Blessed relief. Beautifully BENIGN! But can we have more timely test results?

Benign!  Even though I had a dire diagnosis of metastatic melanoma, with a second opinion correcting to invasive melanoma, my surgeon predicted my chances of coming out clean were between 85 and 90 percent.  Thank you. But the time between hearing the scary diagnosis and learning the pathology results from surgery totaled 30 agonizing days. Worst days of my life. The anxiety ended when I accidentally learned the results.

Our latest refrigerator decoration won't be coming down anytime soon. Benign pathology results!

Accidentally? Here's what happened.

Due to upheaval on almost every level of our lives, PK and I discussed changes, including my switching primary care providers. I decided on moving to the small Rogue River Family Practice Clinic just a mile away, where we are friends with two of the three doctors. This is a small town, and the clinic is a small practice. The community knows and mostly loves and respects the physicians and two physician assistants, and the office staff, some who've put in 30 years and know patients by name. I went there Friday morning to become a patient.

As I was filling out paper work, one of the clinic doctors, Brian Mateja, who happens to be PK's doc and a personal friend, saw me and said, "I was going to call you this afternoon to see if you got your test results yet."

He reads my blog, so he knew about our little drama and me bleeding from the eyes.

"Do you have the results?" he asked.
NO!
"Would you like to see them?"
YES!

Let's go. My heart thumped as I followed him to his office. I gulped air as he fired up his computer and logged into the network that contains medical test results. Finally. I'm where I've need to be; I will soon know whether I'm going to be a cancer patient or can go on my merry way as a healthy person. I'm trying to remain calm. Life and death shit here. I'm going to know in a second or two.

Soon I was peering tearfully at his computer as words of grace appeared on the screen: BENIGN for two lymph nodes,  BENIGN for two more lymph nodes, and no evidence of cancer for the excision site and margins.

The black boulder that had been poised on a cliff above me rolled away, and my spirit lifted skyward with an explosion of gratitude and relief.

However. At the same time, I learned that the results had been available since Jan. 27, three days earlier!  Despite promises I would be contacted about results, I did not receive a call from the surgeon's office.

Dr. Mateja spared PK and me two and a half more days of spirit-crushing anxiety. He saved us from the heavy work of preparing to ask questions about treatment options, survival odds, and oncologists with melanoma expertise. His  great gift of peace of mind required about five minutes. He was going to call me, but I just happened to be there. He's not even my doctor. He's my friend.

Can't doctors be our friends? Our advocates? Of course they can, and many are. I'm not sure what happens, though, with doctors who neglect their patients' mental and emotional health. I am sure my surgeon did a great and thorough job on cutting me up, and with good results. I am grateful for his expertise, judgement, and the confidence and skill his job requires.

But did he care about me personally? Probably not. He doesn't know me, and I don't know him. And I guess, with surgeons, it doesn't matter, since you see them three times: consult, surgery, and post op appointment. What's the sense of establishing a relationship?

But still. I think all medical care providers need to respect that patients are often anxious to the max, to the point of nausea, to blowing up the blood pressure gauge, especially regarding cancer test results and staging. Sharing test results in a timely manner should be a top priority in medical offices. Not necessarily for routine test results, but certainly those upon which a patient's life may turn.

Medical office managers might consider providing a form to patients listing options about how they prefer to learn critical test results, and then making sure somebody has responsibility for contacting patients as a part of their job. I know it's complicated. Doctors don't have time; office staff lacks credentials to answer medical questions etc. etc. But there must be a solution.

I could have been informed via a simple text message or email that my results were good. I could have indicated that getting text results that way, good or bad, would be OK. I wish someone would have asked.

The point: Knowing is better than not knowing. It either provides relief or gives patients a starting point for life's next chapter.

At my post-op appointment Monday. I will thank the surgeon, but also inquire about the practice's protocol for informing patients about their test results. It isn't his job to worry about that, probably, so I may ask to talk with the office manager and/or practice administrator in an attempt go to bat for all patients whose lives get put on hold and whose brains go ballistic while awaiting potentially life-threatening results. Surely there's a way to handle this.

I will also be talking with the dermatology office, where the wait time between my biopsy and when I learned I had melanoma was 19 days. At least I wasn't stewing in stomach acid during that wait because I had no reason to think that melanoma cells were working on my back. Maybe there were excellent reasons it took so long to be notified. But maybe not.

⌘

Since publishing the first blog about the Cancer Club, I've been contacted by well over 100 people, including two local women who survived stage 4 metastatic melanoma.

The first has been out of the woods for 12 years. Unlike some melanomas, hers was treatable with chemotherapy, which continued for one year. She also had all lymph nodes removed from the groin of the affected leg. She still has check-ups every six months.

The other woman had the same diagnosis, but her disease was not treatable by currently available means. She wrote in a Facebook comment:

 I was diagnosed with full blown Stage IV melanoma in December 2012. There was nothing they could do for me in Medford. I was accepted into the IL-2 research program in Portland and we beat it - AND YOU WILL TOO. Call me, anytime, night or day.

The generous spirit of that last comment, call me anytime, night or day, and over-arching optimism, hopefulness and courage that  permeated the FB and blog comments, phone calls, private messages, mailed cards, on-the-street hugs and other communications were inspiring, heartwarming, and strengthening. Thank you all!!

Still in the Club

The Cancer Club is huge, a fellowship of support, compassion, shared experience and practical advice. The melanoma I was diagnosed with may be gone, but I'm still in the club. I'll be having dermatology exams every three months for awhile, and will always be on the alert for skin changes and other symptoms. I will never be the same.

If ever I have another medical test, the results of which could change my life, I will do as one friend advised regarding getting timely results. Eileen Amaranthus, whose husband, Michael Amaranthus is cancer free six years after a diagnosis of stage 4 esophageal cancer, learned how to be a bull-dog advocate:

I kept a journal and wouldn't leave the appointment, any appointment, without running through the following questions: who, what, where, WHEN, WHY, how long, what's the next step, what are other options, what aren't we asking? I'd take notes. It helped to be informed so you can ask specific questions. We requested a specific radiologist. We asked the oncologist's opinion about treatment options we'd heard about, and also, "If this was your husband, what would you do?" I always asked the oncologist why she chose the treatments she did. 

