Don't Answer That

My Daddy had a few funny expressions I picked up over the years.

The one that first struck me as hilarious I heard when we lived on Gimli Air Force Base in Gimli, Manitoba. We were in the PMQs (Private Married Quarters) which were reserved for servicemen with families.

The PMQs on this particular base were made of sheet metal. There were constructed to look like normal houses, but there was no insulation, they were just large pieces of metal welded together. We didn't have a basement, so I don't think there was a foundation. Probably just a concrete slab. They were painted regulation yellow or regulation green or regulation beige on the outside (we lived in a yellow one), and the inside had properly finished-looking walls, but I'd be surprised if the insulation value reached R-2.

So, one autumn day, Daddy and I were headed out somewhere. He exited ahead of me, I took up the rear. As so many parents throughout the ages have done, he glanced in my direction and said, "Close the door! What do you think we live in, a barn?!"

And then he added, "Don't answer that."

I nearly doubled over. I've used that expression many times since, and this morning's usage brought it back to mind.

I'd seen my friend L's announcement on facebook that she had attended a Zumba class this morning. I commented, "What's Zumba?" And she replied "It's an exercise class."

I phoned her up and said, "I KNOW it's an exercise class! I meant what kind of exercise! How stupid do you think I am?!" 

Then I thought better of it, and added "Don't answer that!"

The Trip

A week ago, Boyfriend and I went to Ottawa to see my cousins. Since Maggie the cat needs pills three times a day, we asked our neighbours, C and N, if they would take care of our "pride" of kittehs. We actually debated some time about asking them - they had had two cats who lived into their twenties and had been heartbroken when the last one passed away last year. N took it particularly hard, and we weren't sure if it would be too painful for her to be near our cats. But they accepted instantly, and it was fun for A and me to be able to go away together.

We showed them where to find Pixie the kitten (in my sock drawer), where to feed Bijou (on the diningroom table - and don't forget her daily saucer of evaporated milk!), and where the brush was, since Maggie ADORES being brushed. Showed them all the toys, and they quickly returned with new toys of their own they had not given away.

They opted to keep all cats inside while we were gone, wanting to make sure all three were alive and well for our return.

I did notice, during our discussions, that Pixie curled up in N's arms and went to sleep - something she doesn't do for me. I'm her favourite chew toy, you see. Apparently, my fingers have "Eat Me!" inscribed on them. But for N, that seemed to be a different matter.

So off we went to Ottawa, and had a lovely time seeing my cousins. We went to the LCBO and bought C and N a bottle of wine you can't obtain here in Quebec, one of my favourites. It's from Sandbanks winery and it's called "Dunes."

Then we came home.

Instead of racing to the back door and howling to be let out, Maggie and Bijou came and sat down in the livingroom with us and Pixie. Rather expectantly. They waited.

"Can they not see us?" grumbled Maggie to Bijou.

"I AM flicking my tail," Bijou replied. (Sigh.) "Okay, I'll roll over and show them my beauty, see if that elicits a response."

Moments passed. A and I were still busy on our computers and flicking tv channels.

"I'm going to hop on Daddy," Maggie offered. She walked over A's keyboard and nuzzled his lips.

A was laughing. "Maggie!" he said, petting her and pushing her off his computer. I bent down and kissed her and petted her. She jumped down in disgust.

Pixie wandered into the centre of the room. All three cats sat within ten feet of each other. Pixie, being young, didn't know not to stare a hole in our heads. Bijou and Maggie both discreetly pretended not to notice us, which is cat-language for "Get off your big arses, we want something you ninnies!"

After a few more minutes, Bijou said "I give up," and skulked down to the basement. Maggie curled up in the boot tray, and Pixie hid in the sock drawer.

The next morning was a repeat performance. Only this time, as Bijou scratched at the door to be let out, I swear I heard Maggie say to her as they ran out onto the deck, "When do you think they'll go away again?"

