EVEN SLEEPIER
I’ve been sick. No not the swine flu, or rather the H1N1 virus as is the politically correct name, but it was some kind of cold/flu type bug. I’m better now, so don’t send any cards or letters. Hmmm, on second thought, send all the cards and letters you want. Especially the kind that has those little green pictures of Lincoln or Jackson tucked inside them — Franklin, if you really want to show your concern! 
Click here if you need the address.
Seriously, though, I have been feeling under the weather the past few days. I can tell when it’s getting ready to hit because I get really sleepy. I pay attention to this signal.
We talked yesterday about how important sleep is when you’re feeling well. But when you’re sick, sleep is absolutely crucial.
Even when sick, the body is an amazing organism. It still knows what it requires and it lets you know. In my case, I get so sleepy that if I try to fight it and force myself to stay awake, the slightest down time I take can result in my head dropping and quickly nodding off.
If I’m at home, this is no problem. I just curl up under my oversized fleece blanket and sink into oblivion. At work though, it can be quite a battle that resembles a slap-stick comedy routine. I try to type, pause for a moment, then I must lose consciousness and droop my head; because the next thing I know is I snap it upward and my eyes spring open like a father who’s just heard his teenage daughter turn the doorknob after her curfew has passed. This routine replays until I finally accept that some illness is coming on and I go home to curl up under my oversized fleece blanket and sink into oblivion.
Sinking into oblivion is exactly what I do. My head barely hits the pillow before I zonk out, totally zonked. I experience some of the deepest sleep when I’m sick. Which is good, because sleeping when ill is the absolute best thing a person can do for his or her body.
During that restful sleep, a battle is being waged between the white blood cells and whatever foreign microorganism is attacking the immune system. In fact, it’s an all out war. The sleepier you are, the more the microorganisms are winning. The less you sleep the more victories being racked up by your immune system. Hence, being in the throes of that groggy, zombie-like stupor which does all it can to overtake you, is your body desperately giving you a message to shut down. It’s begging you to give it all the support needed to amass its troops and launch its offensive. Do yourself a favor, listen to it.
Certainly there are useful medications which reinforce the troops, but it still is your immune system which is the ultimate champion when defeating an illness. And sleep is its strongest weapon.
You may be one of those people who take pride in continuing to work while sick. You may even have overcome many illnesses in the past. But as you age, your immune system just isn’t as strong as it once was. In addition, you may only partially recover, leaving yourself weakened if the illness rallies for a second attack. Why take risks with your health because you feel you have more important things to do? You can always delay whatever needs to be done until you feel healthy again. But if you lose your health, it’s hard to resume anything once you’re viewing the world from six feet under. But hey, who am I to impinge on your free will?
Anyway, I’m feeling much better now. Thanks for your concern.
If you're enjoying this over coffee, tea, or whatever, please consider buying me a cup!COOKING
I come from a family of cooks, the kind that don’t need or use cookbooks. My Grandma used a chipped tea cup for all her standard measurements. I know how a dish should be prepared because I know how it tastes. And I’ve tasted the best. Getting it right is just a matter of observation and practice.
Well, that’s how it should work and probably did. But who has time for that these days? In the Old Country, circa 1900, a newlywed bride would spend her honeymoon with her in-laws. She’d learn how to prepare the foods her husband ate. Her job was to yield to her in-laws’ wishes, cook, and be a brood mare. I wouldn’t have lasted.
Of course, in America things were different. When Americans got married they honeymooned at Niagara Falls. However, women were still married off when they were very young. This was a carry-over from the Old Country where women wore out easily. The average guy could expect to have two or three replacements throughout his life. So it was natural to start early.
My maternal Grandmother married my Grandfather (age 35) when she was just 17. That was barely old enough to know how to cook rice pilaf. But I suspect, given how cute my Grandma was, my Grandpa wasn’t hung up on how well she cooked.
Recently, I tackled some dishes I never made before. Difficult dishes without measurements for the spices. I just had to guess based on taste. Luckily, my guesses weren’t too far off or anything that couldn’t be undone by adding more chicken broth.
There’s a lot of ritual around tasks like cooking for large groups. And I have to say that after doing this on my own, I wouldn’t mind a gang of like-minded women helping out next time. Especially with the stuffed grape leaves, in soaking, preparing and rolling the 60 or so leaves. Stuffed grape leaves (or dolma) are a Mediterranean appetizer. The Greeks and Lebanese have their version, but the Armenian one is the most delicious. Trust me.
I’m not the best at dealing with onions. The recipe called for four cups, minced. And since I wanted the dish to be authentic, I purchased whole onions to chop. And boy, what a mistake that was.
I tried wearing sunglasses to ward off the onion fumes. But my eyes teared up anyway. Between my runny nose and eyes, and the gloom from the sunglasses, I couldn’t see what I was doing. The onions looked hacked. Next time, I won’t be a martyr. I’ll just purchase the pre-minced onions.
There are some Armenian dishes I had that I’ve never known the “authentic” version. In this category is a meatball and pasta dish known as “Monti.” I found the “authentic” recipe recently.
The “real” Monti calls for rolling chopped meat and spices into hundreds of tiny, pea-sized spheres. (In contrast, my meatballs are the size of golf balls.) The pasta dough is made by hand, rolled out into vast sheets, and cut into tiny rectangles.
A meatball in placed in the center of each rectangle. The dough is then pinched around the meatball until it resembles a canoe. (I use sea-shell pasta out of a box and avoid this crap altogether.)
The assembled monti are toasted in the oven and then dumped into a tomato broth until tender. This whole process took the better part of a day.
It was more time and toil than I’m willing to undertake, especially for a meal that will be devoured in less than five minutes. In my brother Mark’s case, less than two.
If you're enjoying this over coffee, tea, or whatever, please consider buying me a cup!
