Pontificum Scriblerus

Strike threeeeeee! http://www.nytimes.com/2008/02/29/us/29heparin.html?ex=1362027600&en=31e01a204a05796b&ei=5088&partner=rssnyt&emc=rss Was there always a problem, or is it just because I've started paying attention to the news??

One day, the newly be-petted household ran out of catfood. In lieu of 9Lives, they served up a can of human grade tuna, which the cat loved. However, clearly, this had been a big mistake, because from here on, he refused to eat any kind of catfood at all whatsoever. So, dad says to mom, "We should make him some salmon or he'll starve!" She voiced her concern, that apart from spending time and effort on the ridiculous activity of cooking salmon for Gogah, perhaps, the catfood contains other nutrients, and vegetables required by healthy felines. Dad responded that she should therefore cook salmon with vegetables and other nutrients. Thusly, I had my explanation of why mom was making salmon, carrots and brown rice (it's good for the bowels!) and feeding it to the cat. When the cat starts eating sushi grade tuna... I want out of this family!!

My parents finally have managed to end up living in an idyllic private world. This urban idyll received the finishing touch when they obtained a cat. Actually, the cat obtained them , if you really examine the situation. One day, I came around, and saw a pathetic looking skinny kitty hanging out on their back porch. They said, it had been coming around, it must be lost - but they felt bad for it, and although they didn't allow it to set foot in the house, they started feeding it. "Make the cat a hotdog!" said dad. (mom makes hot dog) "Cut it into smaller pieces!" (mom cuts it into smaller pieces) "Cool it in the fridge!" (mom cools it) "Take outside for the cat!" (mom places little bowl outside) "Keep watch so that the neighbor's bully grey cat doesn't take it away!" (mom patiently keeps watch from the back porch). Pictures were taken and adds about found kitty were placed all over the neighborhood. Two guys, Benjamin...

Ok, I actually made these on Sunday, and then again on Tuesday. Take the average and you have Monday. Baking is a mystery to me. There so many pans, and so many ingredients... it's uncharted territory. Of course, I used to know a chef, who, upon hearing this, scoffed, and said, "Baking is easy. Very little 'feeling' involved in baking, and definitely no 'art.'" Unfortunate me, can't even handle the easy stuff. What he said... Perhaps for some that's true. But these were baked with much feeling; a feeling possibly close to hubris. While I realize that muffins are quite possibly the easiest thing to mix up and throw in the oven (evidenced by the fact that even I did it successfully), I still felt like I was soaring up to the sun when the warm scent filled my kitchen. It was also a birthday brunch, and I was told NOT to make eggs, in light of the fact that over the last 2 weeks, we ate 2 quiches and 1 Spanish tortilla. I wanted something different, un...

The first thing they told us in medical school was the following: believe it or not, they said, cold weather does not cause colds. Hold on, hold on, HOLD ON. WHAT?! Last night we had a fun dinner and un-fun walk in the cold to a bar for drinks. My hate for control tops left certain body parts vulnerable the wind. The result? The fat in my ass solidified into shortening, and I had icicle toes. And today, voila! Sniffles. Don't tell me cold weather doesn't cause colds! Next thing they're gonna say is that it's ok to swim on a full stomach! Or eat things off the floor! One thing I know is true; if you keep making faces, eventually, it'll freeze that way: Uh oh!! Help me! PHEW! Much better! Happy birthday, shnookums.

While not getting what I want makes me anxious, getting it makes me... And subsequently, I... And if really happy, eventually, I.... Which is what I'm about to do right... now.... Hasta tomorrow.

The magic blue legacy couch that takes turns helping us sleep. A terribly soul-searching, tearduct-tickling show on TV, largely ignored, but setting a certain tone. There are two cushions, and a couple of tired limbs make contact in the middle, in the same place the cushions do, while their possessors relax opposite each other. An index finger, points, counting: here, and here, and here... new bruises, you klutz. What do you do to get these? How do you know they're new? Silent look exchange and invisible smiles. Blue couch is soft, like a very old denim cloud. Tea-kettle pops. If this isn't TRUTH... what is?

