The day the world stopped turning

Shortly after midnight on Sept. 11, 2001, I checked into Riverview Regional Medical Center. I had been vomiting bile for 36 hours -- a horrible turn considering that four days earlier I had walked a mile, helped paint Mom's porch and canned peas with my mother-in-law. Those seemingly routine things had extra meaning because I could actually do them. I had had gastric bypass surgery on Aug. 31, and I was feeling great.
Sunday morning, Sept. 9, I was preparing for church when the 2 ounces of pureed turkey I had for breakfast revolted. Throughout the day, things worsened. On Monday, I went back to the doctor, exhausted, sick, discouraged. She did a good job of convincing me that things would be fine. I don't think she could convince herself, though.
Hour after hour passed, and nothing changed. Finally, we decided to head for the hospital.
I was so dehydrated that it took three nurses and nine sticks to start an IV. The floor nurse stopped after the second stick and called for reinforcement. I don't remember his name, but he was an ER nurse with a Snoopy tattoo. He was so patient and gentle -- a little bit of comfort as stick after stick failed. The ninth time, he was able to find a vein in the top of my foot.
Night dragged into morning, and my family gathered. I remember once seeing my mother drop to her knees in prayer beside my bed. The doctor told us I had developed adhesions, basically strings of scar tissue in my intestines, and would have to have another surgery. She was trying to clear her schedule and would let us know when it would take place.
The television had been on throughout the night, and I was watching it, trying to take my mind off the pain, when regular programming was interrupted to show a plane crashing into the World Trade Center.
As the years have passed, we have often said the same thing about that time. The rest of the world was falling apart, and we barely knew it because ours was in danger of imploding as well.
I have two other memories of that day -- Dr. Thomas charging in when it seemed I was having a seizure; and waking up in the recovery room. Nearly 12 hours had passed between the two events, and my first thought was, "What the hell happened to me?" That was at 11:45 p.m.
Most of the next three weeks are fuzzy at best. I remember watching television a few days later and realizing that my friend and colleague on the college newspaper had lost a brother in the Pentagon attack. Kenny walked in to find me sobbing. The news was just devastating, and all I could say was, "That guy, he's my friend. He's a good person. He's my friend."
I spent 21 days at the "Riverview Hilton," went home for a few days, then had another seven-day stint. I have a scar from my breast bone to my bellybutton.
A few months later, I spent nearly two days getting potassium IVs. When the diluted solution would not help, I ended up getting straight potassium. It feels like having liquid fire run through your veins.
My hair became papery and brittle; my skin sagged. Last year, I became anemic and have to go every few months for a ferritin infusion.
That's the not-so-good stuff, the stuff anyone who is considering gastric bypass surgery should know about. And there are many other complications that could happen.
Here's what you should know: Gastric bypass surgery is not a quick fix to take off a few pounds. It's a measure of last resort that is risky and dangerous. Try everything else that is medically sound before you even think of this.
Would I do it again? In a heartbeat. Why? It was my last resort. In February 2001, when my blood pressure hit 200/112, a doctor looked me squarely in the eye and said, "If you want to live to see your daughter start high school, you will find a way to lose weight."
I did both. I've lost 200 pounds (from 430 to the 228 to 235 range). And this year, my baby girl started sixth-grade classes at the high school.
It has been a tough road. But today, I'm sitting here, sharing, waiting to get Daughter up for school. In contrast, my friend Roy and his family will wake today with the same loss they've dealt with for seven long years.
To the Williams family and all those who lost loved ones in the terror attacks and in service to our country, I thank you. Your sacrifice is worthy of our deepest gratitude.

Prom at the Pitman 2008

Prom at the Pitman 2008
Originally uploaded by erictwright

We partied like rock stars!
The Prom at the Pitman was a huge success. When we left at 10-ish, the crowd still was getting bigger -- and hotter! I hope the library folks will have a Halloween party at the Pitman so we can dress up again when it's a bit cooler. (Speaking of cooler, the one in the photo belonged to the folks at the table behind us.)

If you've been keeping up with the pre-Prom posts, you'll note that there were some wardrobe malfunctions before the big day. I won a dress on eBay I didn't really want -- which was fine, because the seller shipped it SATURDAY (one day after the prom). A shirt we ordered Kenny still hasn't been shipped. And the first suit we bought him has vanished somewhere in the house.

And then, I had a near-miss with the dress I'm wearing. I washed it and it faded. But it's amazing what a trip to the dry cleaner can do for a dress. Add a sash, tulle, tiara and nosegay corsage, and the prom fabulousness is complete. For posterity, I should note that my sash reads: 3rd Alt. Miss Faded Youth.

