Food for thought

For the last few years, before ALS, I found great pleasure in the kitchen. Cooking pleasure. I started inviting family over for Wednesday night "Boettcher Feast". I concocted a different recipe each week, experimenting with variations of recipes I found, tweaking them and trying them out, using the local relatives as guinea pigs. I never killed anyone and if they got sick, they had the courtesy to stifle any bodily rejections until they exited the premises. I have printed up nearly a hundred of these concoctions. Since I have developed disabilities restricting my actions in the kitchen, I have been required to skip some Wednesdays as of late. Pre- ALS, I usually held the kitchen captive and demanded I did everything myself. Now I need help, and if I have to share in the preparation, I can't be so demanding.

I want to share. I already share my ALS experiences. I'm beginning to share my history. Now I want to share my recipes.Today I would like to post a recipe that gets my "top five" rating. I cannot claim it to be an original because I found it on line and I can't remember if or how I adjusted ingredients. Whether I did and how are irrelevant. This recipe cannot, in my opinion, be improved upon. 

Crazy Cajun Shrimp Etouffee Cream over Garlic Noodles

Feeds 8-

Ingredients:

3-1/2 tablespoons butter
3-1/2 tablespoons flour
1 chopped red onion
1 chopped green bell pepper
1 chopped red bell pepper
2 stalks chopped celery
6 cloves fresh garlic- minced
1/2 cup fresh basil- chopped
1/2 cup fresh parsley- chopped
1/4 cup tomato paste
1 10oz. can clam juice
1 tablespoon Cajun seasoning
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1-1/2 lb 26-30 count raw shrimp (e-z peel deveined)
1 cup heavy cream
1  tablespoon Perod
1/2 teaspoon sea salt  

Noodles-

1 lb Fettuccine noodles
3 tablespoons butter
5 cloves fresh garlic- minced
1/2 tablespoon brown sugar
2 tablespoons fish sauce
1/2 cup Parmesan cheese
green onion garnish

How to:

Make etouffee by melting butter in big (big!) skillet, stir in flour,  add onion, peppers, celery, high heat it while turning, lower heat to medium, stir in garlic, basil, parsley, tomato paste, clam juice, Cajun seasoning, cayenne pepper, ground pepper sea salt. Get it simmering, add Pernod, drop in shrimp. Cook for 5 minutes. Stir in heavy cream, thicken. Lower heat and cover.


Boil water, cook noodles. During this time, melt butter in second skillet (regular size is OK), add garlic for 2 minutes on med/high. Stir in brown sugar, fish sauce, stir for 2 minutes. 
Drain, shock noodles, toss in bowl, dump garlic mix from skillet on to noodles, burn heck out of your hands by mixing noodles and sauce, dump Parmesan on noodles, toss together to coat noodles. 


Noodle up individual plates, serve big skillet cream over noodles. Drop a green onion on each plate. Eat.

An end note- shrimp can be replaced with chicken- pre cook chicken. Chicken won't taste as good unless you hate shrimp. Pernod can be replaced with any licorice liqueur. Leave out or alter ingredients at your own risk.

I forgot about the chicken

In my haste to hop a train in Minnesota, I forgot to tell my chicken story. I cannot spend time writing about every little episode from my past, so I exhume only those experiences destined to have an impact later on in life. Amy pointed out that my second grade chicken incident qualifies. 

I am guessing this thing happened in the summer between second and third grade.

Background: We lived on 5 acres in Wonder Lake, a hay field with one old oak tree by the gravel road. A farmer cut and baled hay each year. (Not related to chickens, but)........................one summer, after the farmer had baled the hay, me and my friends dragged all the bales together to build a fort- that's nearly 5 acres of bales- only to discover the farmer loading all the bales on his flatbed the next morning. I think he actually waved to me. If I'd known what an expletive was back then I would have used one.

Did I say background? Oh, yeah- Our next door neighbor, about 100 yards away, was a man named Brennan, a retired cop. He had the idea of raising chickens for profit. He bought a hundred chicks and let them run amok in his basement until they were mature enough to be let out in his barnyard. They could then run amok outside and he could clean six months worth of chicken crap off his basement floor.

