As I was sitting on my little stool in the kitchen, browning brisket for tzimmes, I glanced over at a couple of bottles of ketchup. My husband and I like different brands, so it was a bit ironic (to me) that the labels on both bottles proclaimed “NO HIGH-FRUCTOSE CORN SYRUP.”
Then my mind went to recent (and frequent) television commercials proclaiming that there’s no difference between high-fructose corn syrup (HFCS) and table sugar, despite claims that HFCS metabolizes differently than table sugar and is responsible for today’s obesity/diabetes/whatever epidemic.
Does it? I don’t know. It’s not my area of expertise. I tried looking it up, but I don’t even know what the legitimate Web sites are. I know I couldn’t find anything immediately on www.eatright.org and, frankly, with Passover starting, I don’t have time.
So I will refer you to posts by my blogging colleague Amy Campbell that ran on May 5 and May 12, 2008. See what you think about the whole controversy.
My main problem this time of year is the Passover ban on corn and its derivatives (and other grains — which, on the plus side, means that many foods for Passover are gluten-free) — and some form of corn is in everything! But fresh foods are best. I grew up on them — that’s what you did back in the day, before fast/prepared/etc. foods. And I know how to cook.
**
Well, how’s my so-called health? I dunno. Instead of being put through a machine and that was that, my last blood draw was reviewed by a pathologist. Based on the test results plus my symptoms, I’ve been referred to a hemo-oncologist. Which, my doctor says, doesn’t mean I have cancer (Whew! And let it be so!), but that it’s a possibility and further testing is needed. My next one is a bone marrow biopsy. I can hardly wait. (That was sarcasm, by the way.) It would be nice to figure out what’s going on so it can be fixed.
I did grab copies of my labs and spent some time online. Some markers are indicative of cancer — or less-onerous things. I’m trying to focus on the less-onerous. Be positive, Jan. Be positive. (I keep telling myself.)
Anyway, I also talked to a long-time friend who is a lab technician and we went through the high and low results. She was kind of scratching her head on the oncologist thing, too. However, I didn’t have the pathologist’s comments and she doesn’t have the expertise to put results and symptoms together.
I have since talked to my doctor’s nurse and she was reading the pathologist’s comments to me. I was in the kitchen, trying to take notes and my husband took that time to pour dry cat food into the feeder, which drowned out her voice.
“I didn’t know you were on the phone!” he said when I complained.
“Didn’t you hear the phone ring?”
“No.”
“Didn’t you hear me talking?”
“No.”
“Do you think you need to see an audiologist?”
“NO!”
Sometimes I don’t think he appreciates my comments. I can’t imagine why not.
**
The kitchen situation hasn’t changed. People still forget I can’t reach stuff. I made chopped liver and needed a container to put it in. Normally, I would have just put it in a serving dish, covered it with plastic wrap, and put it in the fridge. Except…somebody put a stack of large serving/mixing bowls in the cupboard with my small serving pieces. I couldn’t get to the serving bowls I needed and I couldn’t take the unwanted (who put them there!?) bowls out and set them on the counter. No counter space. (Remember my husband who’s taken over every flat surface in the kitchen?)
I told him how frustrating that was for me, in hopes he’d clean his chazerai off the countertop, but it didn’t work. The stuff is still there. So I had to put a family sized portion of chopped liver in a giant container. It must hold enough chopped liver to feed at least two Army platoons.
Now. Please tell me why somebody bothered to put away the container of schmaltz that was sitting on the counter. Couldn’t the person have put away the leftover pasta sauce instead? Nope. I also had to find a container for that — and then wash the pot, the lid, the spoon and clean the dried sauce off the stovetop. And I couldn’t find my schmaltz in the fridge.
The worst part? I’d already settled myself on my stool when I discovered the schmaltz wasn’t where it should have been. So I had to transfer from the stool back to my scooter, turn the scooter around so I could access the fridge, and look for the schmaltz. Which, as I said, I couldn’t find.
My scooter and stool had been positioned perfectly, too. Not the second time.
I may go on kitchen strike.
**
To keep this on topic — my blood glucose is fine. Even with all of the stress, extra work, and anxiety. Gotta love that continuous glucose monitor!
