Life's a Stitch

It is just shy of 24 hours ago when I left the hospital with a replaced CMC joint  (the base of the thumb, where it meets your wrist). Interesting experience in many ways.

A coworker was also having outpatient surgery this past week, in the same health region. She was instructed to shower the night before after making sure she was changing into freshly laundered jammies with clean sheets on the bed. She was given large sanitizing wipes to use prior to her admission.

I had major surgery wearing my jeans and trail runners in the OR, listening to the staff's choice of 80's dance music. As I was fully awake, having been administered a scapular nerve block producing an arm that felt both heavy and unattached,  I was given the option of bringing along my iphone and earbuds. Hell no, I didn't want to miss the party. I listened to the power tools removing and reconstructing ligament into bone to the tune of Girls Just Wanna Have Fun and Mony Mony. This is not the drugs talking,  I can assure you, because under the new rules, oxy anything is considered too strong for orthopedic surgery pain control.

Today finds me painfully heaving my heavily casted arm somewhere between my heart and the ceiling at all times, while watching the clock for the next dose of Tramacet. And then a much appreciated moment of cheer from my coworkers arrived at the front door:

When I was growing up, way back when, sausage meant three choices:   Puerto Rican chorizo canned in solid orange fat, Polish kielbasa, or sagey breakfast sausages from Jimmy Dean. In the 70's I moved to Omaha and craved the apple potato ones from Stoysich House of Sausage. Forty years later and the current varieties contain a conglomeration of ingredients equalling complete meals in a casing:

Although I've lived over half my life in Canada, there is something about US Thanksgiving that throws me into fits of nostalgia. As it's always a work day for me, each Thanksgiving, about 30 minutes prior to quitting time I'm planing for quick cooking turkey legs and stove top stuffing or turkey dinner at Canada's White Spot.

Too fried from meeting deadlines to face going out to dinner on a wet and dreary Pacific Northwest night, I stopped in at the grocery store to find NO turkey legs. The butcher offered me two choices: come back tomorrow or buy sausages on special. My decision, after whining "But Thanksgiving is todaaaaay," included a lamb steak, and three varieties of sausages: blueberry and maple (looking somewhat coagulated), kelly green chicken kale and feta, and red hot chorizo.

It wasn't turkey, but it was the colour of autumn leaf centerpieces the kids in my family used to make for the table, gathering the leaves while the turkey was cooking and returning to a deliciously sage scented house. I realize now that's the origin our family tradition of talking a long walk, soon after the turkey hits the oven. I love that wall of flavour that hits the senses when walking in the door.

Upon hearing the details, my husband, who knows me all to well said "What, did you pick them up in the clearance bin?" No, as a matter of fact, I didn't. These are of the gourmet variety and are quite in demand. And as it turned out, the mixed grill made it a special, albeit odd, Thanksgiving dinner. 

Update: one handed blogging ahead! I've been given a time for the surgery mentioned in my last post, this coming Thursday.

Number ten – just realized that this past September, I missed  Life's a Stitch's ten year anniversary. Once upon a time, in the beginning of knitting blogdom, we posted "100 Things About Me." I came up with 59 and over the decade even some of them have changed:

I am now:

• a mother of three, two girls ages 21 31 and  19 29, and a boy age 14 24, mother-in-law to one with another one on the way, grandmother to a 2 year old boy.
• owned by a Scottish Terrier  We're now owned by her memory.
• the Executive Director of a non-profit society  Still there, fifteen years and counting
• in a committed relationship for over 24 34 years

An Election Day story:

It's municipal election day in British Columbia. Takes me back to another election, a Provincial one, the same day as the demise of our sweet Gracee dog. C was too upset to to cast his ballot, but somehow Mr. Bry age 23 at the time,  and I, in need of deep distraction, made it to the polling station to do our civic duty.  Stop me if I've told you this before. As we were leaving he says:

"Did you see her?" 

"Who?"