Today, I thought to myself, what is this, with the quiche, and the Morroccan lamb, and the empanada? All these things are nothing but Western bourgeoise idle fat layering. Let's not forget from whence we came. We, the thick-legged proletariat. And so, I called my connection to my roots: my mother. I asked her a very important question that amused her to no end, because the answer should be obvious. I said, "Mom... How do you boil potatoes?" Insert laugh track here. But you must understand. When I was little, potatoes were a staple. The women would put a giant aluminum pot of potatoes on the stove, steam up all the windows, create a starchy haze in the kitchen, and invariably, allow the water to boil off and burn the bottom few spuds - so a potato just doesn't taste right to me without a little burnt taste to it... Anyway. You could eat them for dinner, for lunch, for breakfast even, or just cold as a snack. And if boiled properly, they lack that floury quality of a ba...

Ironically, the sentence that came to mind for starting this post was, "I don't have much experience with death." This is false. I can call death (absent pulse, lack of at least 2 reflexes). I can predict death (Life expectancy measured in...). I can announce death (I'm afraid I have some bad news). I saw two dead people just this Sunday. Let's try starting this post again. Characteristically, I always say if you take away sudden painless death, you only have slow painful death left. ... Unfortunately, here, this doesn't apply because death in this case was neither sudden nor painless, rather, fulminant, visible from a distance, and head on, like an unstoppable train. Again. When Grandma died, I surprised myself by earnestly crying. I consoled myself by saying, I'll take those coffee cups she always wanted me to have. I'll take the pictures off her walls too. Everyone said this was a tragedy, but it wasn't. She was an ill 82 and it was a s...

Superbrown took this picture. It's a portrait. It's called... Are you a mirage, oh rum flavored wanderer... As far as artsiness goes, please note the delicate balance of the composition, and the uncanny way the pink drink is accented by the flower in the lower right corner and the blush of the unknown girl's cheek. Additionally, clearly, the focus of the portrait is, in fact, not the drink, but rather the lonely yet vivid brown eye in the upper left corner. Mysterious, like the Mona Lisa. What is she looking for... Where is the other eye... What was the artist's intention... We shall never know.

What if something that's a part of you is something you're exhausted with and don't want anymore? What if that something is a hole? Or a void? Or a big old nothing? How do you get rid of a nothing?

If you try to help someone, and they don't wanna be helped, and furthermore, they think that instead of helping them, you're deliberately trying to hurt and/or kill them, and they cuss you out, so you decide to fuck'em, and not help them, but you're still upset about it, because you're obsessive at what you do, so you try again, and it's the same old story, and no one else cares, and you kinda start to hate that person, so you decide not to care too, and then something bad happens to them.... Is it still your fault?

The pseudo-chef in me has no official training, but learned from the hard knocks school of living on her own since age 19, and Mom's kitchen. Mom is what every home chef should aspire to be, because she barely uses recipes; rather throws together something that sounds good - and it's always good. Once in a while, though, she'll find an actual recipe she likes, and then modify it to fit her own kitchen. Then, I come along, steal that recipe, and pretend like it's my own. So, here you have it: Ersatz Morroccan Lamb (adapted from Cooking for Two , stolen from Mom) about 2 lbs of lamb (the recipe says, stew, but we use shoulder chops which are more tender, just cut them into bite size pieces, and whatever you can't get off the bone, throw in as well, for flavor) 1 onion, finely chopped a little oil 1/2 tsp cinnamon 1/2 tsp ground cloves 1-2 tsp sugar salt and pepper juice of half a lemon 1 Tbsp water a fruit - this time around I got lazy and threw some canned peaches on...