I often hung out at Brennan's, and one day he offered me a chance to take home dinner- if I could catch it. I ran home to ask mom if I could bring a chicken for dinner, she looked to my dad, who laughed and said if I could catch one, dinner would be chicken, as long as I helped in the process. I was thrilled, ignorant of the "process" of which he spoke. I headed across the field to fetch dinner. I remember running a lot, isolating the bird I wanted and finally catching a hen, flapping and squawking. It took a while, but I managed to hold the wings down and the bird calmed and I passed through the gate toward home. As I approached my back yard, I saw my dad behind the garage and held up my prize. He laughed and motioned me to where he had a board lying across saw horses (It's vague here, all I remember is an old board). He had a hatchet. A dull one (I soon found out). He took my chicken and plopped it on the board, holding it down. He handed me the hatchet. He placed my right hand on the bird and told me to press hard. He then backed up and said " Give it a whack, Trace!" By it, I figured out he meant the neck, stretched out in front of me, attached, if temporarily, to a little dinosaur like head, which twitched and jerked like all chicken heads do. I don't remember hesitating, but I do remember that when I swung down, awkwardly, and the hatchet met the bird, I didn't come close to severing anything. The dull edge managed to crush something; the chicken, I think, had a stroke. I managed to hold it down and my dad said to hit it again. I did. And again. And another. Finally, after several strokes, none accurate, I hit wood instead of sinew and bone. Blood was everywhere. The neck was now two and the bird was now headless. And alive! My dad said to let it go. The live, headless chicken flopped off the board, hit the ground and took off through the yard, strangely, though appropriately silent. It listed to one side and, after about 50 feet, flopped over and was still. I will never forget my first "dinner kill", but for the life of me, I can't remember eating that chicken.

A bit more history

As I have made clear, I will be jumping, on occasion, from ALS to the days of old, weaving through a number of experiences that have made me who I was before the disease. I'm still the same guy, I  just don't want ALS to think it's the result of ANY lifestyle, especially mine. I would give credit where due- in this case, none has been found, none shall be awarded.
Third grade, spring time, I think Minneapolis. My dad running McDonald's there with a guy named Pat Bauden. I doubt he reads my blog, I haven't seen him or his family for 44 years. I do remember he had several kids and an above ground pool teeming with reptiles and amphibians. Anyway, the job was short lived. Why do I bring this up? Because while there, while living near railroad tracks and near a five and dime where you could get wax lips, and where the kids played on and around the tracks and where kids, me included, put all kinds of stuff on the tracks to get squished, I actually climbed a ladder to a boxcar on a moving train- a slow moving train- sat in the open car with my friends and jumped off in a nearby freight yard. Yes, this is true. I also learned how to produce and project the perfect spit wad. For a while, evidence of my prowess could be found on the ceiling over my desk at school. Other than the spit wads, I have no recollection of my classroom other than the memory that it was on the second floor and had big windows.

Take a close look at your third graders and try to imagine them hopping a freight, even a very slow moving freight. I have raised three kids who were all third graders at one time and I can't fathom it. I must have been an idiot child. I never told my mother. Mom, if you're reading this, you must remember your elevated, bleached, teased beehive hair do. I remember it well. Focus on the memory you have and try not to imagine those you don't. I didn't die and you didn't have to worry. Oh, mom, do you remember the rail car, converted into a small cabin, along with a half dozen others set in a little park? Remember that we lived there a short time? Where I found a salamander? Where we talked about Martin Luther King? I do. It was swell.


Push forward to fourth grade, Glendale Heights, IL. We moved from Minnesota to the Chicago area where my dad picked up a McDonald's job in Maywood. The sixties. Shoulda been named Mayhood. Anyway, we moved into a housing project dominated by Italian Americans (or so I was told), backing up to the back of a small strip shopping center (yes, they had those way back then) dominated by an Alpha Beta (I think) grocery store, a barber (from hell), a coin laundry, a bar and  Ben Franklinish store (candy central to us).

I'm going to be brief here- We lived in a townhouse, I owned a 26" 3-speed bike, I got hit by a car on a nearby highway while waiting on the shoulder as my friend delivered newspapers. I didn't get hurt despite flying over the lady's Mustang, bouncing on her hood, the top, off the trunk lid and into the gravel. My bike, however, was bent in half. The lady asked if I was OK, I said yes as I picked up my pathetic bike,......................and she drove away. I carried my sad bike home where my mom read me the riot act. I later spotted the Mustang in the parking lot near the bar and the barber shop, still wearing my scuff marks stem to stern. My mom led me into the bar (she was not the barber) where I identified my hit and run driver. She and my mom negotiated a settlement and we walked home $55 richer. I bought a cool 5-speed. 