It appears that Daddy and I have paled by comparison to our neighbours. We are dull and uninteresting, we don't entertain them well at all, and we fail to observe proper feeding protocol.

We have a lot to learn.

A Great Day

Great days like today don't come around very often. At least, they haven't, in the past.

I began the day with laundry, before I put on the coffee. I did my reflection time, played Words with Friends, played my free game of You Don't Know Jack, and wrote some emails to friends.

I vaccumed. Upstairs and down, even the sewing room, even under the beds, even the STAIRS!

I did nine loads of laundry, and they are ALL put away.

I made two loaves of oatmeal bread, and - get this! - I made CROISSANTS! Yes, from scratch! And they are as delicious as you think! Yummm!

I made dinner for tonight, and dinner for tomorrow night as well, since tomorrow night is a quilt meeting. The dishwasher is humming away, the kitchen is clean.

I started some quilting for tomorrow night, and as soon as I've posted this, I'm off to finish it.

I had time to pat my cats and watch Star Trek too.

This is a red-letter day!

Yay!

Disaster Averted

So, today I thought I'd make some bread. Oatmeal bread. Have mixer, will knead.

The first time I used my new mixer for a yeast product, I made pizza dough. That only required 3 cups of flour. Today's recipe for Oatmeal bread required 2 cups of oatmeal and 6 1/2 - 7 1/2 cups of flour. Which I reduced to 5 cups of flour, recalling 2-ton loaves from my past...

I received my mixer as a birthday present last summer, and have been soooo thankful ever since - royal icing is a breeze, buttercream decorator icing just mooshes together so easily, I thought I'd basically diead and gone to heaven.

Today, my second day off this week (I only work 3 days a week) I thought I'd make oatmeal bread. Making bread has such strong memories for me, the smell wafting through the house, the basic-ness, the earthiness of it, the "rolling my sleeves up and bellowing ethnic folk songs" of it... (If you want to know where the quote is from, leave a comment at the end of the post!)

Well, my mouth was watering as I read and re-read the recipe. I had made notes in the margin of the recipe book (The Canadian Cookbook) and I couldn't remember why I had reduced the amount of oatmeal without reducing other ingredients... In the end I went with my gut instincts, reducing the oatmeal AND the flour content.

I stood and watched the dough hook do its magic, incorporating the flour into the bread. I could watch that thing all day! Then I heaved a sigh of contentment and continued doing other chores while the mixer did its thing - went to the basement, switched laundry from the washer to the dryer, put on a second load, and got some sausages out of the freezer for dinner.

As I came upstairs again, I smelled something unfamiliar, and thought, "My, that recipe is fragrant!"
I placed the sausages on the counter and turned to look at the mixer and see how it was doing. The microwave timer told me it had one minute of the ten minutes left.

And then my mixer just stopped.

I blinked my eyelids a few times in blank uncomprehension.

Slowly, realization dawned on me that something had gone amiss with the mixer. I reached out a nervous hand to put the switch back to the "off" position.

That's when I saw the smoke coming out from the side of the machine, from the slot where the speed controls are.

I quickly unplugged the machine.

And stood and watched it smoke.

Like everything it does, the mixer smokes quite well... So THIS was the source of the "fragrance" I had noted.

I touched the top of the mixer. It didn't feel that hot!

I stared another minute, then, since there were no actual flames, went to get the instruction manual,.

The first thing I did was curse my miserable disorganized existence, as the FIRST page of the manual says in plain, clear, black and white, "Put your proof of purchase HERE, you ars**le!" Of course, I hadn't done that. And no, it doesn't actually say "ars**le," but it SHOULD...

I was looking for a "troubleshooting" page, but there weren't any, because this mixer is reliable. It's not supposed to have trouble. I'm the trouble!

I touched the top of the mixer again. This time it was hot - really hot! I could hold my hand on it, but only by effort of will.

I returned to the manual. It had an 800 number for Canada. I called it, waded through the "if" list (If you are calling for x, press 1, if you are calling for y, press 2, if this and if that, etc..."

