Pizza Night

Over the weekend I wanted to cook, and create, but I didn't want it to feel too much like winter--so standing over a pot of chili was not in order. Instead I opened my blinds and my windows and I made pizza. I was out of practice, not having made one in more than a year if I remember correctly, so I wasn't sure if I'd be able to get the dough nice and thin, the way I like it, but it was like riding a bike. And I was able to make two pizzas out of one pound of dough.

. For one I caramelized onions and sauteed mushrooms while the dough rested at room temperature; the other I topped with fresh mozzarella, sliced garlic, and Roma tomatoes. Both came out delicious.

Unfortunately, I've enjoyed all I can over the last couple of days. Fortunately, since I'm not sure there's a palatable way to use leftover pizza in soup, there's still room in my freezer next to the rotisserie chicken.

Doctor's Orders

I [heart] my endocrinologist. Well, technically she is a nurse practioner in my endocrinology practice but to me, for all intents and purposes, Jennifer is my endocrinologist and she is awesome. She even took me a day late for my appointment last week. How that happened I don’t know but I was ever so grateful for her to take me a day late, and to enter the room with a smile and one of those one-arm-around-my-shoulders squeeze/ encouraging hugs. We laughed at my mistake and she said that when I didn’t show up the day before, she knew it wasn’t like me. See, she’s great, right? She knows me. I’m more than a chart.

She applauded my weight loss, albeit meager, and we went over the results of my blood work. She told me that my levels are low again; I told her that actually came as good news—since after losing 12 pounds in the first couple of months after joining the gym, I have been struggling to lose weight without results. From there she asked if there were any other changes or things I wanted to report and—because I am so comfortable with her—I proceeded to tell her that I feel like I am at the age when I’m not sure what simply can be attributed to my age, or what might be related to my thyroid or something else.

“Like?...” she probed.

“Well, I feel good when I go to the gym, but afterward I am always so achy. I have to pop a handful of ibuprofen. My joints ache lately, especially my hips and knees.”

The nice part was it felt like a conversation I might have with a friend, only she’s a medical professional who told me that Vitamin D deficiency could cause those symptoms as well as the winter doldrums, that it could be more than middle age and my thyroid. She had actually called for that test in my blood work too, but those results weren’t in yet. She said she’d call when those results came in.

She called today, and wouldn’t you know, my Vit D levels are looooww.

You mean it’s not me just being pathetic? It’s not just middle age knocking on my door? And that craving for sunshine I have is more than psychological? Like, I’ll have an excuse to sit by the pool as soon as it opens?

For now, I’ll have to make due with Vitamin D supplements…but I feel better already.

The Oscars

One of these days I will host a cocktail party for the Oscars. I'll serve champagne and fancy food and unlike at Super Bowl parties, talking will not be discouraged. I won't scowl when people talk, especially during commercials. The only time silence will be required is when the winners are announced and during the first 15 seconds of each acceptance speech, during which time it becomes abundantly clear if a person is going to be a blithering idiot or show remarkable poise and give a heartfelt speech worth listening to.

That year I will be sure to catch all the nominated best movies in the theatre prior to watching instead of putting them in my Netflix queue the next day, if I hadn’t already put them there after the Golden Globes. Even if it means having to get on ADD medicine to do so. That is, as long as there aren’t 10 films nominated that year.

We won’t be able watch the Barbara Walters special first, of course, since she just did her last Oscar show, but honestly I’d probably be too busy in the kitchen at that point anyway. My goal would be to get a good portion of the food out in time enough to give the red carpet show my undivided attention. The tricky part will be how to text Deanna during the show, without being rude, while I have a house full of people. Of course the party would be extra fabulous if she could be here to be a part of it. It was the Golden Globes after all that solidified our friendship; Deanna and I and awards shows ago way back. But that’s another post.

I may even try to stay up for the entire show that year. I suppose if my guests stay until the bitter end I will not have a choice. If I didn’t have to wake up for school the next day, I wouldn’t care, but I would do it regardless, and suffer the consequences later.

Some people have their life’s work immortalized on film and aspire to win an Oscar. I dream of a day I don't have to wake up for work at 5:30 so that I can have a killer cocktail party on a Sunday night.

And the winner is...

Daylight

I got home from a day of work (and a little play) yesterday after 5, almost 5:30, and it was still light out. Wow, I thought. I remember getting excited fairly recently when I noticed it was 4:30 and it wasn't dark. Whoa, when'd that happen?

I got comfortable and turned on the news, and heard the meteorologist say that not only would this be a good weather weekend, but he also noted that next weekend we spring ahead. That means next Friday it will still be light out at 6:30. Oh my goodness!! Could it be that the winter is almost over? Could it be that soon spring will not limited to my new tablecloth and vase of daffodils? Say it isn't so! I guess I wasn't hallucinating when 4 days this week I went out to my car in the daylight and didn't have to defrost my windshield, when the thermometer in my car said the temperature was above freezing.

