The Staff of Life

No, Tinker Belle, it’s not what you’re thinking, so quit snickering like a little girl.  I’m referring to bread.  I find bread an interesting phenomenon.  It is a universal staple, although varying greatly in design from culture to culture.  I know people who adore bread.  They would prefer it to any other food.  It seems to have a narcotic quality for some, generating a near orgasmic response.  Of course, as with most subtle nuance, I don’t get it.

My mother was the product of a large (fifteen siblings) farming family.  Whenever her brothers visited my childhood home, she served bread with the evening meal.  This was a change of custom compared to our nuclear family’s epicurean practice.  After some puzzling over this alteration, I stumbled (mentally, I didn’t really fall down) onto the driver.  It originated with my mother’s childhood home experience.  Her brothers (and I suppose sisters, as well) were the core of the agricultural work force.  They were all strapping lads (and lasses) who I am certain required a rather large calorie intake to fuel the physical exertions demanded by their chores.  Bread, being relatively inexpensive compared to meat and garden vegetables, and a fuel food (carbohydrate), they were encouraged to make it a key element of their diet.

When I was a young child, my mother baked all the bread consumed in our household, even though there were just the three of us.  It must have been a holdover from her days on the farm.  That practice ended when I was about five or six years of age; the result of an unfortunate car-door vs. finger incident that left my mother unable to knead the bread dough.  I remember being pressed into service; sent off to the local neighborhood store on my bicycle, a quarter and dime in my pocket, charged with the assignment of purchasing a pre-sliced loaf of Wonder Bread (or Weber’s, depending on the stock available).  Even after the finger was healed, our home bread baking practice was not reinstated… modern convenience had broken the chain of tradition.

Sharing this story with friends, while waxing nostalgic, always seems to evoke a response of pity.  “Oh how sad, you had to eat store bought.  Didn’t you miss that wonderful smell of fresh baked bread?”  Well actually no, I didn’t.  When you get fresh baked bread every day, the smell is just part of the environment.  And you don’t notice a smell that isn’t there.  Your brain reacts to present stimulus, not to its absence.  Think about it.  Have you ever suddenly wondered, “Where are all the skunks today?” And as far as I could tell, with my as yet unsophisticated palate, bread was bread.

Now don’t take this to mean I don’t appreciate bread.  As an ancillary food, it has many, many uses of great value to modern society.

·         Dinner rolls are very handy for eating butter without getting your fingers greasy.

·         Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches would be impossible to eat without sliced bread. (see www.daleholbrookoutwest.blogspot.com – “A Sticky Test” 4/18/13)

·         Your deli sandwich would be little better than a chef’s salad without bread.

·         Rye bread has caraway seeds to get stuck in your teeth; hours of fun for your tongue. (see www.dalesoutwesttravels.blogspot.com – “Anza Borrego – 2014” 2/21/14)

·         Without the hot dog bun, you would get mustard all over your shirt.

·         Hamburger buns prevent burnt fingers.

·         Tacos would have no crunch without the shell; you’re gonna spill either way so that’s not a factor.

·         Although carne asada is the principal attraction, a burrito is not a burrito without the flour tortilla; if fact, it’s just a bowl of meat.

·         Thanksgiving wouldn’t be such a big deal without the stuffing: Thank you Mrs. Cubbisson.

·         For that matter, Thanksgiving wouldn’t be the same without the after-dinner turkey-on-roll sandwich; loosen that belt another notch, Frank.

·         How many people would be unable to hold a job without their morning ration of cream cheese?  Pass the bagel please.

·         You would leave sausage gravy on your plate without the biscuit to sop it up.

·         What would we do with all that cinnamon and icing without the roll?

So there you have it; from pita to croissant, bagel to biscuit, bread has a valuable roll (no pun intended) in a food delivery system (that’s getting the groceries from you plate to your mouth), but it is not a meal in itself.

In our next food posting (as yet unscheduled) we will discuss the value of creamed vegetables. 

The Stitches Come Out Thursday

An evocative pronouncement.  The mind reels from the myriad ominous scenarios that could generate such a statement, “How did you come to need sutures”?

“Are you okay?”

“Did you hurt yourself?”

“Is your career as a swimwear model in jeopardy?”