I'm going to be brief here as well so we can get out of Illinois.....................I attended school,wearing a hat to cover my new crew cut, emblazoned (get used to it, a crew cut can be emblazoned upon a 10 year old) upon me by my evil dad (while the rest of the world had hair), envied a kid named Joey Cambell, who sported a curly black mop on his head and pointy Beatles shoes. I also learned that my knowledge of geography exceeded that of my teacher, Mrs. Wright, which put me in the dog house for arguing that the Mississippi river was NOT the world's longest, even when I offered to accept either the Nile or the Amazon. She would have none of that, so she sent me to the principal for a swat, where I learned there was a teacher shortage and  was told to be patient and let things slide. Remember? I was in fourth grade! Little did I know that this would be the least of the peculiarities I would have to endure before the year ended. Soon we all got in the car and headed to California.........to be continued...............................

A lot of things.......goin' on.

I need to be perfectly clear in addressing something, a subject, more a question, that has come up recently, apparently gnawing at some readers. I can understand the difficulty brought forth when considering whether to even ask...................................do I embellish, do I exercise my right to creative license, do I parable (yes, I know, nobody "parables", but I liked the way it sounded, it is my blog, and I rule this particular world), do I add fictional details to juice the story? What you really want to know is if I make shit up. Do. I. Make. Shit. Up. -Nope. I don't. Real life situations, in hindsight, have all the richness I need. Do I remember whether it was sunny or cloudy that Saturday in 1966 when I helped my mom drag my dad out the back door of the garage? No. Did I include a weather report for that day? No. I didn't even think of it because I have no recollection................. If I can recall, you'll eventually hear of it. If I can't, you will find a hole in the story some screen writer can fill in when they make the movie version. I never spent any time considering my life's history contained so much craziness until I started putting it to screen (as apposed to paper). I have not even scratched the surface of my ocean of experiences, ranging from ironic to tragic to funny to really funny to hilarious to embarrassing to sad, to literally unbelievable to painful to exhilarating to confusing (many of these) to dangerous to really dangerous to insanely dangerous to romantic to happy (worth repeating) to happy (again) to happy to.... well, you fill in the blank____________________. All with one thing in common: All fact. Not Based on fact, not inspired by fact (you know, those movies that finished off with all the involved characters dead- such as The Perfect Storm and the one where the couple eventually got eaten by sharks). Real life holds the most interest because it is real. Anything made up is only as good as the telling. 

I do need to remind you of the first half of a post a while back culminating in a guy discovering he'd lost his arms and legs in an explosion. That was not me. I still have all my limbs- they just don't work so well. THAT story was made up. By me. I can make shit up when I want to. I simply threw that in as a metaphorical comparison to my situation. The main difference, very important, is that his change was instant. Mine draws on and on and on. Two different kinds of horror.

Today I had to have my wheelchair loaded as I ventured outside the house on an adventure. Later, my father in law brought up a reality I hadn't thought of before. You must understand, I don't ever want to be seen in a wheel chair. For that matter, I don't ever want anybody to see me walk funny. The former is inevitable, the latter is history. I have an aversion to appearing needy. I am terrified to actually be needy. With ALS, the choice is not  mine. I need to learn to accept my situation and use the tools  that help me and those who have to haul my sorry ass around. Gus (that's my surrogate dad, actual father in law) pointed out that I wouldn't feel embarrassed using a cane, crutches or a wheel chair if I had a broken leg, knee problems, a  back issue or any other injury. He's right. I must embrace that which helps me, those who help me. Makes sense. 

I need to conclude this post and get back to bed, but before I do, I must let it be known that I plan to continue writing my autobiographical history, chopped up into short narrative, totally free of continuity, free of pace, free of fiction and full of fun. I can only write so much about ALS before it becomes too dark and depressing for me. I'll always relate my thoughts and post any updates- this shall remain an ALS- whaticantellyou blog, but if I fail to stray from   it's path on occasion, the story may end badly. So I interject and I segue and I sidestep away from Lou Gehrig on occasion so as to maintain my sanity, presenting to all of you glimpses of my life- a gag gift if you will- in the hopes that the good times trump the bad as I relate my journey. 

If you put my life on a scale, my life pre-ALS on one side and life with ALS on the other, I posit the pre-ALS side would hit the table so hard that the latter would be catapulted so far as to be gone forever. Maybe if I write enough about the good times I can tip the scales in my favor. Only good thoughts. Thanks. T.

