Relics from another lifetime

APRIL is the cruelest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing 

Memory and desire, stirring 

Dull roots with spring rain. 

Winter kept us warm, covering 

Earth in forgetful snow, feeding 

A little life with dried tubers. 

--The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot 

Spring is a reminder of renewal and rebirth that typically sends people into a frenzy of housecleaning or scurrying to find the perfect seeds for their garden.

I do these things, too, but for me, spring is primarily a time of remembrance and reflection. It is a time when memories from the past seep into my present, and two wholly separate worlds collide into a tangled mess of celebration for all that I have and mourning for the time I lost.

I gain a propensity for seeing faces in crowds that should be 1000 miles away, and otherwise innocuous scents can melt the existence of a decade.

Mostly, though, I think about the boy who radically changed the way I think about love and life.

Gage’s doe eyes could turn steely in an instant as they clouded with hurt and confusion, which culminated in a ferocious rage expressed in a way only an emotionally altricial 7 year old could fathom.

He would wave at me from his room as I sat in my hallway exile. Occasionally, when drama was occurring elsewhere, he’d sneak out to talk to me.

He asked earnestly, “Will you be my girlfriend?”
I was 16.

“I think I’m a little old for you, buddy, but I’d really like it if you’d be my friend.”
His chubby little cheeks darkened and twisted into a scowl. He bit his lip and turned his face.

“People don’t like me because I get angry” he said quietly.

I wanted to tell him that we were trying in vain to control things we did not understand while bearing the repercussions of a carrying a burden most people never confront. I wanted to tell him that we were sent unprepared into a battle not of our making with weapons better suited for self-immolation than salvation, but we were doing the best we could, which is all anyone could ever ask.

Instead, I wiped the wet track from my cheek and said, “Everything is going to be ok, you know?” My voice sounded hollow.

He looked appropriately unconvinced and followed my steadfast gaze.
Pointing, he said, “I’ll drink that for you if it’d make you happy.”

I smiled wanly. “You should head back before you get caught.”

I wanted to hug him tight and fight to the death to protect him from everything and everyone. 

We were separated soon after, and I never spoke to him again.

My thoughts drift and rest on him every day.

Maybe I should be a real vet after all…

Man, there are some days in the clinic that reignite my initial desire to be a vet. A sweet golden retriever bonded to my leg after a little face scratching, and the apparent comfort she derived from my presence roused my protective nature. I followed her around the various services in the hospital through my lunch break until I had to leave for afternoon classes. As I walked away, she tried to pull the leash through the senior student’s hand to come with me.

Today reminded me that we are, above all, advocates for our patients. While the human side of things has completely scared me off from private practice, it makes me feel like less of a monster to know that my desire to relieve animal suffering hasn’t lessened in the slightest.

What I’m cooking:

Roasted Asparagus and Potato Soup 

This was a weeknight, “we need dinner fast” creation that turned out quite well!

½ onion, diced
Several cloves of minced garlic. I used 4, I think.
2 TBSP olive oil
1 lb asparagus, chopped into 1-2 inch pieces
2-3 small potatoes, chopped—I used Yukon Gold and didn’t peel them
1 bay leaf
1 tsp dill
Vegetable or chicken stock—I used homemade
Salt
Freshly ground pepper
2 TBSP milk
Gruyere for garnish

Pour a bit of olive oil over asparagus on a cookie sheet. Roast at 425 for about 15 minutes, until they get some color.

Meanwhile, sauté onions and garlic in a soup pot with a bit of oil or butter over medium-low heat. Toss in the chopped potatoes and the bay leaf once the onions are translucent. Pour in enough stock to barely cover the potatoes.

Bring to a simmer, adding asparagus once it’s finished roasting.

Simmer until everything is very tender, about 30 minutes. Add dill and remove bay leaf.

Use an immersion blender or transfer in batches to a blender until very smooth. Season with salt and pepper. Stir in milk as desired.

Serve with a little more dill and some shaves of Gruyere.  I was planning on using Parmesan, but I changed my mind when I saw we had a chunk of this in the fridge.  Really, really tasty! 

Beware the sexy running men

I’m kind of anti-social when I’m running. I’ll do the acknowledging head nod or a brusque, “g’morning,” if I’ve accidentally initiated awkward eye contact, but otherwise, I’d prefer to use the silence to organize the spastic thoughts floating within the vast empty space of my head.

That’s not to say certain people don’t catch my eye and momentarily divert my thoughts. Like the heavy-set guy wearing bilateral knee support who was crying as he shuffled along the trail with what looked suspiciously like vomit smeared on his shirt.  I saw him intermittently over the next year and eagerly craned my neck to gauge his progress as he passed. By my estimate, he lost about 100 lbs and increased his speed by about 3 minutes per mile. The guy is pretty much my hero, and I don’t even know his name.

Then there are the sexy running men whose confident strides and rippling six-packs blur the reality of their chronological age. I’ve been fooled more times by a half naked man than I’d care to admit.

I’m thinking, “Hola, Mr. Eye Candy,”... until I realize he’s at least 10 years older than my father. Or I realize as he’s a stride away that he’s not even old enough to shave. How does a 16 year old even have that much muscle mass? Gah! I can’t decide which scenario makes me feel creepier!

So I’ve given up ogling shirtless men. From now on, I’ll just grunt and turn away to blow my nose on my sleeve. No offense, sexy men. I just don’t want to risk having to retract my gawk mid stride.

I’ll stick with my usual view—the rear end of my dog and my own sexy man.

What I'm baking:

As promised, here’s my favorite chocolate chip cookie recipe. I’ve tried many over the years, and this one’s still tops. If you’re a die-hard Tollhouse fans, try this one at least once. I wager you’ll kick yourself for using a sub-par recipe all these years.

You’ll notice that the dry goods are listed by weight, not volume. You can convert them, but I’d highly recommend the scale. The bread flour has a higher protein content, which gives a nice chewy texture and keeps the cookies from spreading out to a thin, crispy wafer. I don't make any altitude alterations for this recipe.

Recipe here: http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/alton-brown/the-chewy-recipe/index.html

These cookies have repaid many favors and even opened career opportunities, simply because the recipient will actually remember my name the next time I show up unexpectedly in their office.  I'll have to budget for weekly bags of chocolate chips during my senior rotations!