which, in my opinion, create a more creamy pasta topping. I tripled the recipe because of the plethora of basil leaves on hand, but would probably reduce the amount of garlic by half (three cloves is a bit excessive, no?) should I make repeat batches. I prefer a subtle hint of garlic rather than the smack in the taste buds that others prefer.

I spooned the pesto over tender fusili pasta and ate it with a side of heirloom tomatoes doused in balsamic vinegar (my favorite way to eat tomatoes thanks to my dad). A cold Duchesse de Bourgogne sour ale rounded things out – quick, simple, and satisfying on a rainy night. I’m gauging my true success with tonight’s meal by the fact that my brother ate an entire bowl-full with nary a complaint. I’ll be freezing the remainder of the pesto for winter when we’re all longing for the pungent smell of fresh herbs.

Tumbling

It has been a long time since I have been in this space. I forgot how quickly the forward momentum of life can catch us up into a great whirlwind of activity. Often, I find myself thinking “I hope life won’t be like this forever. I need to slow down”. I don’t want to be always attempting to accomplish ten things at once and simultaneously chiding myself for not being able to do more. When I am doing one thing, I am always thinking about how I am not doing another.

There are still pounds of berries and cherries in the freezer waiting to become jam.

A pile of laundry seems to always be accumulating on my bedroom floor.

What should I make for dinner?

I need to get to the garden to harvest.

Should I plant a fall crop of pole beans or just put my green thumb to rest until another summer season?

That quilt still needs batting and backing.

Only a few more rows on the baby sweater.

Order the pathology text book for that class in September.

Don’t forget the doctor appointments and meetings and the research for women’s health initiatives that needs to be presented.

Any time to do some physical activity?

I think it is rhythm I am looking for as opposed to this free-falling feeling.

Once I’ve gotten up this mountain of a “to-do” list, I am hoping that there is a quiet place at the top. A place in an old farmhouse or converted barn with a sunny room for sewing, an open kitchen for bread baking and jam making, land for a big garden and a bit for chickens too, a grassy hill for children to roll down, a good man who will build me a potting shed, and a community that needs a nurse practitioner who will come, even in the middle of the night, when someone needs mending.

Right Now

I wish I had more time for this space, but it seems that adjusting to my new life as a full-time RN has left little room for much else.

Right Now I am:

#exhausted from 3 straight days of shifts at the hospital that included some emergencies, two very unpleasant patients, and some very unexpected kinds words from patients, families, and colleagues.

#having dreams of telemetry heart monitors when I sleep and waking up thinking I hear my beeper going off in my bed.

#learning to meet patients where they are and discovering how to assess their readiness to change.

#crying in my careafter a shift when days are strenuous and I feel overwhelmed by the sheer roller coaster of emotions I ride each day.

#slowly quilting a special project for my youngest cousin who is a source of beauty in my life.

#still not finished the raglan sweater I am supposed to be completing for myself.

#spending time with new and old friends laughing, eating, and drinking my way to happy memories.

#accomplishing a few rows of knitting at a time.

#remembering to nurture myself by working out with my trainer, stretching at physical therapy, following my doctor’s plan of care, and switching to a vegetarian diet.

#excited to try the recipes in Veganomicon!

#frustrated at the fact that I am still taking prednisone.

#bringing green, nature, and spring indoors with terrariums.

#preparing to start my seeds for my summer vegetable garden.

#feeling grateful that I get to do a job I love and excited about the many possibilities this career will bring.

#wishing I had more time to document the wonderful moments in this life with my camera.

And So It Begins…

There are no training wheels in nursing. There is no easing into the deep, deep waters of responsibility when it comes to caring for another human being. I can no longer rely on my standby phrase: “I’m a student, but if you can wait a moment, I will ask your nurse.”

I am the nurse. I am uncomfortable with the authority that comes with that role. Is this how it feels when one becomes a parent? Like, “whoa, who died and put me in charge!?”

I am getting to do all sorts of things that I have only been allowed to observe previously. I have access to people’s most intimate secrets about their health, their mind, their body.

On my very first shift, I witnessed the amazing, intricate choreography that comes together when you think you are losing a patient. And, then, I have witnessed the stunned silence that creeps in among doctors and nurses when that same patient returns from the liminal space between life and death.