ASAP RESULTS 

As for getting timely test results, I was most definitely the squeaky wheel. I initially called every day. Now I do not leave the office until they tell who is reading the lab, who will get back to us, and how do I reach that person? My first point of follow-up is with Michael's primary care doctor. When results come to the primary care office, they are  faxed to us. (If results were slow) I would call their office and the lab until someone had an answer. 

I hope to tell Michael's story soon. It's an incredible tale of willpower, courage, intelligence, intention, discipline, doggedness, and getting the best of allopathic (traditional) and alternative medicine. It is a grand example of taking control of your own body and treatment in many respects, but also surrendering aspects of care that even the smartest individuals must leave to others. We can all learn from him, cancer or not.


Earlier Cancer Club Posts
Welcome the the Cancer Club - learning the terrible truth
It was a beautiful day in the Cancer Club's Limbo Lounge - making the best of waiting

It was a beautiful day in the Cancer Club's Limbo Lounge

                   My friend and neighbor Cecelia Schefstrom led me on a challenging hike to find an old mine
                   yesterday, the day PK and I would have been en route to Ecuador had we not been derailed by
                   my evil melanoma diagnosis. I have a hard time writing or saying that word.
                   We did great, I think, for women in our early 70s. Cel is amazing. She can read the forest, the
                    ridges, and the old skid rows from early logging. She spots cougar scat, game trails and, like
                   her mother leans, into the slopes with love of the land and a deep sense of place.
                   She's never afraid of getting lost. I may be able to hike faster, but I follow blindly with gratitude.  

This old mine shaft was the object of our search. It was a lovely day, but everything takes on "meaning" when one is installed in the Cancer Club's Limbo Lounge. Am I headed toward the evil black hole symbolized by this old mine shaft? Not that I'm aware of.

If anyone in the medical world knows the pathological results of my January 19 melanoma surgery, they have not shared the information, consigning me to the Lounge, where "not knowing" casts a pall at unexpected moments throughout the day (and the night!!) and anxiety gnaws on the brain. I'm almost getting used to the lounge since l've been in it since the initial diagnosis Dec. 29, 2015, which took 19 days to get to me!

Added to that, I'm approaching two weeks out from surgery where lymph nodes were biopsied, for God's sake. Isn't that  too long to wait to to learn whether you'll hop right back into your merry little ordinary life, or if you'll spend the next year or two in and out of treatment and, undoubtedly, a lot more long days and nights in the Limbo Lounge having your brain devoured by fear monsters? Is this normal? Does all cancer (and other) patients stop the clock awaiting test results?

Do all poor suckers who get punched by cancer also have to suffer from inattention from medical people? I spent many years of my professional life writing about compassionate care on behalf of medical clients. Now that I'm a patient, and not seeing any hint of compassion regarding timely results, or even communication about when to expect them, I'm thinking I should have talked with patients who weren't hand picked. But then I'd be working for news organizations, not public relations departments.

An earlier post explains about the melanoma and my induction into the Cancer Club.

Over the past tortuous month, I've decided not to wait for life to happen, but to make it happen. Inertia and depression are real and oppressive, but who would choose sitting around feeling sad all the time. Not me. Thus the past few days have been filled with friends, hikes, and so on. I'm past, I hope, the most traumatic part of this new reality, and ready to move on. No matter what happens. Both my middle fingers are raised in the direction of disease, and "bring it on" is on my lips. I can't choose what already exists. But I can choose to make the most of every day.

I met my longtime friend Cecilia Schefstrom at her place a mile away near the top of our shared country road, for our hike.  Cel, as she's called, was born there and, except for a few brief vacations, has never left. She is rooted to her tiny homemade octagonal home surrounded by typical and pristine southern Oregon woodlands. She's been wanting for years to lead me to an old mine in the hills above us, and today was the day.

Trails don't exist and the slope is challenging.

We set out with our walking sticks and her two dogs  at 10:30 a.m. to bushwhack our way straight up steep slopes to locate the gold mine that had  been forged in the late 1800s, early 1900s. Our gulch has a rich mining history, and far easier hikes deliver the curious to old shafts and even a gravity mill. Our road is named after a miner who messed around here before relocating to Arizona.  Now residents along our road mine the soil for nutrients to grow marijuana, although many also have vegetable gardens and raise chickens and goats and horses. Why horses? Beats me.

Cel tells me that this once-grand wood cook stove alerts us that we are 

not too far from the elusive mine, which she's seen only twice before and has not

been able to reocate on subsequent hikes.

This old wrought iron piece will last far longer than any of us.

Me at the entrance to the hidden mine. I'm smiling, but I'm scared of that sucker. Cel entered the shaft, but for lack of light, she stopped a few feet in. I  was put off by the symbolism. Plus it's a 100+-year-old mine shaft. I'm not going in there. I'm not nearly as brave as Cel is. Plus I need to save my courage for what may be coming.

Welcome to the Cancer Club

When a summons from the Cancer Club invades your emotional inbox, you avert your eyes, bow your head, and begin whatever passes for prayer in your world; Not me. Not now. Please.

When the phone call comes that confirms you've been inducted into the club against your will, you'll do just about anything to resign. Get me outta here! I want to go on with my life. I have PLANS, dammit!

But a cancer diagnosis isn't negotiable. If you have it, you deal with it. You stick it out. Not just your tongue and your attitude, but your perseverance. Your grit. Your spirit. I've seen too many friends die from cancer, and I am not saying they died because they didn't have enough gumption to fight it. They did.

Oh dear, my friends who died from cancer fought like crazy, fearsome spirited battles against their invisible and ultimately, invincible, enemy. Even determined troops of friends, families, and medical experts couldn't swing their battles. Dying from cancer isn't the victim's fault. It's not anybody's fault. It's just part of life, the dying part. You gotta go somehow, some way. You don't get to choose. (Except in Oregon, and some other states, you can choose to die earlier than the disease, whatever it is, dictates.)