"Mindy" was very pleasant as I read the model and serial number to her and supplied her with my name, address, social insurance number, IQ, shoe size...

But when I told her what the problem was, that nine minutes into a ten-minute knead smoke had started coming out of my mixer and it had stopped, she asked me,

"How much flour did you have in your dough?"

I quickly checked the recipe book - both mine, and the one that had come with the mixer. She put me on hold while she checked with technical services. I compared recipes while I waited. I had reduced the amount of flour...I had more oatmeal than the recipe in the mixer book, which would make it heavier...Everything seemed to balance out. But I had used the mixer on level 1, the bottom speed, and their book said to mix dough on 2.

When she came back, Mindy said to keep the mixer unplugged for 12 hours and then try it again. I thanked her, and phoned Hubby.

Hubby said "I think it's a mechanical switch."

"Yes?" I said.

"Well, it's not electronic,"  he explained.

"And that means," I led...

"It means it's a piece of metal that snaps open when it's too hot. It'll snap back when it cools. You haven't "fried" anything."

Aah - something I could understand! I might NOT have fried my mixer!
.........
Epilogue
The mixer isn't broken.
The bread was heavy, but delicious.
I'm buggin Boyfriend to get the recipt stapled into the book.

Once More Unto the Tire...

I wanted to make lemon marmalade.

Everybody makes orange marmalade (well, everybody given to making marmalade at all, that is!) and those who are adventurous make citrus marmalada, a mixture of orange, lemon, and grapefruit.

I wanted to make lemon marmalade.

I've made marmalade in the past. About 20 years ago. And my Scottish friend I told me to put a teaspoon of whiskey on top of the jar just before putting on the lid. I gave them out as Christmas presents years ago, and this year I wanted to make lemon marmalade.

For one thing, lemons are added to other jams to increase the pectin content. Lemons are the gold mine for pectin on this planet. So I knew from the start I wouldn't have to worry if I had enough pectin!

I bought 8 lbs of lemons and asked Boyfriend to pick up a gazillion tons of sugar from Costco.  I went to Canadian Tire to pick up a dozen Mason jars. I schedued my day off to make marmalade and do the Christmas cards. My iPod was at the ready, Christmas tunes lined up. It was all systems go.

It took an hour to juice the lemons and quarter the skins. Ten minutes to boil, a half hour to cool.

An hour to pull the pulp from the skins and grind it. An hour and forty-five minutes to slice the peel into thin slivers.

Four hours on the boil. Now, when I say boil, I mean a very gentle boil. I wanted a full rolling boil, the recipe clearly said that if I cooked it quicker I'd get a lighter color.

But 18 cups of fruit and 20 cups of water don't boil quickly. And I don't actually know what I would have done had the thing decided to come to a rolling boil, because it was so near the top of the huge pot.

I did the test for pectin and got a positive result - yay! But no jelly was forming. Because for jelly to form, a full boil is required.

The marmalade got darker and darker. I got desperate. My jars were sterilized, it was eight o'clock at night, I'd been at this all day.

I broke down and threw in 22 packets of gelatin. And left it to do its slow boil thing while I raced out to THE TIRE to get another 12 Mason jars, having realized I had way too much marmalade for my original dozen jars. Boyfriend was set to skimming and stirring.

I came home, sterilized the second dozen jars, and ladled the marmalade into the jars. Then, being short of whiskey, ladled a tablespoon of Grand Marnier onto the top and sealed them.

It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience to be sitting in the living room and hearing the lids go "POP!" as the vaccum drew them in and they sealed.

This morning I tested the seal. I unscrewed the ring and turned a jar upside-down. The seal was perfect.

But the marmalade was liquid.

Not even sluggish. It didn't even look sticky.

My marmalade had failed to jell.

In desperation I turned to the internet. I had done everything right, except the "full rolling boil" everybody was talking about. I sent a panicked letter to one site asking for advice. I spoke to people at work who were known to cook. As I feared, I'm the only person daft enough to want to do this kind of thing any more - nobody could offer me any suggestions.