Kenny is working it in a Stacy Adams suit, Italian leather loafers with pointed toes and tassels, a tie, a cane and a hat. Several guys commented on how much they liked his suit. So does he, so expect us to be looking for a Halloween party.

Murphy lives at my house; trash talkin'

Yep, you guessed it. The washing machine ate my prom dress. Trying to dye it was futile. But I have a plan ...

On another topic, I'm going to go ahead and throw myself under the bus. I did a truly bizarre thing Monday, and it's too funny not to share.

I was on my cell phone, talking to Mom and cleaning flotsam and jetsam out of the back floorboard of my car. Hubby and I were headed out in search of dye to try to rescue the prom dress.

We hit the Wall-to-Wall mart and parted ways. I reached for my cell to make sure it was handy. It wasn't. I couldn't find it in my purse, so I had Hubby call my number to see if my purse would ring. It didn't. We rinsed-and-repeated at the car. No dice -- and no phone.

And then it hit me.

We call Daughter and tell her to go outside to big garbage can, raise the lid and dial my cell.

Yep. You guessed it. The garbage can rang.

Thankfully, the can was nearly full, so we didn't have to send in a search-and-rescue team. Daughter plucked it smugly (I wasn't there, but I know she was smug) from atop a bag and took it inside. A little disinfectant, and it was none the worse for wear.

SUCCESS!

I found it. I found the dress. Three counties, at least a dozen stores and four hours of driving today alone. And, naturally, it was at the last place I stopped. The place that is 5 miles from my house.

I could regret the investment of time and energy, but I don't. I love thrift-storing, and I got to spend the day with hubby dear. I met some wonderful folks today, and I got to see a sister-in-law and brother-in-law that I haven't seen in a couple of years.

And now, I have it. The dress. THE dress.

I have redeemed myself, providing the washing machine doesn't destroy my find.

I'm keeping the details on the down low, because I want to see the look on each and every face.

But I will say this: It's shiny. It's UBER-80s. And I paid TWO DOLLARS for it!

See you at the Prom!

Prom prep, Part Deux

I found a prom dress -- unfortunately.

Given the absolute lack of plus-size formal wear available locally, I have, in desperation, turned to eBay. I bid on a dress, hoping against hope that I would be outbid. Alas, I won it.

It's a beautiful dress, if the picture is to be believed. And that's the problem. It looks classy and sophisticated -- not at all what I wanted to wear to the Prom at the Pitman. I wanted something ultra '80s -- poufy sleeves, lots of lace. Instead, I have a sleeveless gown (and, given my upper arms, that will have to be remedied). It's made for a grownup, not dress-up.

I promise I'm not overreacting. Carol described the dress as "very classy." The disappointment came through even in e-mail. Laura commiserated with me. I believe Eric cried "party foul."

I have a few more days to check out thrift stores. Don't count me out, folks. After all, I thrive on deadlines.

Choc-n-Guac

When two or more gather at The Gadsden Times, lunch is liable to break out. It's not uncommon for someone to wander through the lunchroom and find a table full of potluck surrounded by a motley crew of diners. We have an unofficial motto: If you cooked it at home, it's not leftovers to the rest of us.

After hosting a brunch soiree at Casa de Wright, Eric mentioned that he had food, food and more food just searching for some bellies. He brought it; we ate it. There were the remains of the five or six or seven (accounts vary) meats he had prepared, plus a delicious hash-brown casserole and some biscuits. Short work was made of most of it, but there were biscuits to spare.

Cue Lisa: It's chocolate gravy time!

So, the next day, chocolatey goodness, all warm and syrupy, was generously poured on the remaining biscuits. And then a miracle took place. There was extra chocolate gravy. This called for a battle plan.

By the end of the day, arrangements were made: Laura was in charge of facon; Carol, fresh off her decisive win in the guac-off, contributed fruit; Lisa brought more biscuits, plus link sausage, hash browns, cherries and additional chocolate gravy; and Andy and I chipped in cash. Eric was guest of honor, because he started the ball rolling.

So much food arrived that we had to annex a nearby table for the spread. Chairs were pulled in to the main dining table, but overflow seating was needed. The ebb and flow of conversation gradually but steadily gave way to sighs of contentment.

Ah, but no one is resting on his laurels. Before the dishes were cleared, another gathering was planned. We'll be sending Lisa north to Alaska, so a farewell lunch is in order. Makes me hungry just thinking about it ...