Good days, bad days

I'm struggling with what to post these days. I feel the need to lighten the mood with sarcasm, humor, offbeat commentary or  anecdotal witticisms. I look for the upside of all this while struggling with the annoying realities as they become apparent. I know my messages become exercises in redundancy but I continue to come back to the same issues with a slightly skewed viewpoint begging to be composed on these pages. ALS is creepy and relentless. It doesn't affect cognitive reasoning, yet it does. It causes a million blunders in reason purely by destroying voluntary muscle function. As an example, when I sit, my legs feel normal. They remain strong (though this may be a relative term), they lay properly, they look normal and I can move them to my will. My cognitive process functions normally when I am seated, when the ever present ALS is less obvious, but when I stand up and start walking, the disease shows its teeth and my cognitive brain is thrown off base. I SHOULD BE ABLE TO WALK NORMALLY! But I can't. I don't. My mind cannot come to grips with the transformation. As a result, when I'm required to walk any distance, the farther I travel, bumbling, the more distressed I become. This distress is mostly mental and can last far beyond the action that triggered it. I can not seem to be able to deal with this these days. I also try to speed up, not so much due to embarrassment (though this does play a part), as to my desire to get done with it. I need to get to  point B quickly so as to lessen the imprint on my brain that the struggle is monumental and growing. A broken leg heals, you see.............

I am anxious for November 13 to get here so that I can prove to my family that I am still able to travel without help. I simply need to navigate puny (though upscale by Peoria standards) Downing International (are you kidding?) Airport, sit for a couple of hours (this I am good at), arrive in Dallas, ride a wheelchair out of the gate, step out and transfer to the world of my daughter, her family and heaven (for me), hug 'em all and slip off into la la land for a week. I will be bringing along some of my favorite recipes, my Kindle and a backpack of clean underwear. Life, if you don't consider my ALS, just can't get any better.

I must return to my dilemma. My newest blockade of desperation is tangible, if not effective. For the last several months, I have worked on the mind/body concepts, I have learned how to relax myself, both physically and mentally, I have developed ever changing coping mechanisms, tweaking their application to my immediate needs. I am not, and do not, intend to take any drugs  to help me get through this mess. I understand that anti-depressants help a great many people, ALS suffers for sure, but I would rather learn to cope on my own. So far, I've managed. I can't say if that will be the case in the future. I may discover a breaking point down the line. I may welcome a drug induced euphoria, or catatonia, or coma. I have never been normal, add ALS and the end result may require drugs I never knew existed.  So, before that time comes, if it ever does, I will be exploring the documents of Edgar Casey, the stories of Traditional Medicine, Mexican stem cells- whatever has a whisper of an effect. Even if nothing works, (I've said it before), I will enjoy the ride, the adventure, the hope.  

I look forward to posting while under the influence, ala Timothy Leary, though I doubt LSD will be the mind changer of choice.

A slow news day, so..............

I have an itch, so I need to scratch it. My catharsis is to straighten my crooked left middle finger in order for it to join my right at my Logitech keyboard, conveniently lighted (the keyboard, not the finger), enabling me to see the letters as I pluck at them. On an equipment run, I will divulge that, while still a Mac guy, I write this blog using, as I said, a lighted Logitech slim keyboard, black, which I love, a custom equipped radically fast gamer computer loaded with a multiple gigabyte video card, terra byte hard drive, i7 super dooper fast processor, liquid and air cooling, transparent sided housing for any computer geek's viewing pleasure, on board temperature and humidity gauges, coupled with two 24" Asus HDMI connected LED monitors only one half inch thick, sound provided by a pair of Klipsch speakers and a killer Klipsch sub woofer. I need all this in order to facilitate my blazing speed of probably 20 words a minute when I post. Truth is, I jumped ship from my always reliable Mac G5, 8 years old and repair free, for a PC because I needed to have a PC platform in order to run an auto cad program, Chief Architect X3. Too bad Apple can't run their program- I blew the PC video card one month after purchase, a keyboard later, and need to continue to stave off virus attacks. I cannot say enough about proprietary hardware. Also, RIP Steve Jobs. Whatever your fancy, ask yourself how many times you've had a problem with your PC. This concludes my critical rant.