All will be answered in time.  As you read this the event is complete and all anxiety may be laid aside.  The fact that this blog has been published should be proof that your humble correspondent survived the surgical ordeal.  But this missive was penned yesterday and uncertainty lingered in the air.  Anxiety ran so thick one could slice it with a feather.

It all started with my annual physical performed by Dr. Melinda (we’re using first names here to protect the author from possible litigation), my GP.  Now some of you men may be silently wondering, “A woman doctor?”  I assure you I have no qualms about being ministered to by a physician of the fair sex.  No, no, it’s not that I am a progressive thinker that has evolved to a state where the vestiges of gender identity hold no importance in assessment of a person’s professional qualifications.  Quite the opposite.  In fact, my choice of personal physician was very much based on her physical attributes; most notably her slender, feminine fingers.  You men over forty out there know of which I speak.  If you don’t, you are not seeing your doctor often enough.  But I digress.

In the normal course of my examination I called Dr. Melinda’s attention to a mole on my left lower leg, just above the ankle, of which I was suspicious.  In this case, the object of my concerned had darkened in color over the past several months until it could be considered black.  She agreed that it should be removed and biopsied for caution’s sake.  I love novocaine, as it has several times in my life allowed me to affect a posture of heroic stoicism.

About two weeks later, I received the expected phone message from Dr. Melinda’s nurse advising me of the biopsy results.  To my surprise, rather than an all clear, I was informed that the results of the biopsy had been forwarded to a dermatologist, Dr. Agata (yes, still first names and for clarification, also a woman) for further assessment and treatment.  I contacted Dr. Agata’s office to schedule an appointment.

On the appointed day and time I met with Dr. Agata for a consultation.  The doctor could be best described as a German beer hall waitress in physical manifestation, but not the St. Pauli’s girl you’re thinking about.  No, I am referencing the traditional rotund frau with weight lifter arms that can grapple a half-dozen beer steins in each hand.  Not to leave any doubt, a woman whose boobs could suffocate a man under the appropriate circumstances.

“Ach! Mr. Holbrook, let me zee your file.  Ahuh.  Ahuh.  It zeems zhat der results of your biopsy show zhat your mole vaz not cancerous but did indicate zee presence of abnor-r-r-rmal zells.  I vant to per-r-r-r-form a punch biopsy to ensure vee have gotten all zee suspicious tissue.”

This seemed reasonable to me so I agreed, “Let’s!”

“Ahuh.  Ya, zhat is vhat vee vill do.  But I do not have time to perfor-r-r-r-m zee excision today.  Please r-r-r-emove your zhirt and trousers zo I may check your-r-r-r zkin for additional suspicious moles.” She examined my skin making the occasional humph sound.  When finished she continued the dialogue, “Ya, very nice.  Goot!”

“Well, I work out a little.’

“Was? Huh?  Oh, I zee, zhat was a joke.  Very humour-r-r-ous.  Vell, never mind.  I don’t like zhis shpot on your arm, here.  I want to do a punch biopsy on zhis as well.  Okay, goot zhen.  Put your-r-r-r clothes on und make an appointment mit zee r-r-r-receptionist for zee excisions.  Gutten tag!”

And so, I made the appointment for a week later.  The excisions were performed without complication and a few stitches applied at each wound.  An appointment was scheduled for their removal two weeks later and I waited for the biopsy results.  After about one week I received another message from the nurse.  The biopsy of the mole on my arm showed that the punch excision had not removed enough tissue to leave a margin of healthy skin.  The doctor would have to excise a larger area, this time with a scalpel.  The appropriate scheduling was completed and I awaited the day.

At the appointed day and time, I reported to Dr. Agata’s office for the procedure.  On this visit she was a bit more jovial.  Her manner was lighter, less serious than our previous meeting.  Perhaps she was excited by the prospect of wielding a scalpel.

“Ya, ya… Mr. Holbrook.  Zehr goot to zee you again.”  She reviewed my chart.  “Ya.  Vee are going to r-r-r-remove zum additional tissue from your arm.  Okay, Goot!  First, the nurse vill remove zee stitches from zee punch excisions und zhen vee vill pr-r-r-roceed, ya?”

This time they made me lie on a surgical table and wouldn’t let me watch the procedure.  There was copious use of novocaine.  While I can’t really say it was painful, there was a lot of tugging and sawing and muttering in what I will guess was German.  Maybe I have tough skin.  The procedure took about fifteen minutes and resulted in quite a pile of bloodied pads.  There are a number of self-dissolving stitches subcutaneous and six binding the surface wound.  It’s going to leave a bitchin scar.  “Well, doctor, is it okay to go to the gym with these stitches in place?”