I've also known many more who have beaten the disease, chief among them a Spartan cancer warrior  named Mike Amaranthus, who was diagnosed in the prime of his adult life with stage 4 esophageal cancer. He worked incredibly hard for his victory, and I hope to tell his story no matter what happens with me. (He's six years out from diagnosis, disease-free. He does something to fight cancer every three hours. Would you like to know what? Me too.)

Me? I am early in this game, a new club member. I'm not sure I'll have to stay and test myself against such a formidable invader. I hope not. I hope I can scamper on with my Ordinary (wonderful) Life and file this episode along with other bullets dodged, lessons learned, disasters avoided.

Here's a quick synopsis. And by the way, please don't refer to my experience as a journey. I love to travel to foreign places, but not this one.

December 10, 2015: routine annual dermatology exam. Small reddish raised mole-like spot found on lower right flank. I'd noticed it because it itched. Had it a few months, maybe longer. Shaved off for biopsy. Doctor states it appears to be a basal cell carcinoma. No sweat. Had  a couple removed previously. (Melanoma lesion arose from a a Spitz nevus. Rare in adults.)

December 11, 2015: I forget about the biopsy. The "lesion" looked nothing like melanoma images, and I was not worried. The doc said someone would call me in a few days with the biopsy results. A couple weeks later, I made a mental note that no one had called, so assumed everything must be fine. We continued with plans to help out with grandchildren's holiday child care during Christmas break in Reno, a 5-6 hour drive from our home in Southern Oregon. 

December 29, 2016: Beautiful bright blue sky day in Reno, out and about with the grandchildren. No reason to expect a lightning bolt. My cell phone barks. It's the dermatologist. In a rambling, almost apologetic fashion, he informs me, 19 days after my biopsy, that I have melanoma. He can't mean me, can he? Is he looking at someone else's pathology report? There must be a mistake.

He goes on about best and worst case scenarios: WORST -  the skin lesion that was biopsied could be a metastasis from somewhere else in my body. Metastasis is a hideous word. I have melanoma, and it may have already spread? Can you give me a break here, please?  BEST - The lesion was classified T1, which means it was small and found early. The surgeon, during a consult on January 6, said there's an 85 to 90 percent chance that the excision margins will be clean, as will sentinel lymph nodes that will be biopsied at the same time as surgery. If everything is cancer-free, I'm done. Except for skin exams every three months for a long time. (That metastasis thing weighs heavy despite the surgeon's favorable guess at odds.)

January 19, 2016: Surgery day, which begins in the nuclear medicine lab at the Rogue Regional Medical Center in Medford, OR, where I'm injected at the site of the melanoma lesion with four doses of radioactive dye in preparation for a sentinel node biopsy. If it wasn't me laying there scoping out all the technology employed on my behalf, it would have been interesting.

Isn't it just weird that I documented this? The bright light in the lefthand image is the melanoma site where a radiologist injected four doses of radioactive dye. Soon, the techs (and me, immobilized but comfortable beneath a giant scanner) can see the dye "draining" up into lymph nodes in my right armpit and breast. The sentinel nodes are those that collect the most radioactive material, and are the most likely places that the melanoma may have spread. The brightest two are taken during surgery later in the day. 

I watched the screens as lymph nodes in my armpit basin lit up. The techs seemed pleased that the images were clear, providing a good map for the surgeon to take the brightest nodes, those to which the melanoma may have "drained" malevolent kill-her cells.

Later, after surgery, the surgeon met with PK to say that things had gone well, there was "nothing obvious" to report, but that I should definitely not travel to South America the next week. (As planned Jan. 27-Feb.23. Plans be damned.)

January 24, 2016: I enjoyed a leisurely walk along the river this morning with seven girlfriends. Most of us have been friends for 40 years, or more. But just two know about the "problem" and are sworn to secrecy. Do I think if I don't tell people, it isn't really happening?

Up until this moment, providing I gather the courage to press PUBLISH, only family members and a few close friends, and some random people, know something bad may be lurking.

I understand now why people who get a grim diagnosis need time and space to process before they share what's going on. They don't want to talk about it because they have not yet accepted that it's real, and they are already consumed emotionally and don't want to dig deeper into the rabbit hole by having people ask them questions and look upon them with pity, or define them by the disease.

Not knowing the pathology results from surgery and lymph node biopsies is hell. WHY does it take so long!?

If the results are positive,  I will be a certified member of the Cancer Club. If negative, then life goes on, but not with the same spirit of invulnerability that I've always possessed. What was I thinking? Pretty sure I was going to live to 100, even if reluctantly.

It has been four business days and six actual days since surgery. We should know this coming week what lies in our immediate future. When I say "our" I'm talking about PK and me as a unit. He's  been incredibly supportive and suffers as much anxiety about this as I do. It's not quite so lonely having him with me. It's like we're holding hands beneath a cliff where a huge black rock is balanced on the edge. Either it will roll the other direction or crush us. Unless we somehow leap out of the way in the nick of time. That's hope for ya.

PK is more private than I am, and before I press "publish" I've made sure he's OK with this.

I guess I'm ready to say to the wonderful people who continue to read my blog, and to many dear friends, that I've been diagnosed with effing cancer, and that you may be hearing more about it.

Waiting for medical test results feels like a log has lodged sideways in your head, and an anvil is pressing on your neck, and your heart is trying to jam its way through your chest, and you think you're about to blow a gasket because you just want to know, dammit. 

I know one thing for sure, though. I'm not alone. And neither are you.

UPDATE:

Quick and Easy Low-carb Pizza

It makes me hungry to look at this. It required about 10 minutes to assemble and another 15 to bake.