On my second shift, I learned just how labile human emotions can be when a patient is under extreme duress. It is not entirely uncommon to go from being someone’s “angel” to their most hated adversary in a matter of hours. It is an exhausting roller coaster ride that you are forced to endure with them. Over and over again.

I felt beaten up by the time Friday rolled around, but I am going to do it all over again come Monday because there will always be those bright, shiny moments when someone says “thank you” or you receive some much needed affirmation from your preceptor or the patient that has been hospitalized for many weeks tells you to have a good day that ultimately remind me that there is beauty in what I am able to do for others in these critical moments.

 

 

 

A Meditation on Rumi

This summer, while vacationing in Maine, I stumbled upon a beautiful and simple necklace from Heather Murray at a craft show in Bar Harbor. The necklace is a clean, curved line of silver with a flat gold orb at one end. Etched all along the piece are these word from Rumi: “Let the beauty of what you love be what you do”. I was instantly drawn to the piece. What a beautiful sentiment! I wanted it to be mine to remind me to pursue the things I love and to always remember what is beautiful about the things that I put my heart into. I’ve been wearing the necklace ever since.

Nursing is one of those professions where you are almost guaranteed to have days where you say to yourself “why am I doing this?” It is physically, mentally, and emotionally demanding in a way that commuting between home and a cubicle is not. There are, of course, other unpleasantries about the job that keep others far from the health care field. As a nurse-mentor of mine remarked the other day “We are, perhaps, the only educated individuals who, voluntarily, deal directly with poop”. Quite an astute observation, I would say. It is particularly important to me as I begin my nursing career that I remember to see the beauty in the job I am doing; to remember how exceptionally privileged I am to be with individuals when they are most joyous, the most vulnerable, the most despairing, when they are coming into this world and when they are leaving it. It is also important to me that I remember that nursing is only one facet of my life and that I need to take time to nurture the other aspects of my self.

When I put on my ID badge last week for the first time, I found myself continually glancing down in amazement. BSN, RN. What a wonderful reality! I think I love nursing to such a passionate degree because it took me so long to find it. Growing up, my mind was firmly shut against any career other than medicine. On days off from school, I trooped around the hospital behind my father  in a lab coat several sizes to large during rounds and imagined the day that I would join the staff and we’d be side by side as not just father and daughter, but as colleagues as well. I never paid attention to the fact that much of the time I spent with hospital staff was with the nurses. They were the ones taking me under their wings, showing me the intricacies of patient care that involved not only compassion, but cutting-edge science and medicine. It wasn’t until I was forced, by the unfortunate circumstance of my father’s illness, to become a caregiver myself that I felt how naturally the role came. Suddenly, and without warning, that dream of becoming a physician shrank away and, like a childhood sweater outgrown, no longer seemed to fit. It was a difficult time; the letting go of one aspiration and the realization of another that I had not yet fully embraced.

Now that I have come to the end of this particularly journey, I can’t remember being more excited about anything else in my life. I am finally a member of an institution where I have wanted to belong since I was in grammar school. I always thought that my father would be part of the realization of this particular dream, and it’s painful to know that I will never receive a surprise visit from him on my floor. Part of me knows that his spirit is firmly embedded in the hospital and that makes the transition easier. I think I will be looking at my ID badge with absolute giddiness for some time. I hope to never get over the awe I feel about becoming a nurse and being truly responsible for helping to effect change in the lives of strangers. Nursing, for myself, is not merely just a “job”, it is a philosophy and a vocation imbued with a certain beauty even on the worst and most frustrating of days.

Teaser

I have completed my first ever quilt!

Unfortunately, my camera was in a mood and needed to have its battery charged so I can only offer an out-of-focus iPhone photo for now.

I also just about finished the top for a second quilt this weekend.

Here is just a peek until I get to snap some better photos and get the second quilt top finished.

9 Patch quilt (hand-sewn binding, crib size)

A World In Miniature

Terrarium workshop @ Terrain

I don’t know what it is about things in miniature that makes me feel all warm inside, but I cannot deny the extreme adorable factor of all things tiny. I love babies and kittens and teeny buttons and all manner of other doodads. The thought of creating a miniature garden ecosystem under glass seemed like a ridiculous amount of fun; the same kind of fun I used to have arranging my PlayMobile dollhouse and its inhabitants as a child.