“Huh? Vas?’ she looked at me quizzically for a blink or two, “Oh, I zee.  Another joke.  Ach! Mr. Holbrook, you leave me in stitches.  No… ha, ha, I leave you in stitches.  Oh, zhat is funny.  Ha! Ha!  Ya, stitches!  No, zhere will be no weight lifting while the stitches are in place.  I don’t vant you popping zhem out.

A week after the excision, I received a call that the biopsy indicated the doctor had successfully remove all of the abnormal cells and had achieved an acceptable margin of healthy tissue at the edge of the wound.  To be proactive, Dr. Agata will perform body examination every six months. I’m working on my shtick now to be sure I’m ready for the next battle for comedy supremacy.

Thinking back on those beer hall hands, I’m glad she’s my dermatologist and not my GP.  The stitches come out Thursday.

One Year (and Counting)

This week marks the first anniversary of my launch of a blog site.  For fifty-two weeks you have been bombarded with what passes as intellectual flotsam and jetsam emanating from the dark recesses of my diseased brain.   I don’t know if the malady responsible for this cerebral effluent is contagious, but as I’ve received relatively few actual responses over this time, I suspect not.  Those that have written (scant, meager, almost embarrassingly terse) responses I suspect were already infected with their own version of the writer’s malady.

Of the lessons learned, the most troubling is just how easy it is to post meaningless dribble on line.  Thanks to Google, and I mean that sincerely, a techno-slacker like myself, armed with nothing more than an over inflated sense of self, spell-check and an internet connection can publish nonsense available to the world… for free!

Some interesting facts (well, I think so at least):

·    Through February 1^st (last Saturday) my Dale Holbrook Out West blog site had received 2,944 hits. As of today, it is still 2,944 hits. C’mon people!

·     I do not have stats on how many countries total are represented but I do know that Germany (100), Russia (99), Poland (46), and New Zealand (45) round out the top off-shore readers.  Interesting thing is, I have only one German (Hi, Nicky) and one Mexican reader on my distribution list.  I have had hits from every continent save Antarctica, and I’m studying Penguin just in case.

·      By far, … and Taxes (4/11/13) received the most hits with 81. Of course, the blog had nothing to do with taxes and the timing (four days before April 15, tax day in the U.S. for you foreigners) was a total coincidence.  I wonder how many of those hits were people searching for last minute tax saving advice.  Oh, well, that’ll teach ‘em to wait ‘til the last minute.

·       Dopplewhat? (4/25/13) generated the most posted responses at six.  I really do wish I would get more reaction but, c’est la vie.

Some of the missives were personal histories that were mostly true.  Underscore mostly.  Early on, one of my readers, who doesn’t communicate any longer (!!!) asked me how I could recall events from so long ago with such clarity of detail.  The other writers out there are already chuckling over the response.   I make shit up!  (Pardon moi Francais.)  While the broader detail may have a foundation in real events, much of the detail that makes you smile (not all, but much) is pure comedic enhancement.

I imagine that some readers have been put off by my offerings with a scientific bent.  And that is too bad.  Because, I was really trying to convey a message:  Science knowledge is dynamic!  I tried to shine a little light onto what I believe are the gaping holes in current academic theories about space, time, evolution, etc.  If you watch documentaries, or read science related publications, you would think we know all there is to know by the manner in which experts in this field or that state opinion with such certainty.  That is, until you read a conflicting opinion.  Then, instead of trying to resolve the conflicts, the principals attack each others’ work, or worse, the person themselves.  Scientist can be very catty!

I will continue to opine on the state of humanity and its shortcomings. “Monsters are such interesting people.”  At least when I’m not absorbed in Merry Melodies cartoons.  If my insights offend, “Well, I hope you realize this means war!”

Well, that’s about all I have for you.  The self-indulgent nature of this piece, combined with the brevity, should have led you to the conclusion (rightly so) that I couldn’t dredge up anything substantive this week.  For some reason, I can’t imagine why, my thoughts have turned to music as of late.  So long!

Oh, and don’t forget to e-mail me with your request for “updoc”.  Supplies are limited!