Here's the key: Low-carb wraps or tortillas. These are available at most grocery stores in small-town Oregon, and they, or similar products, are likely  available anywhere in the USA and Canada. If you have a bit more time and an adventurous spirit, try cauliflower pizza crust. Unbelievably good! Zucchini pizza crust is also great, but requires more ingredients and a bit more prep time. Don Pancho ingredients include, in this order: water, whole wheat flour, oat fiber, wheat gluten, safflower oil, wheat bran, oat syrup solids, baking powder, and salts. No trans fat. 8 grams net carbs and 7 grams dietary fiber, 110 calories.

               My ancient pizza pan with holes makes all the difference  

          in producing a crispy crust. You can buy something similar here.
NOTE:DO NOT USE A PERFORATED PAN FOR CAULIFLOWER CRUST!

There is no set recipe for this quick meal. Assemble whatever ingredients you have on hand and get started. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Here's what I usually use:

• marinara sauce, reduced for a thicker spread
• pesto 
• chopped onions
• chopped peppers
• whatever leftover meat is on hand, usually no-nitrates cooked sausage, seasoned cooked hamburger, chicken, turkey
• kale, torn into pieces and microwaved on high until wilted, about 1 minute
• shredded Parmesan and/or other cheeses

Quality marina or pizza sauce is important.  This happens to be homemade from
last summer's tomatoes, but jarred commercial sauces are also good and can be
doctored for more flavor.

Spread pesto first, if using.

Add kale, spinach, or other cooked veggies. If using spinach
be sure to drain it well, squeezing out excess water.

Load it up with raw chopped veggies and meats. This one is topped with chopped raw onions and peppers, cooked kale, a bit of leftover sausage and turkey. I wait until after the pizza has been in the oven for about 10 minutes before applying cheese. Bake with cheese on top for another 5 - 7 minutes. The cheese should be well melted and the crust edges browned. Parmesan is always good, but I also use pre-grated cheeses straight out of the bag.

One pizza serves two along with a big green salad. Give it a try!

Cauliflower Crust Pizza (gotta try to believe. BUT do not use a perforated pan.)
Zucchini Crust for Pizza

Who Wants to be 100?

Note to email readers: Things look better if you click on the blog title to get to the website.

January 2, 2016
My mom would have turned 100 on January 1, and I miss her. I always thought she'd make it to the century mark, but she died in early September 2013, almost exactly six months from when I wrote this post in March of that year, after she'd relocated to a foster care home.  She entered hospice care soon thereafter. Stumbling upon it today brought back bittersweet memories of her final months, and even though it is old news.....maybe you can relate. Especially if you have a parent or two in their 80s or 90s. Or, if you are personally staring down those ages, and, given how we know that time runs at a hot pace, those years are not that far away.

March 2013
This week I'm moving my mom from assisted living to adult foster care. She'll get more one-on-one attention—exactly what she needs. She hates to be alone, and believe me, regardless of a manic and motivated activity director and kind caregivers in a facility occupied by 40-some residents, she has been most often alone. If not in her apartment, which she avoids, then sitting in the lobby or dining area, or navigating the long hallways in her wheelchair. Most evenings, I'm told, she yells for help, when all she really wants is company.

I'm glad that she knows how to ask for what she wants. No one wants to be lonely. No one deserves it. The loneliness of our elders is described in a heartbreaking song by John Prine. If you haven't heard it, please listen. I cry every single time, because I have seen those "ancient hollow eyes."

Since 2008 when PK and I moved her to Oregon from Minnesota, my mom has been a large part of my ordinary life,  and I visit four or five times a week. Still, I feel terribly guilty that she's yelling for help while I'm home just a mile away. Children of aging parents might relate. You love them, but you have a life.

Waiting. Endless waiting. She's waiting for me, mostly, as I am her only nearby family. But also for something to break the monotony. She can't read, watch TV, do the needlework she loved most of her life, play cards, or chat with other residents Her isolation, due to losing her sight and hearing is heartbreaking and haunts me. (It haunts me still, in 2016)

How has she lived so long? As doctors often remark, genes have a lot to do with longevity. Although her father died of appendicitis during kitchen-table surgery in 1920, her mother prevailed until age 98, even surviving surgery for a blocked colon at age 96. Her name was Dorothea, and what a trooper. I don't think anybody was more surprised at getting old. Gardner, painter, ceramicist, mother, wife, fisherwoman, clam digger, cook, poker player, thigh slapper, life lover. When she died at 98, it was a miserable process that began with a stroke that made it impossible for her to swallow. Let's not go there.

I'm approaching 70, inching closer to 90 as the previous decades recede into photos and memories. Amongst assisted living residents, I see surprise, sorrow, and resolve about the aging spiral. These people are old, but they're still present and wondering what the hell happened. They too were dancers, singers, artists, soldiers, cooks, circus performers, parents, grandparents, writers, investors, academics, recyclers, thinkers, lovers. They were lovers. Now they're survivors, some daring to peek around the corner at death and others refusing to accept reality. Some are diminished by dementia, which is, in a way, a protection. Who wants to be fully aware of the losses? Dementia blunts the hard truths and the sharp edges of hurt and need.

Back to my mom, LaVone. She has a greedy sweet tooth, and always has. But eating an outlandish amount of sugar hasn't drilled any holes in her life boat. So much for the sugar-free theory of longevity. In fact, except for being nearly blind, almost deaf, confined to a wheelchair, and suffering from extreme osteoporosis, she is the picture of health. She takes one mild prescription drug, low-dose aspirin and not much else. When caregivers attempt to give her prescribed anti-anxiety pills on nights that she calls out for help, she tosses them over her shoulder! Gotta love that spirit.

A year ago her young doc pronounced her sound, and noted that "her blood work looks better than mine." Ten years ago she had a panic attack and ended up having a cardiac workup. The cardiologist said she had the "heart of a 26-year-old." As of New Years Eve 2013, when she fell and spent five hours in the ER and had a battery of tests, all of which cost $5,000, (!!!!), everything still looks good.

Except, of course, for the vision, hearing, and mobility, which constitute quality of life. But vision, hearing, and mobility are unnecessary, apparently, for living to 100+, which I predict she will achieve. Dementia? She's been diagnosed as "mild."

