An Apple A Day...

In addition to Mom's health crisis and subsequent surgery, a tragedy of a different sort has also befallen me this month -- my friend Lauren, my one local pal who I could turn to for last minute plans, moved to the suburbs. Sure, it's closer to her and her husband's work, and they can get more bang for their buck in terms of housing. I'm happy for them, really, but I've also been sad to see her go. Since I was in the suburbs this weekend for Mom and the dog, I opted to meet Lauren and her husband on their new turf, for breakfast.

In the northern suburbs, there's really only one choice for breakfast in my humble opinion: Walker Bros. Original Pancake House. I'm not really sure why it's the "original" pancake house, considering they have locations all over the northern burbs, but I do know that it got a cinematic shout-out in the iconic North Shore movie, Mean Girls, and they have an item on their menu so delicious, and so decadent, that you're practically eating dessert for breakfast -- the apple pancake.

Truly, the term "apple pancake" is inadequate to describe a confection that likely hails from the gods themselves. It's more of an eggy souffle, topped with a liberal helping of perfectly spiced cinnamon apples. It's also enormous. Splitting one with another person is almost mandatory, and even then, it tests the stretching capabilities of the human stomach. It is so, so worth the uncomfortably full feeling you get afterwards, however. The apple pancake at Walker Bros. is one of the few things in life for which I will voluntarily get out of bed early on a weekend. It's that tasty...

Sibling Rivalry...

During Mom's surgery and early convalescence, I find myself here in Highland Park, not so much to care for her as to care for Caesar, so she won't have to worry about his care. Whatever the patient wants, the patient gets, and if walking and feeding the dog will give her peace of mind, I'm happy to oblige. I'm not sure, however, that Caesar is happy to be in my care. As I've previously documented, he doesn't much care for me. Sure, he tolerates my offerings of food and treats, but we both know he'd rather have his mama home to tend to his every canine need.

One of my most difficult duties vis-a-vis the dog has been sleeping with him at night. For a creature of less than 15 pounds, he somehow manages to hog most of the bed. He starts out the evening by staking a claim to my pillow, from which he refuses to budge. He snarls and snaps at me if I try to dislodge him. Then, during the night, one of two things will happen. He will either crawl between my legs when I'm sleeping on my back and refuse to let me move for the rest of the evening, or he siddles up against me and into every iota of space that I vacate, slowing forcing me across the bed in search of new space, until eventually, I have to get up and start over from the other side. It doesn't exactly make for a restful evening.

Caesar looks all cute and innocent sitting by that pillow, but make no mistake, he's ready to defend "his" territory.

But, frustrating as he can be, he's a part of our family. Even if he doesn't give me much affection in return, it's hard to deny that precious little face. I love him anyway, even if he'd rather bite me than snuggle in my lap. And for Mom's sake, I'll risk life and limb to take care of him until she's back on her feet.

Put 'Em Back The Way They Was...

For those of you not in the know, my mom has been suffering a pelvic organ prolapse for nearly two months now, meaning her bladder and rectum were literally falling out of her body. The entire situation has been rather uncomfortable for her, and after a shockingly long series of tests and surgical consultations, she finally went in for her surgery today to have everything put back in its rightful place. The surgery went well, although it was delayed by nearly four hours by an emergency case that the surgeon needed to attend to first. It was all over by approximately 7:30pm, and she was awake by 9:30. I invite you to join me in wishing her a swift and uncomplicated recovery in the comments.

Enter Sandman...

I go through my life tired. I'm tired from the moment I wake up until about 8 or 9 o'clock at night, just in time to be alert and active at a reasonable bedtime. I often have a hard time staying awake during the day, no matter how much caffeine I consume, and every work day culminates in a "power nap" as soon as I get home. It doesn't seem to matter how much sleep I get; whether it's a meager 5-6 hours or 8-9 hours or more on a weekend, exhaustion is my constant companion. When I used to live with my parents, my chipper father would start every day with an inquiry about whether I was starting my day, "refreshed, invigorated, and ready to face the world," to which my response was always an emphatic "no."

