It's not cancer.

If you live long enough, there will come a time when you await a call from your doc regarding test results, and one of the results could be that you have cancer. PK turned 60 in June, and he is fortunate to have escaped this drama until now.
A week ago he had a routine physical. He's been worried that "something's wrong" because he's so damn skinny, which means he's worrying about having cancer. He is skinny, that bastard, while I wrestle with adipose. But he doesn't have cancer. That was confirmed today when his primary care FNP called with the good news that he has a kidney stone. Compared with cancer, a kidney stone is like learning you have to eat potatoes for a week rather than learning that you have to eat shit forever.

And when Mr. Kennedy learned he had brain cancer last year, he became one of the millions whose fate was not much changed by the cancer war. Despite billions that have been spent, the death rate from most cancers barely budged. New York Times, Sept. 4, 2009

But back to the beginning. A routine physical. A clean bill of health declared—or surmised. Then, a few days later, a confirmation that his test results were "all normal". And then, a few days later, an urgent notification that blood in the urine was discovered and an appointment for a CAT scan would be made for him the following day. And so he went to the hospital and was slipped into the CAT scanner for a few minutes, at a cost of about $1,300, of which we will pay a $750 deductible regardless of paying over $1,000 each and every month for private health insurance. But you do these things and pay this money because it could be cancer.

We go right to the Internet. There are no good options for blood in the urine, especially for a man of his age. Bladder, kidney, or prostate cancer. It could be a bladder infection, or a few other non life-threatening and unlikely options. We zero in on the idea that maybe he's pressed his privates into bicycle seats so often, including a 25-mile ride a few hours before he had the CAT scan, that blood was somehow forced into his urinary tract. We clung to this idea. But we saw not a word about kidney stones on the Internet.

So what do you do? You have the CAT scan. You await test results. You put your life on hold. If the call comes, and the news is bad, your life changes. Your focus is directed entirely at battling the cancer, which, of course, is a battle in which humans have not gained much ground since statistics have been compiled. I've seen too much cancer already, and I know this.

I'm writing on the same day that we learned the test results. (If the FNP had the results yesterday, why didn't she call?) I'm writing now because I know that by tomorrow, I'll have almost forgotten. Just like I've almost forgotten the time that I had "post menopausal bleeding" and was threatened with one of those horrible uterine biopsies, but didn't have it for reasons that include the availability of detailed online info about almost anything medical. And then there's every mammogram. And every Pap smear. The body can turn bad at anytime, and as we age, it most certainly will. But we hope later rather than sooner. And we hope it isn't cancer.

Sunflower Love

Here's PK snuggling up to some of our proudest specimens. The best thing about this garden forest? It was planted by BIRDS, and lots of them. Come spring, sunflowers will once more leap from the soil, and I will again transplant most into groupings, as I did with this bunch. Since the original plants had cross-pollinated like crazy, I had no idea what they'd look like. They did not disappoint. And the birds are jubilant.Here are a two from the clouds of American and lesser goldfinches that descend, chirruping in glee, upon our garden everyday. These seed-eaters adore the sunflowers, but are haphazard about consuming each and every seed. The ones they drop all over the place turn into next year's stars. About a third of our large garden is bird-planted or wind-planted, especially lettuce, which appears in random patterns in sometimes-shocking sizes:
This succulent head is nearly 24-inches across and tasted as wonderful as it looks. Dill is another garden commodity that we no longer plant because it emerges as if propelled by partying earthworms and seeded by rockin' robins: And flowers? I still plant a lot of annuals and perennials, but this year the landscape was dominated by rangy four-foot tall volunteer marigolds, which bear scant resemblance to their hybrid predecessors, and reliable four o'clocks, which jumped in with enthusiasm.
But back to the garden rock stars. The acrobatic finches hang down to satisfy their insatiable avian appetites.
The finches have a darting and undulating flight habit, dodging amidst the hummingbirds, who plummet and soar and hover and thrill while extracting nectar from the asters, cosmos, marigolds, and more. Every now and then, blue jays invade and intimidate. But overall, it is an ecstatic scene, and standing quietly in the morning garden is a deep pleasure. But wait. There's more!This sunflower is over 16 inches across. The blue jays covet it, chasing the finches off. Probably the seeds are too large for the finches anyway. This variety is the only sunflower we planted from seed. PK chose it because of its density and hugeness of the seedhead. Later he'll hammer what remains of the dried seedheads to the fenceposts as easy pickings for the birds when they really need a boost. However, here's how these depressed and frustrated sunflowers look now:That's right. They are sunflowers that can NOT follow the sun. How pathetic. They are so heavy, that except for the one mutant, they're unable to adore the sun as sunflowers are programmed to do. It will be interesting next year to see if any of this variety volunteers. I was surprised to see this one come back from 2008:One single shaggy sunflower plant (with numerous flowers) emerged about 20 yards from where it grew last year, and I am so happy! It makes a great cut flower,and the bees enjoy it, but I'm not sure about the finches, jays, chickadees, nuthatches and such, which are more attuned to the "garden" variety. Fall is upon us. The sunflowers will dwindle, but until the end of October, the birds will rule the garden. And this is what will sustain them: Thank you, sunflowers.