She is 98 years and 3 months old. What's with the months? She told me around the time she turned 90 that the ninth decade is like the first, except rather than reaching achievement milestones, she'll be in reverse. Losing ground rather than gaining.

Well, she didn't say "achievement milestones." But her meaning was clear, and she was correct. We all know this happens, but seeing a parent age at warp speed is horrible. Well, hello. Seeing your very own self age at what seems to be warp speed is also a delicate topic. Isn't it?

My sister, Monette, on the right, with her son Micheal, and daughter, Lisa. That's

me with the lavender shirt. My father and mother share a headstone at Fort Snelling,

a military cemetery in Minneapolis.  We visited their graves in June 2015.

Looking back at the photos and words about my mom's life in Oregon, which she began at age 92, I see the bigger picture and remember all the good times she had, especially the first few years. After age 96, not so much. Several months before she died, she told me she was "ready to go, any time."
I have not written yet about my wonderful father, Floyd Strube, who died at 93, from kidney failure? We're not sure. One day he was on hospice care. The next day, he was gone. My mother always thought they killed him with morphine at the nursing home where he spent his final weeks. The last time I saw him, on a visit to Minnesota from Oregon, he complained of severe shoulder pain. He couldn't walk. He could barely chew food, as his dental appliances no longer fit. But one of the last things I heard him say? I want to go home. He did go home. If there's a heaven, he's there.

Other posts about time passing:
Time is too long for those who wait....
Happier times at age 93
The end of life...
But let's not forget about Pauline! Is 90 the new 70?

Christmas Cookies That May Be Better For You

Flourless choco-nut gems are not sugar-free but using a sugar substitute cuts the carbs and doesn't wreck the flavor.

This recipe came from the For the Love of Food blog.

I miss the carb-bomb labors of love Christmas treats my mom used to send every year all the way from South Dakota in TWO large batches: frosted melt-in-the-mouth sugar cookies in cut-out shapes; ginger and peanut butter cookies; Russian tea cakes; Chex mix, and the family favorite—Special K Bars which, in addition to the highly processed cereal, included peanut butter, a load of the dreaded high-fructose corn syrup, and a bag of chocolate chips melted on top.

Alas, over the past decade, I've become a serious carb-avoider. During my most dedicated periods, I try to limit myself to fewer than 30 unrefined carbs a day, which equals around two slices of bread. Notice I said "try." My intentions are noble but I often fail. Like at a party the other night. I won't go into details, but some failures are massive. Even a couple days of eating like a stereotypical overweight American makes me cringe at the scale, sending me straight into carb-correction mode.

I guess it's worked; I am not skinny, but my weight has fluctuated only a few pounds, up or down, from the day it dawned on me that refined carb reduction was my best bet for combatting creeping weight gain.

Still, I miss the cookies and went on a hunt for lower-carb alternatives. This post is sorta late to do any good for this holiday season, but I think these two recipes are transferrable to various celebrations throughout the year, and maybe even for lunchbox treats.
I have to admit I also reverting to one of my mom's type cookies, the nut-and-butter-rich Russian tea cakes, to bring to a post Christmas visit to our son and family. I know somebody there who loves them!

On to the goods!

As you can see, this oft-repeated recipe has gone through some revisions since my sister first sent it to me a few years ago.  These are really really good, even with substitutions.

Flourless Espresso Chocolate and Nut Gems

• 4 oz. bittersweet chocolate (or semisweet if you can't find bittersweet) chopped into medium chunks
• 1/2 stick unsalted butter
• 2/3 cup sugar, Splenda, or another sugar substitute. I get 22 rather than 24 mini-cupcakes using Splenda.
• 2 teaspoons vanilla
• 1 1/2 teaspoon espresso powder (sub instant coffee if you must)
• 3 large eggs, beaten
• 1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
• 1/2 cup ground walnuts or other nuts. Optional.
• 2 tablespoons powdered sugar. Optional.

Preheat oven to 375. Coat mini-muffin tin, or tins, with cooking spray. I used coconut spray, even though my 24-c tin is supposedly non stick. Combine the chopped chocolate and butter in a microwave-proof glass bowl and heat for two minutes, then one minute at a time, stirring after each minute until melted. Alternatively, use a double-boiler. Whisk in sugar or Splenda, vanilla and espresso powder, then whisk in eggs until well combined. Sift cocoa powder over the top and whisk until smooth. Stir in the ground nuts. Spoon mixture into mini-muffin tins, filling nearly to the top. Bake until cookies have risen, 8-10 minutes. Cool in pan on a rack for 10 minutes, then carefully remove from tin to a cooling rack. Sift powdered sugar lightly over the "gems."

I was able to find a 24-mini muffin tin; two 12-ers will also do the trick. Note

 two empty spaces due to using Splenda.

Walnuts ground up in a food processor. Discovery! When processing walnuts

in my Cuisinart, most of the bitter membranes in the nuts ended up on the

sides of the bowl and were easy to wipe out. 

ONE MORE! LEMON HEAVEN!


Lemon coconut cookies are lemon heaven, according to cavegirlcuisine.com, where this recipe originated.

Lemon Coconut Cookies

• 1/3 cup coconut flour
• 1/3 cup unsweetened coconut flakes
• 3 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
• 3 tablespoons lemon zest
• pinch of sea salt
• 3 tablespoons butter or ghee, softened
• 1 teaspoon vanilla
• 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
• 1/4 cup raw honey

Cool the dough for a half hour in the refrigerator. (My addition to the recipe!)
Preheat oven  to 350. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. (Do not skip this step!)
Mix all ingredients until well blended. Place one tablespoons of batter at a time on the baking sheet about two inches apart. Place another piece of parchment paper, or wax paper,  over each mound of batter in turn, pressing with the bottom of a glass to flatten to about 1/8 inch thickness. Bake for 12 minutes. Let cool for five minutes then transfer carefully to a cooling rack. Cookies that aren't immediately consumed should be stored in the freezer.