So when I got home tonight, I promptly set the rest of the marmalade (because of course, I had more than would fit in 24 Mason jars) on the boil. A smaller amount, in a smaller pot, and it boiled rapidly in moments. I did the jelly test, and lo! jelly formed. Yay!

So it was back to THE TIRE to pick up another 12 Mason jars, run home, wash them, sterilize them, ladle the marmalde into the jars, add a tablespoon of Grand Marnier, and seal.

And wash the pot and ladle, open a dozen of last night's batch, dump the contents into the pot, wash the jars and rings, throw out the used lids, wash 12 new lids, and sterilize jars, lids and rings while the marmalade boiled.

And, if I'm lucky and jelly forms, ladle it into the jars, add the booze, seal them, and do it all over again with the final dozen jars.

So, what lessons did I learn from this experience?

Well, for starters, maybe I could have made do with a dozen lemons, till I got the process down pat, instead of making enough to feed the five thousand, at one shot!

I should have started earlier in the day. And I should have bought cases of Mason jars.

But all in all, it was a pretty good experience. I was despairing, a few minutes ago, wondering why, again, I had decided to do something on such a grand scale.

Then I tasted a bit of peel that had escaped the funnel and dropped onto the towel.

And it's heaven. Oh yes, it's lemon. And it's sweet and candied and soft and freakin' delishious!

Almost making it all worthwhile!

Making Cat Food

This morning I had to make cat food - the three terrors had finished off the last of it last night around 9 p.m. Since I'm sick, I had no strength to make it last night. All I did was take the chicken thighs out of the freezer and left them to thaw on the counter. (In a dish. Just wanted to be clear on that!)

"Add fiber," the vet kept saying, "to help Maggie along with her bowels. Pumpkin is good." This, the day AFTER Hallowe'en, when there were no pumpkins to be found. Actually, I did see a can of pumpkin on the shelf at Maxi, right next to the pumpkin pie filling cans, but I prefer to put fresh ingredients in my cat food. So I've been using squash. Today was acorn squash.

Maggie and Bijou wanted OUT - in no uncertain terms! Since there was no food, they were bound and determined they were going to find some for themselves. And, as it turns out, Maggie has been a bit of a slut - someone taped their phone number to her collar tag the other day asking us to call them, and we had a short conversation. Yes, Maggie goes to see people when she goes out. So she wanted out to go see if her other "family" would feed her!

There was a more sinister note to that conversation, though. The person was warning us that a neighbour of theirs had set traps out for cats. Recalling that my vet had asked if someone near us had traps when Maggie was injured, I have put two and two together. This was how she got her injuries. What I'm going to do with this new knowledge, well, I don't know yet, but it'll be a topic for another blog.

Returning to this morning's endeavour: I set the squash in the microwave and the chicken in the frying pan, covered so they would steam. I gave Bijou her cream - she always starts her day with a saucer of cream, she has no trouble digesting it, unlike most cats.

Ordinarily, when I'm "late" providing sustenance, the two cats just lie around quietly. But we have the kitten to contend with now, and believe me, no one lies around quietly with Pixie running amok!

She picks on Maggie mostly, because Maggie is playful and tolerant and will actually play a bit with her. But of course she goes way beyond even Maggie's patience!

If Pixie were with her mother and siblings, she'd be learning about the limits of other cats' patience from them, so for the most part, when Maggie hisses at her or swats her, I mostly let her alone. The kitteh has to learn socially acceptable behaviour!

Well, as I was cooking, Bijou and Maggie were at the back door, yowling their heads off to go outside. I had to keep assuring them I knew what they wanted. They looked most doubious.

Pixie kept running around just out of reach of both of them. Swatting and hissing, the older cats would dart from one spot to another in the kitchen and living room, trying in vain to get away from this holy terror that was plaguing them.