For years, I've been mentioning this to my doctors, only to have my concerns minimalized. In high school, my pediatrician would tell me that I was a teenager, and it was natural to be tired. In college, doctors blamed late night studying and an unpredictable sleep schedule. But now that I'm an adult, working regular hours and going to bed at a relatively consistent time, there were no more easy excuses. When I mentioned my constant tiredness to the new doctor I've been seeing, she ordered a sleep study to get to the bottom of things.

In advance of my appointment with the sleep specialist, I had to answer several pages worth of questions about my sleep habits, and the anomalies in my sleeping behavior. Ultimately, the doctor would prove to be most concerned about the fact that I sometimes dream when I briefly drift off during the day, the fact that I experience hypnogogic hallucinations (I see things that aren't really there when falling asleep or waking up), and that I have sleep paralysis when I take a nap without an alarm to startle me awake. (Sleep paralysis,is an inability to move when you are falling asleep or waking up. Your mind is awake and aware, but your body is paralyzed. It's approximately as scary as it sounds.) These symptoms, combined with the constant daytime sleepiness, are signs of both sleep deprivation, possibly caused by sleep apnea, but also narcolepsy. (Contrary to the way it is portrayed in Hollywood, not all narcoleptics experience cataplexy, the random and sudden loss of consciousness at inappropriate times.) Hence, the doctor wanted me to come in right away for a sleep study, in which I would spend the night at the office and they would monitor my brainwaves, heart rate, breathing, and movement during sleep.

I showed up at the sleep center at 8:30, and was ushered to a room not unlike a cheap hotel room. I would get a queen size bed, a desk, and a small television that only appeared to receive ABC for the evening, and a private bathroom with a lidless toilet and a sink that might have been a spit basin at a dentist's office in a previous life. However, the lack of amenities was the least of my troubles in procuring a decent night's sleep. There were electrodes glued all over my scalp and face to measure brain activity, my eye movement, and whether I grind my teeth in my sleep. There was a tube up my nose to measure my breathing, which was perhaps the most uncomfortable of all the apparatuses I had to wear, as it made me feel like sneezing every time I moved. There were EKG pads glued to my chest, electrodes on my legs to monitor their nocturnal movements, and a sensor near my mouth to measure when and if I breathed through it during the night. I defy anyone to be comfortable in that situation.

This is going to be the most unflattering photo of myself that I'm ever going to put in the public domain.

The technician put me to bed around 9:30, a full two hours earlier than I'm accustomed to going to bed, and woke me at five in the morning -- so early that I had to take a cab home because the bus doesn't even run at that hour on a Sunday. I use the term "woke" loosely, as I'm not sure that I slept much at all during the night. I won't get my results for another two weeks, but for now my greatest concern is that I'll have to go back for another sleepless night due to insufficient data from my first test. This could be one instance in which the cure is worse than the disease...

You Can't Always Get What You Want...

For the entire month of July, there was only one item on my special to-do list -- attending the annual Pierogi Festival in Whiting, Indiana. For me, there might be no more perfect food than the humble pierogi. They combine so many things that I love: dumplings, pasta, and mashed potatoes. What is there not to love about them? A whole festival dedicated to them, including a mascot clad in a pierogi suit? Count me in! I've been aware of the Pierogi Festival for a few years now, having it seen it on the Food Network somewhere along the line, but had never managed to make it there. This year, I vowed, would be different. I wrote it in my day-planner months ago. Only one thing stood in my way -- the only way to Whiting is by car.

I figured the solution would be simple; I'd go up to Highland Park, pick up my car and some friends, and head southeast. However, as the date approached, Mom became deeply uncomfortable with me driving there, given my lack of driving experience in recent years. She put her foot down, and there was going to be no convincing her. So I took the issue to my limited handful of friends with cars who I thought might be interested in a day dedicated to pierogis. No luck there either.

Dejected, I found myself discussing my disappointment with my friend Darrell, who suggested that I make the best of a bad situation by making my own pierogis. Ever the chef, he meant making them from scratch, which did hold a certain appeal. I'd certainly never attempted them before, and I do love an adventure in the kitchen. However, cookie-baking aside, I've been struggling with a serious lack of cooking motivation lately, and I just couldn't muster the energy. I decided instead to pick up a package of pierogis at the grocery store instead.