This weekend, A. and I delved into the newly popular world of terrariums. Terrain at Styer’s has been hosting a record number of their very popular terrarium workshops and we were eager to learn how one can plant, grow, and maintain an entire body of living organisms within a container with minimal effort. The concept of bringing nature inside really appeals to me now that we’re almost mid-winter and I am continually trudging through snow drifts. Creating a terrarium feels like a meditative process as I consider the aesthetic of my design. The fluid motion of the glass vessel; the texture, color, shape, and height of the plants; the rich, loamy smell of the soil…all of these are things I considered as I set about creating a miniature wonderland. It feels wonderful to be under the bright sun streaming through the greenhouse windows on a cold, January day working my hands in dirt and remembering that there are monumental, natural changes occurring beneath all that snow.

Compared to some of the other workshop participants, and A.s spectacular example, my terrarium is rather minimalist with a wide, flat-leafed Strawberry Begonia, cheeky pink Joseph’s coat, a creeping bit of Baby’s Tears, and a strikingly red striped specimen that I cannot name. A layer of deep green moss holds the soil and creates a lush carpet should I ever decide to add a gnome for a hint of whimsy. I added a few smooth pebbles that turn a lovely shade of turquoise when wet and some porcupine quills that I acquired in South Africa for visual interest. I love how the slender, striped shape of the quills are reminiscent of bare trees in winter.

My creation is now happily at home on my desk where it can bask in the diffuse winter light and remind me that spring is, indeed, coming.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The New “F” Word: Fitness

Oh where to begin, where to begin!

Last week, I cried mid-session in front of my personal trainer. I swore to myself that I wouldn’t devolve into any Biggest Loser-esque whiny, tearful moments. My leg, from calf to tippy toes, had gone all pins and needles and my lower back was hurting so much that I was beginning to doubt its ability to keep my hips and legs going. I had a horrific thought that I’d developed a DVT (deep vein thrombosis) and that a pulmonary embolism was imminent. Why else wouldn’t I be able to feel half of my leg? I think I had a panic attack right there in the middle of the strength training equipment until I came back to hearing my trainer say “come on, keep it up, keep moving, a little faster!”

No, I cannot go a little faster! This IS as fast as I can move in this body. Seeing my distress, he finished the workout with me, distracting me with idle chat about god-knows-what now. I checked my foot – good color, good pulses. I loosened my sneaker laces and wiggled my toes. The leg would be saved. I would not die at 26 from a blood clot shooting to my lungs. I might die of that, though, if I don’t stay committed to this new thing in my life called fitness.

Later that night, I realized my insoles were pressing painfully on my arches. I replaced the original insoles and – voila! – no more pins and needles.

I’ve always thought of fitness as something for perky-breasted women with boundless energy who flit from yoga, to pilates, to spinning classes without breaking a sweat. I am not fit. Never have been. I belong in the dough-ball category of people who squish and jiggle.

This week, as I was struggling to heave 20lbs over my head at the shoulder press machine, the thought crossed my mind that I, too, could be one of those fit people. I’ll never be perky-breasted without the help of significant bra reinforcement, but I could be healthy. I could learn to work with my body instead of against it. I could go to spinning class. I could leave the other dough balls behind once and for all!

My trainer seems to see something in me that I am clearly missing. I think he frequently imagines strength, stamina, endurance, and muscles where there clearly are none. The only way I successfully make it through my time with him is to squeeze my eyes shut and make noises reminiscent of a woman in labor. I have had to look at my manifestation poster quite a bit this week. My eyes immediately found this that I had pasted to it: “Try seeing exercise as freedom, as opposed to obligation.”

What a novel idea! Now, when I am mid-workout and wondering why I am bothering at all given the incredibly slow progress I am making, I repeat “freedom” over and over in my head. I think about all of the things I will be free from or free to do with my new fit self:

- freedom from chronic disease

- freedom to wear what I please

- freedom from airplane seat belt extenders

- freedom to ride roller coasters

- freedom to run and jump and hike and bike and climb

You get the idea. Freedom, however, doesn’t come without a fight.

A New Beginning

It is no secret that I have a penchant for all things craft-y. I think it all goes back to my early days as a creator of abstract art when my mom would set us up with the Spin-Art machine in the breakfast room and I’d have at it; squirting blobs of primary colors onto the whirling paper to form rorschach-like patterns.