Ssshhh, if you listen closely you'll hear not only birds singing, but my mood meter revving as my Vitamin D level increases and winter melts away.

Note to Self

I was jonesing for a steak tonight. Or a burger. My Gemini twins had a little debate.

Steak. Juicy Burger. Should I?
You shouldn't.
I'd love to.
You can't. It's neither in your calorie nor cash budget. It's Tuesday. What gives, Joanne?
Bock bock bock...bockbockbockbock BOCK... BOCK!
Oh yeah, chicken.
Chicken, chicken and chicken. Rotisserie chicken palooza. Seriously, how much chicken can a red meat and pork lover be expected to eat before heading Outback?
Oh, stop. You have yummy tarragon chicken salad...and that nice wheat roll that will perk right up after a minute in the toaster...
Um, why do are you talking like Tamara's mother?
Don't be silly....and you have...arugula! That peppery goodness would probably go really well with the sweet anise taste of the tarragon. Crunchy roll, creamy chicken salad. Why go out?

The good twin won. I made myself the sandwich. The arugula was a nice addition indeed and I enjoyed every bite.  As I did the tortilla soup, which I am proud to say was rated "restaurant worthy" by Amy, and delicious by Sheron. The chicken quesadilla, though not earth shattering, was tasty too. I'll take a day off tomorrow and will have the curried chicken salad on Thursday. I'll share some of that too. And I'll be done with it. I think.

Well, next time, maybe you should freeze a little more so you don't have to eat it all week.
Next time maybe I'll freeze most of it.
Have it your way.
If I had it my way I'd have eaten steak.

Spring Facelift

The other day when I was in the supermarket picking up a few things for my rotisserie chicken palooza and my requisite flowers, it wasn't enough to put a $2.50 bunch of daffodils--my second of the season (they only last a week)--in my basket. Right there I decided I needed something more, something to get me through to spring, real spring, not meteorological spring, which apparently began today. I needed something to brighten my room and my spirits besides a bunch of flowers while I wait to open my windows. And I don’t mean Easter tchotchke. (Do you have any idea how happy I am to have found the Miriam Webster spelling for that word?) I needed to bring spring inside.

Now don’t go crazy thinking I went to the hardware store and picked up some paint. If you don’t know me personally, I was the daughter who told my parents, when they built a new, beautiful house after my last college tuition bill was paid, “I don’t have appropriate clothes for painting.” I needed to give my dining room table a facelift: a new, vibrant tablecloth and maybe a new bowl for my 5 pounds of D’anjou pears.

So I left the supermarket, and drove to Marshalls. I hit pay dirt when I found this Italian ceramic bowl (that you can't really see well while it's full of said pears) on clearance for $5.00! Then, even more, with the bowl in my back seat as I drove to Bed, Bath, and Beyond, I imagined a buttercup yellow tablecloth. And, wouldn’t you know, it was there! And because I always travel armed with coupons, this microfiber cloth was $15.00 instead of $20.00. Honestly, it’s a little more than I typically like to spend; I usually shop house wares on clearance, but for a grand total of $20 I brightened the room and changed my mood in the process.

With absolutely no manual labor involved.

In Defense of Gel Nails

I bit my nails until after college and then finally I grew them. For years I maintained them myself, alternating between a bright pink (Revlon Pinkish) in summer months, and a color somewhere between red and maroon (Wine with Everything, also Revlon) in the colder months when I didn’t have a tan to pull off the pink. Eventually I changed over to French manicures (Sally Hansen) and have never looked back. Doing my own French manicures, even adding another step to the painting process, was therapeutic. I would paint the tips white without using the guides that came in the box, and would think Damn, I may not have become a doctor, but I have a surgeon’s steady hand. And I have nice nail beds.

When I started teaching, the blackboards and chalk (now obsolete) and air quality in general did a number on my nails (and my respiratory system--but that's another post). They became dry and brittle, and the nail polish would crack like a windshield that followed too close behind a sand truck. So I did what any woman who has grown fond of her nails would do and got gel overlays.

If you’re thinking thick, Jersey Shore acrylics, I ask you to go wash your eyes before continuing to read. Mine don’t look like that at all. My nail technician, Jenny, gets them nice and thin, and I get compliments on them all the time. If they all weren’t the same exact length and they weren’t impeccably perfect (yeah, I know that’s redundant), you might think they are my own. Anyway, like them or not, think they are natural or not, they are mine, and I love them and I won’t get rid of them, especially since they saved my life.

There I was chopping away, doing my rotisserie chicken six ways, when, whoa. My knife slipped while I was slicing, what?...well I don’t even remember that detail, and—had my gel nail not been there—there would have gone my thumb. Seriously. I know I should be more careful, but let's be honest: you have a better chance of seeing Jesus than seeing me stop sipping wine while I cook. So any remote, tiny inklings I may ever have had to get rid of the gels have vanished for good.

Who knew nails could look nice and protect against dismemberment by Santoku?