Note: These cookies are a bit fragile. Handle with care. They're great eaten right out of the freezer.

Other lower carb, may-be-better-for-you desserts

Berries Crisp - you'd have to use frozen this time of year, but still great!
Avocado, chocolate and peanut butter pudding or pie. Fantastic. You have to try to believe. 

Dialing Back Christmas

The swaddled trees symbolize, sorta, what I've done with Christmas; wrapped it up. But wait! There's hope.

Soon after the Halloween pumpkins disappear, the Thanksgiving turkeys have been devoured, and Black Friday has sucked in an army of discount-sock buyers, I curl into an inert lump with a sign on my butt saying, "Wake me when it's over."

I am so done with Christmas, which, of course, is an unacceptable noun in our Happy Holidays culture. This national vocabulary revision occurred over decades, during which I morphed from a child bedazzled by Santa, Jesus, Christmas trees, and sugar cookies, to a 30-something mother successfully replicating the elaborate Christmases provided by my cookie-baking, gift-making, party-giving, decorating-dervish mother, into an, ahem, older woman, adverse to most things Christmas.
It wasn't always thus.

For about a dozen years, PK and I hosted a Christmas Eve celebration with numerous local families whose close relatives lived far away, as did ours. Visits from Santa and the elves—who arrived atop the local fire department's truck—loud off-key carol singing, extra special recipes, outrageous feasting, funky family performances, and delighted young children, made Christmas eve a memory-making fun fest.

Then the kids grew up, and when teen eye-rolling occurred, it wasn't quite as much fun. Our tradition faded over a few transitional years, as things do, when their time passes. As our annual party gradually faded away, so did my enthusiasm for decorating, baking, hosting, and for damn sure, gift giving.

Decades ago, my one and only sibling and I agreed to a binding no-gift policy, although we fretted together annually over gift options to honor our parents, who never indicated they weren't interested. My mom decorated for Christmas, and she sent cards, with my help, through age 98. She died before she turned 99, but I'm sure, that had she lived, we would have continued to consult her ever-dwindling card list, write greetings,  and slap stamps onto festive envelopes.

As for gifts, I can't remember the last time PK and I exchanged them. We don't need or want anything except to travel, and to spend time with our grandchildren, so what's the point of buying something that the other person doesn't need and likely doesn't want, and can certainly do without? And forgets? Giving out of obligation isn't really "giving." What's the point?

Exactly. There is no point, except to buy into the crazy shopping culture built up around the season.
Over the past 30-some years, my attitude about the "season" has deteriorated to nearly complete rejection, especially for most of the trappings and expected behaviors. The season of obligation? Of credit-card maxing, terrible sweaters, sugar bombs, pajama overload, nauseating Muzak carols, and plastic toys? No, thank you! I know I'm not alone.

An aging relative said in a recent email:

Christmas is coming so fast and I am not ready and have no excuse. It is a lot of work for one day. I think we need to go back to the true meaning of Christmas instead of making it a season.   

A long-time friend announced:
We're getting out of town, out of the country, away from all this craziness.

Another, whose house is usually ablaze with lights:
I can't do it anymore. It's too much work and my electric bill goes way up.

On the other hand, I got a "holiday letter" this week from a longtime friend, JoAnne Heron, who said this:

It will take an extra dose of intention to make holiness a part of the season, knowing that there is so much desperation and environmental degradation in this world. One has to work hard to be positive and have perspective in this blessed time of year… diligent, to absorb and live the lessons of the Child for whom this season was named. And really, the only way I can deal with it is to take responsibility for myself, to love fully, to create beauty, tread lightly on the earth, and be as kind of possible to all. 

Her words gave me pause, and I reviewed the decades to see what Christmas behaviors/traditions I might resurrect, what made a difference to others and also made me feel good and right with the world. And, what I can once and for all shed.

What I'm Over 

Obligatory gift giving 
I make exception for the grandchildren, who have no unmet needs except, perhaps, the continuing adoration of their grandparents made manifest in wrapped packages. We must do our part. It is our privilege to spoil them.

Shopping of almost any kind, (except at local family businesses and for groceries and gas) between Black Friday and December 26 because the traffic is crazy, parking lots are ram fests, people are stressed and cranky, the piped in Christmas music is nauseating, and it's all so outside of what the pure Christmas spirit is all about.

Christmas trees.  No more for us. Our property is already festooned with at least 30 now-mature former live trees. We've never purchased a harvested tree, but applaud friends who've made hunting down their own tree in the forest a family tradition. The fake tree doesn't cut it, either.
We've taken the past couple years to decorating house foliage, this year, a snake plant.

A  house plant doubling as Christmas tree.

Christmas music.  I once loved traditional Christmas carols. Years ago I bought a used piano so I could play carols for our Christmas Eve party, but sold it about 10 years ago. Carols piped into nearly every shopping space has ruined them for me. Last year I attended a sing-along Handel's Messiah concert, and even that didn't induce the Christmas spirit, although I'll always love the Hallelujah chorus. In closing, I have one thing to say about commercial Christmas music: Alvin and the Chipmunks.  Go ahead and click. I dare you!

Christmas cards and letters. I gave up the card business years ago, although I assisted my elderly mother for the last seven Christmases of her life in writing notes on cards and addressing envelopes. She loved getting cards. I still love getting Christmas letters, even if they're smarmy or bragging. Every single one, whether emailed, snail-mailed, or delivered in person, is read and read again.

However, I may have written my last one. Here's the deal. I write this blog and also post umpteen photos of our travels on Facebook. I don't need to do any more communicating. Life has been good, and our sons and grandchildren are spectacular, and even though I don't mind if others boast, I need to get over it myself. My past holiday letters have too much family chest thumping, although innocent. If I were to write a letter this year, I'd mention that PK did require a hip replacement, but it went so well, it's hardly worth mentioning. Especially if your hip replacement wasn't the best, as his was. And if your children and grandchildren aren't as magnificent as ours are, well, what the hell's wrong with you? See what I mean?