In May 1990, I was about to start American 6th grade. I was told kids wear ripped jeans, so I took scissors to some old jeans of mine, and stocked up on T shirts - donated, of course, as we had no money or idea on how to shop for clothes just yet. Fortunately for me, we had arrived towards the tail end of a massive migration of Russian Jews to the USA, and the area where we landed was replete with other, more experienced, compatriots, available for advice. By exposing the Americans to themselves gradually, these compatriots had eased the culture shock which the Americans were likely to experience when meeting me. That is to say, my new classmates and teachers had seen other Russians; there were about 5 per class. There was even an ESL section, and a Russian TA - so we'd have someone to relate to. Things were going fine as I mostly just stuck to the other Russian girls, who found it hilarious that the bottom of my russian slipper still said 1 рубль 50 коп. Walking down the hall ...

Wtf, China? Fake malarial agents? We've talked about this. http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2008/02/080212085828.htm I'm just surprised anyone around here cares. We don't have malaria. Now, if they were making fake Viagra... That would be a scandal. Bob Dole would not stand for it.

Feeling a little maudlin again today. Same legs. Same hands. Are we related?

Just this morning, the subject of cliches came up in a conversation. Everyone hates cliches. But, like stereotypes, they come from somewhere! Sometimes, the tried and true is the best description. So it goes. Life, my friends, is a journey, not a destination. We are all passengers on the magical train called Life. But nothing in Life is free. To ride it, you have to pay. Nobody is perfect and everyone has problems, which, as it were, happen to be your ticket to ride this magnificent train of Life. There is even a governing body that makes sure no one has a problem-free ride. Controllers pass around and make you present your tickets. Got problems? If you are hitching a free ride, no problems, you're being unfair to all the other passengers, and you get fined. With something really serious. You don't want that. Better to just pay in the beginning with your regular life problems. That's fair.

After a series of depressing medical entries, time for some hearty egg and cream goodness. Perfect for the drab weather we're having today, and promoting emotional health(that's figurative, because we all know what cream REALLY does to your health. Doctor rant ends here). The recipe - well, there was no recipe, really. Just a memory of the quiche I ate at the BCAE, vague idea of what goes into a quiche, some time, and some ingredients I thought might mesh well. So without further ado, I present: No-recipe quiche with stuff that meshes well 3-4 eggs milk or cream or combo, about 1.5-1.75 cups pinch of grated nutmeg pinch of salt ground pepper 2 thinly sliced onions a little butter a little oil a few splashes white wine diced thickly sliced bacon (that's a mouthful. It was Thickly Sliced Bacon, that I subsequently diced. Everything is better with a little bacon) Grated Gruyere, about a cup feel free to show off and make your own crust, but I got the premade pie crust at Sto...

Another year goes by. Like wine, residents ferment and get better with time, and entering the familiar MICU environment, I have opinions and I bitch because I think I have the right. I spend several weeks growing bossiness by way of brutal calls, septic patients, aggressive management, and steep learning curves. One night, I get called right as I'm fluffing my pillow in the "palace" (the senior resident callroom) at midnight. Apparently, a floor team attempted to manage the hypotensive man all day, but now it has become evident that he would need critical care. I wake up my intern. We are encountered with an orange orange man. One of the most orange I had ever seen, and I have seen a LOT of orange men, I tell my intern. His story is, he was diagnosed with a "tumor" over 6 months ago at another hospital. Recommended a workup, and a biopsy, set up with an oncologist. He was discharged and never came back. 3 months ago, again, he was diagnosed at another hospi...

Cut to me about 1 year later. Second year resident on the kidney service, running a service of as many as 24 patients, overseeing the work of 2 interns. Seasoned. If anyone knows anything, it's that renal patients are usually sick as shit, and if it can go wrong, it will. Such was the case with our patient. A 75 year-old, initially admitted with back pain or delirium, something commonplace, was being geared up for discharge to rehab, when one morning we came in and the night floats informed us that he became confused and combative overnight, fell out of bed and fractured his hip. Orthopedics was seeing him that morning. If I could film this as a movie, I'd film it like flashing episodes of short events, choppy and disconnected. We see the patient in morning rounds. He seems confused, but still talking; we worry that he may have hit his head when he fell, so we send him for a head CT. Next thing, 1 hour later, radiology calls, says the CT is negative for any bleed. Then, 1 ...