Eggplants to burn

The garden overfloweth, and the six eggplant factories in row two between the Brandeywines and the basil just keep pumping out purple/black shiny things. I marinate. I grill. I stir fry. But mostly, I make eggplant Parmesan, which is so much easier when you skip the salting-the-sliced-eggplant-then-rinsing-and-drying steps and also the dredging-in- flour-or-crumbs part.

I omitted the flour/crumbs step because of my carb-avoidance behavior, but discovered that dipping the slices in a beaten egg and frying in olive oil is just as good, if not better, than the carb-dredging routine. Oh joy! I left out the salting part when I was in a big rush and discovered THAT doesn't matter either. So right there you lop off 15 or 20 minutes and all those evil carb calories.

My eggplant Parmesan recipe is simple:
2-4 eggplants depending on size
olive oil for frying
2 beaten eggs
grated Parmesan and mozzarella cheeses, as much as you like
salt & pepper to taste
a quart or more of good marinara (I make my own. Another topic, another day. But here's part of what goes in it.)

Slice the eggplants about 1/2 inch thick. Dip slices in the beaten egg and fry on both sides til soft and golden. Don't throw away leftover egg; fry it and add to the casserole. Spoon a layer of sauce in a 13x9 inch pan. Layer the eggplant on the sauce, top with a mix of cheeses. Put the next layer of eggplant on the cheese, then top generously with sauce. Bake at 350 for 25 minutes. Remove from oven and top with cheese, mostly Parmesan, and return to the oven for 5 to 10 minutes, til cheese is melted.

There you have it - the mighty Rogue!

This is the Rogue at Horseshoe Bend, just around the corner from where PK and I camped earlier this month on the first night of a three-day trip down the Wild & Scenic section. The Rogue is known as a "family river" because it has just two Class 4 rapids but the rest of it is easy Class 2 and a little tougher Class 3, and much of its 33 miles looks a lot like this - flat, green, and gorgeous. Isn't it weird and terrible that I'm bored with it?

Because it was just the two of us, as opposed to the group thing we've done on approximately 150 other Lower Rogue trips over the past 30 years (Is that why it no longer thrills?), we tucked in behind a shade rock on a patch of sand not previously considered camp-able beneath a wide bench that's the popular Horseshoe Bend camp. On this afternoon, it was swarmed by a diverse commercial group, by which I mean that there were black people! The first I've seen on the Rogue ever!

One sorry thing about Southern Oregon is that we're racially/culturally homogeneous. We do have a growing Hispanic population, but our gradations are more along the lines of white trash, whiter trash, Rushbots, and right-wingnut conservative NRA "we don't like them other news organizations" types, in addition to all of all us other really big, cool, and excited white people.

We waved at our neighbors en route to the potty, which is on the far side of their camp and a major benefit in hunkering down within walking distance (but not earshot) of another group. Without the potty, we're honor-bound to pack out our crap. And we have what we need to do it, thanks to the "checkers" at the Rand permit check-in office.

I remember the pre-permit and pre-regulation days—the late 1970s— when i was rowing an old yellow Maravia raft while PK kayaked his blue Perception Dancer, and we always went with groups of 6-16. We dug fire pits and toilet holes. We cleaned up after ourselves in those days without BLM regulators, but we were greeted at numerous camps by stinky toilet paper gardens and firepits studded with trash.

Because anybody could go on the river at any time and do anything (we heard gunshots, saw fireworks), we jockeyed for camps and once ended up settling after 8 p.m. for a patch of sand stinking of dead salmon and with the warning "BEARS!!" scratched into the sand. We heard them all night—we all slept together around the fire for protection—and in the morning a mama and two cubs rambled through our breakfast en route to the salmon. We clanged pots and pans and yelled to no avail, and finally settled on rock-top observation posts and enjoyed the wildlife show. It was one of my best river trips. But that was then.....

Even through I abandoned an 18-year tradition of annual women-only raft trips and have somewhat grudgingly agreed to go with PK at least once a year, here's what I still love about the Lower Rogue.

• The color of the water and the diamond-y sparkle of it in early morning, late afternoon.
  
• The way the river smells - rich & musty, yet fresh, especially going through rapids.
• The osprey, eagles, bears, fish, and even the rattlesnakes. I don't really LIKE seeing the snakes, but when I do, it is always a big surprise and it doesn't hurt to scream like that every now and then.
  
• Camping. I like camping almost no matter where. I like cooking outside and I don't even care if it's windy or raining, so long as there's a kitchen tarp.
• Being in the wilderness. The Rogue is designated as such, even though you'll see people, including huge commercial boatloads of them below Blossom Bar jetting up from the coast.
  
• It's mostly quiet, though, except for the wind and the water and the birds.
• It's familiar. It's our backyard. Our sons grew up here. Well, one grew up. The other is still either on a river somewhere or thinking about it.
  