"That girl, the one with the amazing eyes. The one at the other table checking in voters. She was looking at me, too." Mr Bry has a tendency to fall in love hard and fast.

"Well why don't you go and talk to her?"

"No, it would be inappropriate." Is this really my son demonstrating a  sense of social propriety?

Instead he elects, so to speak, to run an ad in the "I Saw You" section of Vancouver's Georgia Straight. You know that kind of ad, where hopefuls seek someone they've seen, out of a sense of regret for not initiating social interaction?

A little over a year later at a music festival of thousands, B is backstage following his act. He is approached by an accomplished performer, a person whom B has admired and whose inspiration has lead to his being here this very night.  He is accompanied by a young woman, his girlfriend, who says:

"Wait a minute, did you vote in the May election at polling station #89?" 

"It's you! I posted an I Saw You ad after election day."

"I've always wanted to be the subject of one of those ads." 

"Were you upset that she was attached to someone else?" says this concerned mother who hates to see her children suffering from broken hearts.

He was fine with it, a fan of synchronicity, finding it amazing that they even had the opportunity to reconnect. He was more upset about the election results. 

It'll be interesting to see what tonight's election results bring. 

 

 

 

As far as watercolours go, this was a fun one to paint. Mt. Shuksan, Whatcom County, Washington:

 The subject of my last painting was here for Halloween weekend, as his mom flew in for work:

If years ago someone had asked me to envision my ideal scene of grandparenthood, this would have been it. Reading with a little one on my lap:

Although it's technically a Christmas gift for their family, I had to show my daughter, as she is in town this week and her son  is the subject of my watercolor:

First snow (12×16):

 

Food and travel can be one of the best combinations.

Or worst:

Air Canada calling it pizza is a stretch. Coincidentally at the same time Lufthansa's caterer has announced that they will begin home delivery of airline dinners. Interesting.

On to the best meals of the trip. Seared sea scallops ($21) at New York's Mersaille, 630 W 9th. 

Lobster rolls in Portland, Maine:

Food as art – while Lynn learned to make sushi on the ship, I painted pictures of fruit:

I'll save the food of Quebec for another post as it's in a yummy class of its own. The irony of this post is its vicarious pleasure, as in the same week I'm recovering from the post flight cold, root canal and crown prep plus the decision to start treatment for H Pylori.

Catching up with a chance to practice my high school and college French. So many updates, so I'll work backwards. For today, it's the colors of fall having just returned from la belle provence du Canada – Quebec, having landed there after a Canada/New England cruise.

A word about my language skills. My parents were born into families where English was a second language, one Polish and the other Puerto Rican, hence my claim to Polo-Rican heritage. I chose an academic curriculum in my NY high school where French was the only language option, my version of high school age rebellious decision making. 

Advance three years, I was a college freshman at age 17 with little guidance, academic or otherwise. So in my first year I took French, Spanish and the following summer, immersive German. I can't tell you what a dog's breakfast my languages are. One recent New Year's my resolution was to erase  French from my brain and concentrate on Spanish, a difficult proposition when living in a country where French shows up on cereal boxes and all other product labelling.

I am happy to report, however, my visit to Quebec proved to me that it is possible, with a high degree of concentration, to focus on one language. It encourages me for our upcoming trek on the Camino de Santiago in Spain. That being said, there is a large portion that goes through Basque and Catalonian regions. If all else fails, I can point in any number of languages.

Back to the vacation, the colours of fall were apparent in the Quebec City vicinity, along the 46th parallel. South of that it was over 80 degrees Fahrenheit at the end of September, not yet cold enough for the dramatic colour change of autumn. 

Fall decorating in old Quebec City:

On the Ile D'Orleans:

Fall knitting to go along with the foliage, finally, a half done Taize:

 

 

 

I can live without the cigarettes and skateboards, but no Scotties, smoking or otherwise, nor wine? Next thing they'll add is knitting needles and yarn. Sounds like a sign at the entrance to hell.