It's not that quick a process to make the food, though its by no means as difficult as cooking a meal. Once the chicken is steamed, I grind it in my hand blender. I also grind the squash, since parts of it are still quite firm after it's cooked. Then I cook oatmeal in either beef or chicken broth in the pan the chicken was cooked in. I add ground flax seed, remembering I have to keep the fiber content high for Maggie's sake. Once it's all mixed together, I spooned out servings, but I had to let them cool in the fridge for about five minutes before I could give it to the kittehs. As a final touch, I stirred in 1/4 teaspoon of feline veterinary vitamins to each serving, and finally fed the cats.

And then there was peace. I drew up my chair to sit and enjoy the near silence. Only the licking and smacking of jaws was heard for five full minutes. It's a gratifying sound. Three very happy kittehs. Lick, smack, lick, smack...Quite rewarding.

Then the big two went out, and the little one chased me around a bit, but she finally curled up in a ball on the couch beside me and is now fast asleep, dreaming up new devilment to offer the other two when they come back in.

Posted by Deb at 8:59 AM

Miracle Maggie

So our adopted cat, Maggie, came home from the (veterinary) hospital today, in much better shape than when she went in.

To recap: roughly a month ago Maggie went missing for two days. Now, for many cats, that would be standard behaviour, but not for any cat of mine. And Maggie was especially faithful - at least to her mealtimes, if nothing else! The first evening, Boyfriend and I went out on our bikes calling for her, since adult cats can roam six city blocks and we were going with the idea that she was just out having a good time.

By the next evening I figured if she had been able to come home, she would have. So I brought my flashlight and went sneaking into the neighbourhood's back yards, intending to shine my light into all their sheds and listen at their garage doors for meowing.

In the very first back yard I had access to three sheds, and while I was calling her name at the third one, I heard a meow behind me, turned and saw Maggie coming toward me.

Stiffly. Very, very stiffly, and looking confused. I picked her up and brought her inside and put her down. She had cried when I picked her up. She wandered from room to room in the house as if she didn't understand something and cried as she curled up in a ball in her basket. Boyfriend said let's go to the vet, this cat is in pain.

And there began a month I hope I never have to repeat, and I'm pretty sure the cat wouldn't want to repeat it, either! The vet quickly realized her tail would need to be amputated - she had an elongation injury it seemed, and had no more control over her tail.

But the other problem was life-threatening: Maggie could not urinate on her own, and seemed to have only partial sensation around the anus. She needed to be emptied two or three times a day, manually, which basically means you squeeze the bejeezus out of your cat.

It hurt her, and it was possible we were damaging her by doing this. See, the sphincter was closed tight - and they said she didn't have the muscle tone they were expecting when they would palpate her. At first they said not to take the tail off, since why put her through surgery if she would never be capable of emptying herself. So we had her home for a few days, walking on a leash, taking her twice a day to the vet to be emptied, trying to give her precious time to heal.

In desperation I asked if massage or acupuncture would help her regain control, (and those who know me well know that was severe desperation on my part!) and my vet referred me to a veterinary acupuncturist who works at the DMV in Lachine.

The DMV? Well, I don't know what the "D" stands for, but the "M" is for medical, and the "V" is for veterinary. It's a veterinary super-hospital, and a whole bunch of specialists practice there.

At her second acupuncture treatment, the vet who was performing the acupuncture ran upstairs to consult with the neurologist and got me a consultation with her that same day.

And that's when things turned around. The neurologist said get rid of the tail, put a catheter into the bladder and give her bladder a full 7 days to rest. After the catheter came out, we were to put her on meds that alternately relaxed the bladder sphincter and made the muscles in the bladder contract.

This of course meant hospitalization, staying put in a cage, and wearing a collar, for the cat.

Now, I don't know if you've ever seen a dog in a collar. They're pretty unhappy about the prospect. They bump into things and get stuck on stairs. But a pussy-cat, who is used to grooming itself every ten minutes, is in a state of utter, total, and abject misery in a collar.