Perhaps one of these days we can all open a restaurant. The Choc-n-Guac will specialize in guacamole and all things avocado, but there will be just one dessert: Chocolate gravy on catheads. (If you don't know what that is, ask a Deep South friend.)

Prom prep

Some things never change. I'm getting ready for my third prom, and once again, I can't find a dress. Of course, I've only been to two thrift stores, so I'm not going to give up.
Kenny, on the other hand, hit paydirt last night. We're looking for 1970s stuff for him, because that's when he graduated. The Alabama Thrift Store in Rainbow City had the perfect suit. (Kudos to the Catoes for the tip to check there.) It's not the powder-blue leisure suit we were hoping for -- although we did find a powder-blue sports coat. Instead, we found a suit with a label inside from a store from Gadsden. It looks like the type of suit a '70s grad might have borrowed from his dad. We snagged a couple of ties, and I think he's pretty well set.
Just in case anyone can hook me up, I need a dress, size 22 or 24 (or bigger), that has lots of lace -- very Southern belle. The fuller the skirt, the better.
I guess I should explain why we're doing this. We're getting ready for the Prom at the Pitman, a fundraiser to help restore/renovate the Pitman Theatre in downtown Gadsden. The more, the merrier, so put on your fancy duds and come to Gadsden Sept. 5.

If a tree falls in a subdivision ...

Enjoy this brief interlude provided by Mother Nature.

Cookie Monster??

I've been playing around with batch of photos trying to figure out how to make a slideshow out of it. Props to Eric (as always) for his technical support (and moral support). Photos by Haley; captions by me; hamming it up by Otis. NOTE: No actual cockatiels were harmed in the making of this slideshow.

Granny Clark's Cantaloupe Pie recipe

Props to Eric for the photo -- and the tutorial on how to make it show up!


A couple of new foodie friends have come into my life, and that means it's time again to take Granny Clark's Cantaloupe Pies to work.
I love, love, love the reactions the name gets -- sometimes it's incredulity; sometimes revulsion; sometimes curiosity. I understand completely, and I always tell new tasters the same thing: If you'll try just one "no-thank-you" bite, I promise not to be offended if you hate it. Thus far, I've probably witnessed 50 tastings. Only one person claimed to hate it; I choose to think that's a reflection on the person's lack of sophistication and not Granny's culinary genius (kidding, I'm just kidding).
This summer's batch of pies brought the same responses: One person really, really wanted not to like it, but found it intriguing enough to have a whole piece; another liked it but turned down a full serving because she "couldn't get past the name."
Since I brought the pies, I kept promising to post the recipe. It has run in the paper a couple of times, but here it is again, committed to the blogosphere for perpetuity:

GRANNY CLARK'S CANTALOUPE PIE
4 cups cooked cantaloupe puree (see note)
1 1/2 cups sugar
3/4 cup self-rising flour
3 large eggs
1 stick butter, melted
1 tablespoon vanilla flavoring (or to taste)
2 pie crusts

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

To make puree:
Peel and seed two large or three small cantaloupes; cut into chunks. In a covered boiler, slowly heat, stirring to prevent sticking. Do not add water. When cantaloupe begins to produce juice, remove cover and increase heat. Cook 15 to 20 minutes, until cantaloupe changes color and breaks down. If the melon is very juicy, it might be necessary to drain some juice in the early stages of cooking. Once the cantaloupe pieces soften, remove from heat. Using an immersion blender or hand-held mixer, puree melon. Set aside.

To make pie filling:
In a large bowl, beat eggs. Add sugar and mix well. Temper the egg mixture by adding the puree a little at a time until the puree is fully incorporated. Add flour a tablespoon at a time, adjusting the amount according to the consistency of the puree (thicker puree needs less flour). Add butter. Stir in vanilla.

To bake pies:
There are two options:
1. Put oven rack to lowest position. Place unbaked pie crusts on rack and ladle in filling. Bake 30 minutes or until center is firm and crust is brown.
2. Blind bake crusts (prick with a fork and bake until crust is nearly done). Ladle in filling. Bake 30 minutes or until center is firm and crust is brown.

Cool completely before serving. Keep refrigerated.

If you have leftover filling (and you most likely will), butter a glass baking dish (size depending on the amount of leftovers) and bake until center is firm. Serve as a custard.

Let me know if you'd like me to post the back story for this recipe. I didn't include it here because this already is long.

And remember, if you make this, please be sure to give Granny Clark her props.

Bowing sunflower

This is the view I have when I park my car. When the breeze rustles the plants, it looks like they are dancing. The flower that is bent over reminds me of a person bowing.

I noticed yesterday that the birds have found the bowing flower and are starting to strip its seeds -- just part of the cycle of life, I guess.