• Some days, nothing significant flows from my head. Today is one of those days. This is not to say today was insignificant. It was. This in itself is significant. Today, I felt the same as yesterday. No better, no worse. I am still infused with optimism and excitement at my new plans involving Cayce and TCM. I feel like starting today, but it will take time to find a Baar wet cell for a reasonable price and herbs from China don't exactly grow on trees (some must). 
• Are these bullet points? How should I know? I was trying to get spell check to re-activate and I hit something that fired a bullet, so. there you are. I think bullet points are designed to be brief and to the point, so I'll have some fun with the brevity. 
• This post is, largely and briefly, pointless.
• ALS may be the cause of my problems within this blog, but I can assure you I have numerous others, mostly ignored and abandoned here- until now. Let me point out that..............
• Most of my life I have been something of a control freak, a boss. ALS put an end- kicking and screaming from a mental bucket- to that.
• I rarely used all the steps when ascending or descending stairs, now I grab for support as I move step by step, both feet meeting each tread.
• My balance point is now 5 degrees from top dead center, anything more and I hit the ground in the direction of the lean. 
• I clap by placing my left in front of my chest and hitting it with my right.
• My smile remains symmetrical.
• I need to invest in slip on shoes. Not the corduroy slippers you're thinking about.
• I need to find out if I can still operate a fishing pole.
• Amy asked me if I wanted to join her at open volleyball and I found it to be very, very funny.
• I also get a laugh out of the invite from the ALS Foundation to join in a march.
• I can still drive nearly as poorly as I did before.
• So far, I can count my fall downs, post ALS, on one hand. The same cannot be said for my pre- ALS years.
• For some strange reason I now wonder how long it would take me to milk a cow one handed. Twice as long, or would I get tired?
• Does my dad read my blog? (extremely unlikely) If he had access, would he? I know he's a reader, but.......................
• Claire, I want to stop by soon.
• I don't have a best friend- all my friends are the best.

• It is disconcerting that I could cry at the end of Transformers- Dark of the Moon.

Ok, so you read this far, and as this is true, you have been sucked in by a vortex of drivel. Musings without depth. This is the kind of stuff (with the exception of the Claire line) that flows from the vacuous space between my ears when the status quo is present, when no movement, forward or backward, can be detected, when I think without thinking. Don't take it personally that I laugh inwardly when I think of those who have come to this paragraph and outwardly at those who admit it. I find it difficult to look at things on the bright side when my future is overcast, but your foolish loyalty is like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. I thank you few.

Good news, three weeks ahead

I am going to Dallas in a few weeks for a very much needed visit with my daughter and her family. I haven't seen my grandsons since Orlando, and with my condition compressing time, it has been much too long since I hugged them. I need to put my mind in the right place and leave it there. The best medicine for me is to continue to be a part of their lives. I can take any amount of pressure and anxiety, whether it be ALS or our financial chaos or a cloudy future or a mouse loose in our house (true), provided I can witness my grand boys cheer me up by acting like a couple of knuckleheads.

Let me break stride with the moment to explain my last post. It must be made clear that my mind is whole. I retain my senses. I don't come close to expressing the myriad thoughts coursing through my brain. I  must continuously sort and chose those thoughts that make for logical conversation, written or spoken. Put yourselves in my shoes. Follow my path and try imagining all the internal outbursts, censoring them for expression and hoping you're not too depressing or sarcastic, too hopeful or optimistic (yes I can be too optimistic; falling down from too high can be problematic), too analytical or sad or happy or mad, too cheerful or glad (rhyming with no reason, I know, but I can occasionally be too silly). I can't hold resolve for more than short bursts. I will continue to wallow in a sea of guesses until I crack the code or not.

I am going to begin researching outside the realm of practical solutions because there are, simply, no practical solutions. I can't afford to drive this car until it quits, I need it serviced so it lasts longer. If I had a bad heart, I could replace it. Bad kidneys? I have two, if they both go bad, I sign up for a transplant. Bad liver? Bad hip? But I have a neurological problem and nobody does brain transplants. So, I am planning to get out of Dodge and grab at elusive, obscure and less researched possibilities. One such possibility is a complicated procedure concocted by Edgar Cacye. I can build my own wet cell and my cost is small. I am aware that many of you are now Googling him, and if you read for ten minutes you'll know more about him than I, but that's OK. I will know more than you by tomorrow morning unless you view this as a competition and are planning to also stay up all night. The bottom line here is that I have found documentation showing some success. I'm tired of trying to think ALS out of me. At least, with Cayce's treatment I will be changing my diet, eating gold, electrocuting myself, etc. (well, not exactly, but close). I will be taking action, and if that doesn't work, I'll find another action to take. In addition to all this I am ordering herbs from China, increasing my acupuncture sessions and am enlisting Amy for massage in order to simulate Traditional Chinese Medicine. If I'm going to get picked and poked at, I want to have a say in how and who. If nothing ever works, I will at least know that on October 23, 2011 I decided to become proactive with my  own health. If  you shudder at the possibility of success in the world of mysticism, clairvoyance, Eastern culture, electricity, spiritualism, needles and herbs, consider that if I don't try this stuff, I have already exhausted the meager offerings of my doctors. They are very kind and sympathetic, but as I already know, kindness and sympathy don't cure ALS.

I look at it as an adventure.