A steady stream of social workers, clergy, doctors, nurses, psychiatrists, blood specialists and hospice reps have come through with professional counsel. All of them have urged her to get treatment. Mom responded by thanking them for coming. Accepted their prayers and good wishes, seized on scraps of information that suited her, then ignored their advice. Instead, she regaled them with amusing, proud anecdotes about her grandchildren and her deep admiration for Dr. Oz. Mentioned that she drank her milk that day and asked for something to help her sleep. Smiled benevolently and wished them a happy holiday with their families.
She toyed with the idea of the transfusion. She seemed to consider it. She was so grateful for her family. For the care she was getting. For everything. Let me sleep on it, she said. Let me imagine what it would be like to get well. I'll do that. I will.
And then today, she decided.
I drove home through the dark, empty freeways. I stopped at the store. I got heavy cream. I got cheese. I got bacon*. I got tonic and limes.
Even piping hot from the oven, it's all cold, cold comfort at this point. But it felt good going down.
from Around my French Table by Dorrie Greenspan
A good dish to have when you've been to hell and back.
|Pancetta...not in the original recipe, but required tonight|
|I break out the mandoline I bought a year ago. I am an instant convert.|
|My perfectly sliced taters are layered with garlic-infused heavy cream, salt and pepper.|
|Every other layer gets a little Italian bacon|
|The book says "dust with the cheese". I say "blanket with the cheese"|
|Yes, it is just as tasty as it looks.|
|I balance out the heart stoppage with a green salad. I balance out the salad with a heavy dose of gin (not pictured)|