What I don't like and why I gave it up, much to the consternation of my former women's trip raft passengers, Laurie & Jeanne, and PK:

• Sitting for five or six hours a day, even if I'm rowing. So it isn't just the Rogue that's off my list, but almost any river. This is the most important reason, and why I now hike much of the Rogue River trail while the rest of my group is rafting.
  
• The sun and excessive heat. I don't like it anymore and never was a sun worshipper.
  
• Schlepping heavy coolers and gear over rocks and up steep banks, and the bruises and dings I invariably get doing so.

Ok. I'm done whining. Here's a look at the two class 4 rapids.
This is the entry to the mile-long Mule Creek Canyon. Those rocks are ominously named The Jaws, and the upper part of the rapid is The White Snake.






This is where you don't want to swim. Bad as it looks, it's pretty easy rafting and the only people who've drowned here are idiots without lifejackets who, incidentally, are often drunk.
More of the narrows.

Here's a boil in the infamous, at least to Rogue rafters, Coffee Pot, a surging piece of water that can suck down a raft tube and gives driftboaters a thrill. And some dents. Years ago Paul flipped his kayak here and when he tried to pull off the spray skirt while upside down, the ball came off in his hand. He was underwater a long time prying off the skirt, and I was sitting in an eddy with my heart in my throat, wondering how I'd raise Quinn alone. (pre-Chris days)



This is the top of Blossom Bar, the second Class 4 of the trip and about one mile downstream from Mule Creek. When entering Blossom at lower flows (around 2,000 CFS), this is what you see. Those rocks where the water is piling up are called the Pickett Fence. They're not terribly difficult to avoid, especially at this water level, but this is the exact spot that most people drown on the Lower Rogue. Don't freak out. A tiny percentage has any problem whatsoever. But sometimes boats flip or get pinned on the Pickett Fence, and people can get trapped in the rocks. For safe passage, you head straight for the unseen-in-this-photo narrow passage on the right, although the route can change at higher water.
Looking back upstream in Blossom, there's the Pickett Fence with the pour-off on the left that you want to get a boat through. Sure looks easy, huh? According to my son the extreme and crazy kayaker, this is SO nothing. But to most rafters, driftboaters, and kayakers, Blossom Bar is a significant challenge. It scared me every time I rowed it—at least 100 times—but now that I've given up the river except for maybe once a year as a special favor to PK, I can enjoy it for the adrenalin boost.
And finally, here's a salmon gulping cool fresh water where Rum Creek flows into the Rogue. It's a hot August day, the river is low, and even though fish are jumping, there are a lot of belly-up salmon. They don't go to waste. We saw a bear taking a huge fish up the bank into the woods across from Horseshoe Bend, and a bald eagle carrying one high above the river. I can't argue with the wonder of such sights.

Tomato & corn extravaganza

That’s my mom Lavone, age 92-and 7-months old, salivating over a slightly under-ripe Brandywine weighing in at one pound 9 ounces. (LaVone insists that after age 90, the number of months should be added to one’s age because 90 is when the months start counting a lot again, just like when it was a big deal if you were one year or 18-months old. More about that another time.)

Anyway, the garden is pumping out tomatoes like crazy. CRAZY. Paul picked about 70 pounds of tomatoes Sunday (Gee - wonder what I'll be doing today....) and that's just the beginning. I'm already feeling rich with tomatoes for winter and will soon be firing up the food dryer and hauling out the veggie roasting pan, and maybe even the pressure cooker. In the meantime, we have all the fixens for the best summer salads, like this extravagant delight.
It's called "tomatoes and marinated veggies with corn-raft garnish," and is from writer/artist Jan Roberts-Dominguez's syndicated food column, which I read in the Medford Mail Tribune. I rarely follow a recipe to the T, so here's Jan's renamed and abbreviated recipe with the modifications that saved me a trip to the grocery store and let me use one of those monster tomatoes plus a bunch of fresh sweet stuff from the garden.





Hot damn tomato/corn salad with marinated veggies
1 medium-sized cuke, sliced. No need to peel a fresh burpless cuke.
8-10 sweet small peppers, any color, cut into pieces, seeds removed. (Jimmy Nardello's sweet Italian is what I used. An Italian heirloom and sooooo good.)
1 med-sized sweet onion, chopped
3 ears corn, cooked, cooled & cut off the cob
1-2 large Brandywine or other heirloom tomatoes, sliced. (Jan's recipe calls for4 large tomatoes, but maybe her's didn't weigh nearly 2 pounds each.)
4-6 ounces crumbled blue cheese (good, but next time I'll use feta.)

Combine the cukes, peppers, and onion toss with a liberal amount of vinaigrette. Marinate for about 3 hours. (Use a bottled Italian-type dressing, or make your own like I did from Jan's recipe for dilled vinaigrette. Either way, add some fresh dill and/or a dollop of pesto. )

Boil the corn for a couple minutes, cool, then slice off the cob in chunks, like in the photo.

Slice the tomatoes and arrange in a single layer on a large plate. Use a slotted spoon to dish the marinated veggies over the tomatoes, then carefully place the corn on top of all. Crumble some blue or feta cheese on there and prepare to dazzle those lucky enough to be around your summer-harvest table.