There have been many crafting phases since then: embroidery floss friendship bracelets and plastic lanyards from camp, beads collected and wire and all sorts of jewelry-making accoutrements, modeling clay, and so on and so forth. Knitting was one craft/hobby that stuck when I learned 8 years ago on a whim. After years of passing our local yarn shop and staring longingly through the windows at the textures and colors, I just had to go in and figure out how I could MAKE something with all that wonderfulness. Knitting opened up an entire world of creative possibility for me. I felt a great sense of accomplishment in mastering the skill and a deep sense of satisfaction every time I completed another project. It was like being inducted into a sacred society and now I am a kindred spirit to all those knitters who have come before me; those who have whipped out woolens to keep families warm throughout the generations.

When my favorite yarn shop in Philadelphia, Loop, opened their sister store Spool, I was skeptical. A fabric shop? What use could I possibly have for sewing let alone fabric? The shop, though, was just so gorgeous with its cheery, brightly lit rooms and neatly arranged bolts of cotton in pleasing patterns that I just HAD to learn to sew. That was two years ago. Since then I have bought my own sewing machine and lurched through a few basic patterns to find that I love it just as much as knitting. If knitting is the craft that lets me zone out and my mind wander or focus on other things as my fingers work away at the needles, then sewing is the craft that forces me to be present in the moment. Sewing forces me to work slowly and methodically because there are more preparation required and LOTS of cutting. When I sew, I have to be content with the fact that I may not finish my project in a day. Especially since machine sewing is not a portable activity like knitting. I also have to be content with the fact that my sewing skills are just emerging and I will inevitably make mistakes. Fortunately, there is always more fabric and more thread to be had when that happens.

The fabric bin - where inspiration resides.

 

I recently signed up for a beginning quilting class at Spool. I have wanted to take this class for two year, but with nursing school and clinical rotations, it was never feasible. When I completed nursing school in December, reserving a place in this class was the first thing I did. I have just completed my first quilt top and, while my rotary cutting skills leave something to be desired, I am very pleased with the result. Soon I will piece the borders, baste, quilt, and attach the binding to have a finished product that is all my own. There seems something very special about making one’s first quilt given the history of quilting in America and the fact that quilts are synonymous with warmth and love and family. I foresee that quilting will become another tradition I embrace and pass on to others through gifts.

Piecing the strips of blocks to form the quilt top.

These blocks are kind of crazy, but I have a deep love of patterns!

Rock Bottom

Yesterday was my first personal training session of the new year. I have committed to twelve long months of twice weekly workouts with a guy who looks like he has the propensity to inflict a great deal of pain. Either that or he seems like a good candidate for an Eagles running back.

Our sessions are only 30 minutes, but that is just enough time to ensure that everything from my diaphragm on downward hurts. It’s also just enough time to get me realizing that I have really done a number on myself; I am really starting at square one. Moving my body is what I imagine it would feel like to try to lift my car with my bare hands. I’m not even convinced that my lungs and heart know how to work in sync to keep me from passing out on the floor of the LA Fitness. After yesterday’s workout, I could feel every fiber of my being vibrating with adrenaline. Every movement I made felt so spastic that it was hard to control the clutch with my left foot on the drive home. My body just didn’t seem to know what to do with all of the chemical reactions going on inside. Suddenly, entire muscle groups that had never been engaged were being pressed into labor and my circulatory system was forced against its will to keep the blood flowing from top to bottom as I hurled myself through new and uncomfortable motions.

I have a quote on my manifestation poster that reads “Try seeing exercise as freedom, as opposed to obligation”. While my trainer was timing my power-walks around the gym facility, I had to keep repeating “freedom” over and over again in my head to keep myself from breaking down and screaming “I can’t do this!” It felt THAT difficult. The mantra helped me to focus on what I would be gaining from this supposed torture – freedom from lower back pain, freedom from potential chronic disease, freedom to participate in activities I’ve only dreamed of doing, etc.

When the trainer asked how I felt at the end of our session, I didn’t sugar-coat my answer: “Terrible. Out of shape. Like crap. Like I hate myself.” He told me that it would get easier. It’s hard to imagine what “easier” is right now when I’m particularly angry at myself for having let things get this out of hand, but I’m hoping tomorrow’s session will just be a bit better.