A Hardee's farewell

This morning, I had what is likely to be my last Hardee's biscuit for quite a while. My favorite breakfast stop is gone.
Wednesday, I hit the drive-through and got the special, two sausage-and-egg biscuits for $2.22. (I tossed the egg, but the special was cheaper than two sausage biscuits.) I had one for breakfast and stashed the other in the fridge at work.
Thursday afternoon, I noticed something looked amiss as I passed the restaurant. Then I realized the sign was gone from out front. All the posters have been taken down; all the chairs are stacked on tables.
This morning, I reheated my biscuit and took some time to really enjoy it.
Now I'm in a breakfast quandry. Where will I go? What will I do?
Guess I'll have to start lobbying in earnest for the hospital to put in a drive-through. MMMMM, cheese grits!

Squash Fritters

Here's a recipe I concocted Saturday. I've tried to put in enough details so the "cooking challenged" can take a swing at making them. I even MEASURED as I concocted!

SQUASH FRITTERS
3 cups grated yellow squash
1/4 cup shredded cheddar cheese
1 egg, beaten
Flour (see note)
Salt, pepper or seasoning of choice
Oil

Using the side of a box grater with large holes, grate yellow squash. (I used two squash that were about 12 inches long and 3 inches in diameter.) When measuring, don't pack the squash into the measuring cup.

Place squash into a clean dish towel and wring the juices out. (You want to get it as dry as possible, because it will continue to produce juice as it sits.)

In a medium bowl, combine squash with egg, cheese and seasoning and mix. Add flour 1 tablespoon at a time until a batter is formed (sort of like lumpy pancake batter). Depending on how dry the squash is, it should take at least 3 tablespoons. My squash was wet, so I used 6 tablespoons.

Heat a very small amount of oil (1 to 2 tablespoons) in a non-stick skillet over medium heat. When oil is hot but not smoking, drop batter by spoonfuls, leaving ample space for batter to spread. (An ice cream scoop works nicely.) Cook until a toasty crust forms, then turn and repeat.

Remove cooked fritters to drain on paper towels. If possible, put towels on a cooling rack and set fritters in a slow (170-degree) oven while cooking the rest.

Serve warm. Excellent with beans, greens and cornbread.

Makes about 12 fritters of about 3 inches in diameter.

Note: My first experiment with this turned out salty because instead of using the towel method to remove the juices, I tried sprinkling salt over the squash and using a weight to "squish" the juices out through a colander. When I added self-rising flour, which contains salt and baking soda, the fritters were salty -- but delicious nonetheless.

Otis gives them two paws up!

Sidebar: Otis made a liar out of me Sunday. He wolfed down some scrambled eggs. Apparently, he prefers them with Provolone instead of cheddar. Oy!

Otis and the okra

We know, we know. We're terrible pet parents. We fell into a bad habit, and now we can't recover.
What's the problem, you ask?
(tone drops to a conspiratorial whisper)
We let Otis eat people food.
There. I said it. It's out in the open. Nothing to see here, people. Just keep moving.
Well, except there is the matter of what Otis eats.
For those who don't know, Otis is a "rescue" D-O-G (we spell it because it hurts his feelings if we say it -- and yes, I know he can't read). He was "liberated" from some neglectful neighbors by a former co-worker of mine, who brought him to the office to find him a home. Her dogs were HUGE and would have squashed him like a bug.
Two hours of looking at those sad eyes and that sweet face, and I gave in. He got a new name -- Otis Campbell, after the character on "The Andy Griffin Show" -- and a new home.
As for his lineage, we're not sure. He's at least part long-hair Chihuahua, possibly with some Pomeranian thrown in. He's a golden blond, but he sheds a lot, so we keep him clipped in the summer.
Back to his diet. We tried dry D-O-G food. Then we tried a parade of wet foods. But one thing became clear: If we ate it, he wanted it.
I know some pet parents who probably would try eating the D-O-G food to get him to eat it. I'm not one of them.
So, as the years have passed (three, at least), we just fell into the habit of feeding Otis what we're eating.
We've been surprised at what he won't eat. He doesn't like scrambled eggs, and he looks insulted if you offer him gravy biscuits.
We have been equally taken aback at what he does eat. This includes salad — he's partial to the grilled chicken Caesar from McDonald's — and frosted shredded wheat cereal.
Last night, though, takes the cake, so to speak.
Hubby cooked up some squash with onions, opened some Glory collard greens and reheated a pan of chicken dressing from Grandmother. The crowning glory was supposed to be the okra he grew in our little garden, boiled and lightly salted.
Sadly, most of the okra was so tough we couldn't chew it. Otis, however, fared much better. I noticed him pick up something and take it aside to eat, so I started watching to make sure he wasn't trying to stash a treat for later. I nearly fell over when I realized he was munching okra.
He polished off one pod and headed for another. This time, he figured out a way to split open the pod and lick the inside clean before eating the outside.
One by one, he ate a dozen or so pods. He rounded off his supper with some squash and onions and a dab of collards, then washed it down with some water. He was quite satisfied until I blurted out, "Have you ever seen a dog eat okra?!?"
Wounded, he slunk off to the living room and pouted until we cleared the table and mopped the floor.
I think it was just his way of shirking his turn at washing dishes.