What I'm Keeping

Charitable giving.  Non profits want to take advantage of the holiday spirit, plus tax time is coming up for those charitable gift deductions. Be generous. Local non profits desperately need your support.

Giving out of pocket to homeless and others.  Bedraggled people begging at freeway ramps or around shopping centers are people just like us, but whose stories we probably can't fathom or know. A woman near a shopping center last week displayed a sign saying something like, "I'm not trash. I am down on my luck." I rolled down the window and handed her a bill. She cried as she thanked me.

At any point in most of our lives, it could have been us not being "trash".  Give, give, give. Street corners, soup kitchens, school backpack drives, gift trees, toy drives, food collection points, gifts for nursing home residents, for housebound people, for families living in cars or people sleeping on cardboard over heating vents. At no time of the year is the disparity between what "we" have and what "they" have more apparent or sobering. Hand a $20 bill to a downtrodden somebody standing with a sign in the cold rain or snow and see how that makes you feel. You won't miss the $20, but you'll make his or her day and provide a meal or two. Or maybe a beer or two? Not for us to judge.

Baking - I made sugar cookies decorated with colored frosting for years. Baked Mexican wedding "cakes" and stirred up rich dark chocolate fudge. The grandchildren don't know this, but their parents do. And the parents say no to sweets. But I decided to defy them. My wonderful mother, every Christmas, sent boxes of homemade treats. I still have some of her packing tins. We're all trying to escape sugar and flour, but I'm going to search for healthier treats and our grandchildren may someday remember their Christmas treat-providing grandma!

Countering evil in the world. That's a formidable job, given the vitriol and fear that's surging in the global consciousness, but if millions take it on, maybe a vibe will gather in the ether and a giant tuning fork in the unending universe will vibrate waves of harmony toward earth. Part of contributing to this harmony is being a good friend, a loving partner, parent, and grand parent. It's also about being non judgmental, forgiving, generous and remembering, even if you are without religious faith, to love your neighbor as yourself, to be kind and tenderhearted. As John Lennon sang,  Imagine.  We can live as one.

Lights!  Nothing to argue with there. Put 'em up, even if you believe in nothing but the flickering human spirit. Light up the winter darkness, illuminate your living room or kitchen or bedroom or yard. Combat the gloom with brightness and color. If you admire Jesus, remember what he said about forgiveness and loving your enemies. Carry the light.

And hey, have yourself a merry little Christmas!

This is it! Christmas at our house 2015. One room decked out in lights. A houseplant serving as a "tree", a few candles, some incense, fresh greens, and blues, jazz and rock n' roll on the sound system.  And in our hearts, perhaps more kindness, more understanding, more forgiveness, more tuning into universal goodness because we know it exists, call it what you will.

Spiralized Sweet Potato Fries and How to Use A lot of Zucchini

                           Spiralized sweet potato "fries" roasted at 425. Recipe below. 

I rarely get so excited about a kitchen gadget that I promote it. I'm not saying that just because I'm smitten with the spiralizer, you should run right out and buy one. It took me a year to respond, with my credit card, to a friend who alerted me to this clever device that is now my second best friend in the kitchen, my bestie being my food processor,which happens to be a Cuisinart.

My friend even loaned me her spiralizer because she was certain that if I used it, I would rush forth with the plastic card. I  admit I didn't even try the damn thing before returning it to her. Why? I was attempting to purge possessions, not accumulate them. Also, as I saw it, the spiralizer would hog a significant chunk of kitchen storage and be just another piece of plastic about which to feel guilt and remorse. So I returned it to my friend saying, thanks, but no thanks. 

Then zucchini season reared up. As usual, I gave away or tossed into the compost an embarrassing poundage of zucchini flesh. (Somehow, we always have way too much zucchini, even when we limit ourselves to two or three plants.) Then I remembered the spiralizer, and in desperation, used Amazon Prime to have one delivered within a couple days. And then the fun began! The poor neighbors, and others upon whom I'd foisted excess produce, no longer had to feign enthusiasm for zucchini; I actually was able to use most of it. Yes. We ate a TON of zucchini, but as noodles, and somehow, that makes a difference.

This is my Padrone spiralizer with a perfect zucchini transformed into noodles. You don't think zucchini noodles will cut the mustard? I was worried, as PK is a skinny bastard who doesn't need to cut carbs or calories and is sorta turned off by veggie noodles, and I am a hanging on for-dear-life-to a-reasonable-weight-70-year-old-size 12. Fortunately, I'm, not yet in a vegetative state. We reached a compromise with a 2/3 zuke and 1/3 "real" pasta blend. I later got rid of the "real"pasta, and he failed to notice.

Zucchini noodles quick frying in a little olive oil and salt.

Zuke noodles are joined by cooked "real" noodles. The zuke noodles came from a large zucchini while the pasta was a scant handful before it was boiled. Obviously, the pasta swells and the zucchini shrinks. This is indicative of what happens when we eat pasta (swell) and when we eat zucchini (shrink.)

The real pasta boils on the back burner as I test the zucchini noodles for "al dente" with  a hand which appears to be on loan from a wax museum, 

Obviously, the pasta swells and the zucchini shrinks. This is indicative of what happens when we eat pasta (swell) and when we eat zucchini (shrink.)

Zucchini was the obvious first choice for veggie noodles, but once the zucchini plants up and died, I moved on to potatoes, sweet potatoes, and beets. And according to food bloggers, I'm just getting started. For recipes and in-depth info, check out this blog and get a steady stream of recipes and ways to use the spiralizer. In addition to noodles, it can also slice veggies into thin rounds.

The sweet potato fries are great! Easy, tasty, nutritious. Here they are with a salmon patty sandwich and a green salad with avocado. Recipe below.

The spiralizer seems to work best with firm veggies 3-4 inches in diameter. Cut them into lengths of six or seven inches, or more, depending upon your model. The Paderno is good and costs around $35. I like it because it has super good suction to hold it in place while processing, comes with three interchangeable blades, and is easy to use and to clean. 