However, the universe had other plans there as well. I initially stopped at Trader Joe's in search of frozen pierogis, but was unable to locate any in the seemingly nonsensically organized frozen section. They weren't near the appetizers, the pasta, or the ethnic food. Determined to have some sort of dumpling product at that point, I grabbed a package of pork gyoza instead, and headed home in a funk. On the bus, I ruminated over my frustration, and decided that I would stop at one more store in a last-ditch effort to satisfy my pierogi craving. Jewel at least had some pierogis, but they were on sale, and at such a well-trafficked store as the one near my apartment, sales move merchandise quickly. All they had left were chicken and sweet cheese pierogis, and I was interested in neither. Then, to top off the entire disheartening pierogi saga, as I left the grocery store, the previously blue sky had turned ominously grey, and the skies opened up upon me. With all the wind and horizontal rain, my umbrella was completely useless and I arrived home with my package of consolation gyoza, completely soaked to the bone.

Ultimately, the gyoza were tasty (almost shockingly so for frozen food), but they weren't pierogis. Potato-y goodness just wasn't in the cards for me this weekend. For now, I'll just drown my sorrows in my Japanese dumplings and cry into my soy sauce. I guess there's always next year...

The Milkman Cometh...

Today I came home after a long, hot commute, swung open the refrigerator door to grab a beverage, and was greeted by a beautiful sight:

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, today I received my first Oberweis delivery. For me, the absolute worst part of buying groceries is buying milk. Since I don't have a car in the city, I usually carry my groceries home from the store, because it's only two blocks from my apartment. I have a little old lady cart, but most of my shopping occurs on the way home from work, and if I have to go home to retrieve the cart, I lose the motivation to go back out to the store. This system is fine, as long as I don't have to pick up milk. Even though I'm single and living alone, I still go through a gallon of milk a week for cereal and late-night chocolate milk cravings. Having to carry it home from the store means I can only buy half as many other groceries, because the milk will be the only thing I can carry in that hand. Plus, it's cold, wet, heavy, and slippery -- not exactly a joy to schlepp even a mere two blocks.

So when a group of Oberweis representatives came to our building last week with free samples and information about delivery to our building, I decided to go listen to their sales pitch. I've always been fond of Oberweis's products (especially their ice cream), but couldn't ever justify the extra expense of purchasing them over cheaper store brand milk and whatever premium ice cream was on sale for the week. But the prospect of having milk delivered directly to my apartment, coupled with six months of free delivery as a sign up bonus, swayed my opinion. I'm not sure if I'll stick with the Oberweis delivery after the six months has elapsed (a gallon of Oberweis milk is already twice as expensive as it is at the store; add the delivery charge and it's up to nearly $9 a week for milk), but for now, I'm savoring the luxury having my dairy products come to me. Plus, I'm totally digging the retro-vibe (and to a lesser extent, the eco-friendliness) of the glass bottles. They take me back to my childhood, when I used to visit my grandparents and they still (somehow) purchased their milk in glass bottles and it was the only place I ever saw them. Nothing like a little dose of nostalgia with your Crispix in the morning...

The Way To A Man's Heart...

I've always been an ardent believer in the old adage that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. I've been plying the men in my life with baked goods for years now, and this weekend was no different. After Zac commented that I hadn't baked anything for him in a while, I made him a batch of his favorite cookies -- M&M chocolate chip. Figuring they would appeal to my young houseguests, I also shared them with my family, who were big fans. In fact, I had to cut them off so I'd have some left for Zac. As for me, I wasn't particularly fond of the extra crunch lent by the candy coating; I would have preferred straight up chocolate chips, but sometimes you have to give the people what they want.

I am totally in love with my Wilton icing colors. I've never been able to produce such vibrant "S" cookies before!

Not unlike the other cookies I baked this weekend. With Dad's birthday on Monday, it was time to prepare another batch of "S" cookies. They might be a family tradition, and Dad's favorite pastry, but having both them and the M&M cookies in the house at the same time really threw the flavor disparity into stark contrast. "S" cookies are very much an acquired taste, but they made Dad happy, so it was worth the time and effort. He even went so far as to proclaim them just as good as my Nana used to make, elaborating that my practice over the years has indeed, made perfect. He quickly added, however, that if I wanted to keep practicing, that would be okay by him...