When I was an intern in the MICU, we had a tragic case of a 40 year old Cambodian woman who died from a pulmonary hemorrhage due to an underlying malignancy (I think, a lymphoma). She died just around 7 am, when the team was arriving, and preparing for that morning's rounds. We found the post call team wild-eyed and exhausted after trying to save her all night. So, the team, including the big attending, the smaller fellow, 4 residents, 2 interns, 1 medical student, 1 pharmacist, 1 pharmacy intern, and a dietician is gathering around to start rounds. Suddenly the door swings open, and down the long MICU hallway, two men literally carry in, feet dragging on the linoleum floor, an older woman, and another man. The dead woman's family, her mother and husband. As they drag down the endless hallway, they wail. Absolute bone chilling cries of grief, pain, loss and despair. They wail in their native language, but it doesn't matter, because all of us understand the internatio...

When I was little, I was nosy. And by nosy I mean, had big nose. But also, was very curious. Got into trouble multiple times. Curiosity killed the cat, they say, even in Russian. People don't change. But social mores become ever-powerful, and getting into trouble becomes more serious. Don't you HATE being left unsatisfied?

It was a happy series of events that led towards this time zero: the Incredibly Impressive Induction of the Impanada. (ok, it's Empanada, but I wanted to keep a theme). The events were such: 1) We went to Taberna de Haro and had empanada there, and I thought, this right here? Should be ridiculously easy to make at home. 2) We went to B&G oysters and both thought, we don't eat enough fish. 3) As a result of #2, we went to Wulf's fish market, and purchased mucho fish, including chunks of fresh tuna and swordfish, supposedly for a homemae paella (that would be all him!), or maybe Marmitako (about that, would be another post), neither of which we got to over the weekend. 4) I bought puff pastry for some reason, and it was starting to atrophy from disuse. Time zero: I decide to make an emapanada. I have no idea how this is done, and I don't feel like researching recipes. My MIL and husband both are full of tips, but neither are around to help me make it. And, of course, ...

My cubicle is the good one. It's located on the window side of the large - and largely devoid of people - office space, such that approximately 12 feet away from me, is a small chicken-wired window that occasionally will let in a limited amount of sunshine. If I crane my neck, I can see Dan-Thanh Jewelers, the "Mc" from the McDonald's on the corner, and New Saigon sandwich shop, which I used to frequent, but now can't really even look at. The Chinese restaurant downstairs fills the whole office space with aromas of duck sauce and stirfrying. I also have a chair. Two months ago, I swapped a crappy purple chair for a good green chair, and now my neck, the one I crane to see Dan-Thanh jewelers, doesn't hurt as much. I do, however, fall victim to unfortunate work ergonomics, and am tortured by the inexorable daily migraine. Today, the window is not letting through much sunshine. If I wore a mood ring, it would be muddy green...like a more concentrated, reduced, sy...

This here internet venue has high potential into turning into a pretentious outlet of my various selves: the pseudo-writer, the pseudo-cook, the pseudo-philosopher, the pseudo-historian... I could not pretend to be any of those things "for real." The only real things I am in here are a) immigrant and b) doctor. But what can you do if sometimes deep thoughts invade the mind? Such was today. As I was sitting in the hospital, with my legs stretched out and my hands folded, spitting at the ceiling in boredom (superbowl - holiday, apparently, even chest pains can wait till after, and no one comes in to the ER) and awaiting various lab results and call-backs, I had several eureka moments. 1) Expanding on a metaphor from a person deeper than I: there are dog people and cat people . Cat people do what they think is best and don't give it a second thought; they walk on their own, as the fable goes. Dog people are constantly seeking others' approval. (Guess which one I am!) Whe...

I. Love. This. Fish. Shop. http://www.goodcooking.com/wulfs.htm So good. It'll make everyone impressed and you don't have to do practically anything, fish speaks for self! My husband gave me a most esteemed comppliment: "Berry Good." The most I get out of him. Means a lot.