The object in the forefront is what's left of a sweet potato after spiralizing—a stump and a core. The pile of noodles is atop parchment paper on a baking sheet almost ready to pop into the oven. All it needs is a couple tablespoons of olive oil and a sprinkling of salt and pepper. 

SWEET POTATO ROASTED FRIES

For two hungry people

• 1 large sweet potato. Choose one that is relatively straight and about 3 to 3.5 inches in diameter.
• olive oil, about 2 tablespoons
• salt and pepper to taste
• pepper flakes, optional

Directions

Preheat the oven to 425.
Spiralize the sweet potato. You will need to cut it to fit for spiralizing.
Snip the noodles into lengths of your choice, or not.(Some people love long curly fries, but they take longer to roast and may not cook as evenly as snipped noodles.)

Cover a large baking sheet with parchment paper. Spread the oiled noodles over the paper and salt and pepper to taste. Add pepper flakes if you like them. Roast for 10 to 12 minutes, then check for doneness. Use tongs to turn, and roast another 10 minutes, watching closely so they don't burn.

The sweet potatoes may also be fried, preferably in a cast-iron skillet. But this requires closer attention and more oil. However, the fries will be crunchier.

Ready to try a spiralizer? You can't go wrong.

The Pot Grow Next Door

Marijuana farmers don't claim to have a farm, but a "grow." We know about this because one, we share a fence with a "grow" and two, Southern Oregon and Northern California - the State of Jefferson - is a premier pot-growing region.

This guy, part of the pot-grower-next-door group, is surrounded by mature marijuana plants,. He looks kinda gnarly, but he doesn't give off bad-guy vibes at all. He's a friendly smiley local who went to high school with our oldest son and now makes a living from one of the Northwest's most sought-after legal products. The money and the goods are in the buds, easily visible at the top of the stalks.

In case you don't keep up with marijuana laws, it is legal to grow and possess pot in Oregon for recreational or medicinal purposes.We're not alone, with Colorado, Washington and Alaska joining the pot renegade movement. But the trend has not exactly resulted in a national change of heart.

Legalize It: Marijuana Arrests Skyrocket As Nation Moves TowardsLegalization

The InquisitrOct 07 12:17 PM

Four states and the District of Columbia have legalized marijuana while 23 other states have eased restrictions, but federal agents are still arresting people caught with the drug in record numbers. During 2014, marijuana arrests skyrocketed with someone being charged with possession every 45 seconds, the FBI announced last week. That’s 1,700 people a day.... Read more » Legalize It: Marijuana ...

So despite the fact that pot is a fact of life here in Oregon, pot is still contraband in much of the USA. I'm sad that taxpayer dollars continue to be spent to catch, prosecute and imprison US citizens who grow or use pot. What a horrific and stupid waste of resources, human and otherwise.  The only threat legal marijuana growers pose is to the Mexican drug cartels, representatives of which I guess are now skipping Oregon, at least for marijuana sales.

We've had a  pot grow next door for going on four years, and it hasn't made a bit of difference to us, except the, uh, aromas, at harvest time. Which is as we speak are wafting my way in great drifts of fragrance. Some would say "blasts of skunk spray." 

It isn't as if we're buddies with the growers. We actually just went over there for the first time a couple days ago.

The fence had held us back. As Robert Frost noted in his beloved poem, Mending Wall, about fences;  Something there is that doesn't love a wall.  Fences are all about barriers.

Those tall solid pot-grow fences did the trick for us. We sometimes parked the tractor near the fence and climbed up on the seat to peek over the fence, curious, but reluctant to intrude, thinking the pot growers next door were secretive and somehow nefarious. We could hear their music and their voices, but without eye contact, we had little to go on.

There's no way to accidentally see a marijuana grow in Oregon because laws insist that all evidence that a grow exists must be hidden behind a tall solid fence. No way to hide the tippy-top buds this time of year, however. So even though you can't see the actual plants most of the growing season, you know the pot is there because of the fences. They are everywhere in southwestern Oregon, which with our Mediterranean climate, is ideal pot cultivation terrain. 

When we visited, I learned that our neighbors started their operation three years ago with medicinal plants and continue to grow for medical marijuana cardholders. By "neighbors" I mean the ones with whom we share a fence, not our other "neighbors" on our one-mile dusty and rutted country road where the "grow" count ranges from five to fifteen, depending upon whom you ask. One tweaker sort of gal who lives near the end of the road, says she thinks there are 17 grows along our road, most of them hidden in the forest.

(I picked her up hitchhiking a few days ago when we had this conversation. She had a day off from cleaning motel rooms. She'd asked to work, but got her day off anyway. What was she going to do? "I have nothing to do," she confessed. " I'll drink my beer (which she'd walked two miles into town to buy) and go to bed." It was before noon. I realize it  seems judgmental to tell that story. But I'm not judging, just feeling sad for a person, who, if she isn't cleaning motel rooms, has nothing to look forward to.)

Mid-October is prime pot harvest and also means "cleaners" are coming from hither and yon to meticulously separate the chaff from the grain, the leaves from the buds. It's only the buds, baby. Everything else is compost. 

Snip, snip, snip. Hours upon hours. Lots of labor goes into producing pot.

We can see the tallest plants and their burgeoning buds from our side of the fence. Smell em, too. 

Control central for watering and fertilziing an estimated three dozen extravagant pot plants exuding a heady, so to speak, aroma that some neighbors complain is skunky. I like the smell. It's rich and earthy. Not unlike strong coffee or diesel fumes.

This year our neighbors grew several varieties in order to avoid having to harvest and clean them all at the same time, which last year drove them to the brink, The colorful names include Blue City Diesel(??), Reserve? I should go over there and look again. Purple Dream, Monkey Balls and several more. The various strains produce a staggered harvest, so to speak.The different varieties are also said to have different medicinal benefits. 

This variety may have a pep-up effect? Or perhaps the name refers to the shape of the buds? 

Or the smell?

They're growing big and they ARE home. Our neighbors. We're OK with them.