When Good Sprite Goes Bad

Any time there is a communal fridge in a workplace, there always is a chance that science -- or a pandemic -- can break out. Monday, the newsroom fridge transformed itself into a laboratory.

Much the way the office has mysterious climate zones that defy all logic (more on this another day), the fridge has quirks that cannot be explained. The crisper drawers are hot spots (ahem) for this activity. There's no need to store vegetables or meats or cheeses in them unless you prefer your sammies and salads on ice.

The flip side of this is that anything left on the shelves is subject to fridge gremlins -- those mysterious beings who slip in when no one is looking and steal away with your lunch, snack or favorite beverage. The gremlins seem confounded by the crispers -- perhaps they can sense the dark forces at work -- so Kim and I have taken to storing our soft drinks, waters and other refreshments there.

Monday, she headed to the fridge with a couple of cans of Buffalo Rock Diet Ginger Ale Southern Spice (more on this another day), planning to retrieve cold ones and replenish the stock.

My phone rang, and the number on the ID was the breakroom's.

"Yes, ma'am?" I said.

"Have you looked in this drawer lately?"

"No. Have we been robbed?"

Chuckling ensued.

"You just need to come back here. This is precious."

She wanted me to get the full impact, so she had restored the scene to the way she found it. When I opened the drawer, I could think of only one thing:

"Eric, can you bring your camera to the kitchen?"

Photographic evidence is the only way to adequately document the devastation. Eric has two photos on his blog, but I'll try to use less than 1,000 words to convey the scene.

At first glance, the drawer looked to be full of crushed ice. But in the front of the drawer lay the eviscerated remains of a Sprite Zero. The random temperature variation apparently caused the contents to freeze, thus expanding the liquid and turning it into ice. The expansion caused the can to erupt. (Science, right?) It was split from the rim all the way to the middle of the bottom. I briefly considered holding onto the can -- until I realized the top edges were a trip to the ER waiting to happen.

Instead, we emptied the drawer, washed off the sticky remains and relocated the remaining cans. I opted not to recycle the remains for fear of inflicting a mortal wound on someone, so I wrapped the can and left it layin' a-corpse in the trash can.

Being a Professional Journalist and Highly Trained Writer, I immediately began to think of ways to retell the discovery in the crisper. I came up with a pop culture (puns abound) reference and dubbed the can a casualty of the cola wars.

Look out, Pepsi. The Sprites are recruiting reinforcements among Kim's supplies. I think the gremlins are laying in stocks of ordnance.

This could get ugly.

Virgin blogging 2.0

A week or so ago, I decided that I'd try to join the cool kids' club and start a blog. I am, after all, a Professional Journalist and Highly Trained Writer.
So I cobbled together a few sentences, posted them and decided to give them a week or so to "breathe" — you know, like a fine wine.
Ten days later, I realized I'd made vinegar.
During those 10 days, I really began to study the blogs of co-workers. Then, I got brave enough to branch out to some of their friends. And I realized that I had been sold one of Life's Big Lies.
"Blogging is easy," one friend told me. "It's just like keeping a journal."
Not. So. Much.
Journals — or at least the ones I kept as a teen — are full of pitiful poetry, pithy prose and pretty pathetic pining. Journals are places to spill out your emotions, confess your inner turmoil. And they are meant for your eyes only.
Blogs, on the other hand, require some skill. Sure, you can fill one with emotional vomit. Who wants to deal with that drama?
The bloggers I read and admire walk a fine line. They are sharing their lives, but they also are carefully editing that sharing. Some things just don't belong in print.
Oddly enough, I found solace in that. I don't really want to live my whole life on the Internet. I want some privacy, some personal space even in cyberspace.
So, I revisited my first post. I'd broken a cardinal rule by oversharing. Instead of bottling the fruits of my labor, I poured it down the virtual drain and started a fresh batch.
Here's hoping there soon will be something worth toasting.