I grit my teeth. She's young cat, she's an affectionate cat who enjoys human company, who likes interacting with people. I was going to do what had to be done, even if it meant a month in a collar for her. Over her whole lifespan - another 16 to 20 years I hope - a month turns out to be a relatively short time.

It's just that you can't tell the cat that it's only a month. You can't explain to them what's happening, why you're doing all this to them. All they know is, they're stuck in a cage and can smell themselves more each day, but can't do anything about it. To them, they're being tortured. Oh, and pills are being rammed down their throats too. I mean, we people don't enjoy our hospital stays, and at least we know why we're there and how long we are likely to remain, and at least we can scratch ourselves where we itch!

So I went to visit her every day. For fifteen short minutes each day, the collar would come off and she could lick herself - though not the stitches or the catheter. I'd brush her, and take her out to look out a window for a minute or two. Then it was back in the cage with the collar for another day.

I was going on grit and faith alone. The people at my home vet kept shaking their heads and reminding me they didn't think this was going to work, that they had never seen a cat so injured recover bladder and bowel control.

My counsellor had been trying to get me to come up with a word to meditate on each day, to help me relieve stress. It was at this point that Boyfriend wrote the word "faith" up on our whiteboard.

And it really took faith to go through with this. There were no guarantees the treatment would work, but if anything was certain, there would be a helluva vet bill to pay. All on Mastercard, of course. Ka-ching ka-ching. I had to have faith that my employment would continue, that I would be able to pay off the bills.

And I had to question my priorities. Was this really an emergency? Hubby pointed out that there are thousands of deserving, homeless kitties in Montreal, any one of which would have been thrilled to eat my homemade food and be a part of my family. I put off going to Louisiana to visit my father for years because I didn't want to run up a huge Mastercard bill. Now here I was, six months later, doing exactly that, for a cat.

I was talking to a friend at work when I accidentally said the words that helped cement my decision. It all boils down to this: do you consider cats and dogs disposable? 

I can't help every kitty, but I can take care of the ones in my charge, and give them every chance to lead a happy and healthy life. 

Throughout this past month I have been praying for a miracle. There is no other way to describe it. I needed - Maggie needed - a miracle to happen. She needed to regain bladder and bowel control after a terrible injury.

I kept explaining my position to the Universe/Great Mother/God. In the grand scheme of all the miracles that we'll need to house the homeless, feed the hungry, clothe the poor, stop wars, end poverty and save the species of the earth, what I was asking for was a very small miracle indeed. Un petit rien, in fact. In Sunday School I sang "God sees the little sparrow fall, it meets his tender view..." Well, my kitty needed a small miracle.

Last Thursday night, they removed the catheter and started the bladder meds. Friday morning the vet examined her, palpated the bladder and was stunned to feel muscle tone. She squeezed the bladder and it emptied easily, without hurting the cat. And a half hour later, while she was busy examining other animals, the technician came running to her to say that there was urine in Maggie's litterbox.

The whole hospital apparently lit up. And when I went for my daily visit, I lit up too! I was going away for my quilting retreat, and Boyfriend was taking over daily visitation duties. But for the first time in a month, we had hope. Just before I left for the retreat, I wrote "hope" up on our whiteboard.

Today she came home. Oh, she's got pills to rival any octogenarian. And she can't go outside on her own - we put her on a leash, so that severely curtails her fun. No pun intended! I'm sure the whole month she was in the hospital she was thinking, "Just let me go home, let me go outside and play in the sun! Let me just be able to lick my own ***!"

And she goes back in a week for more tests. But we're over the worst of it.

Her tiny miracle has happened - I'm changing her name to "Miracle Maggie." And the word on the whiteboard is "THANKS!"

ADDENDUM: Maggie's previous owner sent me this photo of her. I'm planning to make it my Christmas Card this year, with the notation inside…"My Mommy spent so much money keeping me alive this year that this Chrismas card is all you're getting."