Kitchen Note: radishes and persistence

Today: A summons for jury duty. No matter how many times I write back with doctor’s notes, they still summon me. I am both a caregiver and disabled myself. How many doctor’s notes do they require?

Yesterday I woke with foot cramp. Nothing novel there. Except it refused to resolve, worsening, in fact. Attempting to “walk it out” only exacerbated matters. Just past my neighbor’s house, realizing I could go no further, the explanation flashed across my mental screen in the equivalent of bright red letters: You have plantar fascitis.

Well, fuck me.

I limped home and had a telephone chat with a nice but clueless doctor, my regular being away. Had I broken my foot?

Doing what? Jogging? That ruled out, she suggested I stagger in and get fitted for a boot. I gently rejected this. My gait is already abnormal. Throwing it off further would only cause another problem. Then there’s the small matter, of, you know, the husband.

“Is prednisone prescribed for this?” I asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

“No, it’s too general. But podiatry gives steroid shots into the heel if this doesn’t resolve. They’re very painful, though. The heel….” She began discussing rehabilitative exercises and sturdy walking shoes. These are all fine solutions for people who don’t have Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. People I’ve begun to call “normals.” In the most envious way, mind you. People who can tolerate sturdy walking shoes. Me? I can’t tolerate socks. If I must go out, which means the wearing of shoes, I don Chinese fabric Mary Janes or insanely expensive, chic ballet flats. Anything else causes intense foot cramps.

I don’t tell her this. She’s a good doctor. She means well.

“Ice?” I ask. Self care. I must appear a good patient. I want to be a good patient.

Ice, she agrees. My doctor will return, she who understands my weirdness. I’ll call and arrange for that painful steroid shot. Bypass the particulars. I mean, those are important, too. But.

Later I try to figure out what caused this. Likely the limping from the failed cortisone shot.  I was limping, it caused an especially odd gait, putting pressure on the heel…meanwhile, plenty of ice and as much ibuprofen as my gut will tolerate. Also bourbon. Can you blame me?

Today I manage the supermarket and P.O. Box, where I receive said jury summons. I arrive home to find my driveway blocked by subcontractors digging up surrounding areas. They move their tractor, obligingly, apologetically, calling me ma’am. An hour later they’re knocking. Could I move the van a bit so they can lay tar? I do. They appear amazed that I’m nice. Well, why be mean? They moved their tractor. They’re just doing a job.

Inside the house I head for my bathroom, a tiny space John cannot access. The towel rack is decimated, my towels neatly hung over the shower stall. His attendant, whom we’ve recently hired to help two mornings a week, must have used my bathroom after I left this morning. For whatever reason, she grabbed the very flimsy towel rack while rising from the lavatory. A bad choice.

The towel rack hangs from one side, a jagged scratch in the wall paint. I fetch the tool box, scrabble for a screwdriver, and miraculously, manage to repair the thing. Once the towels are hanging, the scratch is covered. A call to John affirms my suspicions. He has no idea what happened.

She’s a good woman who must be terribly embarrassed. She takes good care of John. It’s not worth mentioning.

Tonight’s dinner is fresh tuna with rice and stir-fried vegetables, including radishes and their greens. Nigel Slater calls those who cook radishes deluded. Given recent days, that I retain any sanity at all is miraculous.

Radishes are a favorite vegetable to photograph.

See also this amazing tomato.

As the great Margaret Atwood says in The Handmaid’s Tale:

Nolite te bastardes carborundorum. 

Tomorrow: Steak fajitas.

Thank you for being here.