Crooked Cookbooks!

There’s something that gives me a little weird tingle – right here in my kitchen. It’s the sight of one of my Pampered Chef cookbooks – complete with Doris Christopher’s happy shiny visage – placed in the row of books – upside down. It’s a simple thing, and I could fix it in an instant. But it gives me the strange perverse combination of chilling and comical.


We all know the connotation of an upside down cross, or an upside flag. Thoughts of loss, chaos, evil or distress come to mind. But a cookbook? Well unless it’s some sort of item like How to Serve Man, or The Anarchists Cookbook, then cookbooks are fairly innocuous, right? So it really just makes me laugh, but it kind of creeps me out too.

Weird, I know.

So, as I ponder this week – it happens to be crazy full of stuff – the age old challenge “what can I make for dinner?” weighs on me. Then I remember my upside down Doris – and realize that the cookbook in question is Busy Moms Cookbook.

I’m thinking I better right her up immediately and start cooking!

More Post from Hell

Not sure how much better I’m feeling, but I might as well continue my adventures.

By Sunday, frustrated with the no-sleep situation, and feeling still lousy, we decided I should go get seen. On Sundays though, the only places to go are hospital ERs. I’ll tell you, when you are feeling pretty crappy, strange (and decidedly un-Christian) thoughts go through your head.

Hmm, that guy has ice on his foot. I think I can see the swelling from here. But he’s laughing with his dad, I’m sure I can go ahead of him.

Oh, great – someone pregnant. Damn. They’ll probably take her before me. She does look like she’s ready to pop any time now – but she’s not grimacing, nor clutching her swollen mid-section. Hey, come to think of it, I see no overnight bag. Yay!

I did not just see a bleeding man come up to the desk. Just my bloody luck (no pun intended). ‘If it bleeds, it leads’. No – wait, that’s journalism.

Finally, they call my name. This is the real call, not the “see the nurse in triage” call. Not the, “meet me at Window 1 to discuss your insurance” call. This was it. We’re going to the show.

My husband (with his precious ‘let the spouse come too’ label slapped on his chest) and I gather up our things and follow the nurse. Unfortunately we have to share our moment of glory with another patient and their entourage. But with an examining room in sight, I could afford to be a little more gracious.

After another good long stretch of waiting, a young man of sweet smile and Hispanic accent enters the room and announces that he’s (forget the name), the nurse practitioner. He asks me the same questions as the triage nurse, with the exception of asking me if I had a fever when I came in.

“Well, she took my temperature, but never mentioned the result”

“Did she give you any Tylenol?”
“No.”

“Then you probably didn’t have a fever”

He then proceeded to mash my face with his fingers in an attempt to get to know my sinus cavities better. Then it was off for a chest x-ray.

This wasn’t too bad, but there was a moment of clumsy discomfort trying to wrangle undergarments with the stupid johnny tied behind my back. Also there was no concern for a woman’s privacy in these matters as a couple of x-ray techs stayed in the room during the wrangling. I gave up.

Then back to another long siege in a different waiting area. The only excitement was when my NP informed me that indeed, I had registered a fever when I first came in, (well over an hour ago) and they’d give me some Tylenol. So, another 15 minutes go by and here come the precious pills. Three of them! I popped them down, and waiting some more.

Finally the NP comes over and says that I have both bronchitis and a sinus infection. Probably not pneumonia. They give me scrips for some antibiotics, and other fun stuff to break up the congestions, and off we go.

The best part of the day (except for the bizarre thrill of getting picked before the bleeding man) was the nice shrimp Pad Thai that my husband got for us later on. Very yum.

Eat, Pray, Love - Repeat.

I’ve been reading Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love and I am not only fascinated with her story, I’m compelled to be a better writer. Rather, I wish I could write better, now, instantly. That compelling feeling is more of a knee-jerk reaction, nearly a jealousy, but not quite.

Her words are lyrical, yet earthy. She makes you want to befriend her instantly. She makes you want to travel to those wonderful countries – seeking out gurus and chefs and old men and young children who cannot speak English, but what does it matter?

Gilbert also makes me not want to have a divorce, nor a sad messy love affair. Her anguish over those lost loves is conveyed with a visceral despondence.

Oh, and she makes us hunger, mostly for that glorious pasta and pizza, but steadily a desire takes hold for enlightenment, self-actualization and contentment.

And I'm not even finished yet.

Bravo Liz - Bravo.