FOODIE FRIDAY RECIPE - COCONUT CUSTARD PIE

This is a simple and delicious coconut custard pie made even easier if you use a frozen or refrigerated prepared pie shell.  I'm not a big fan of anything with shredded coconut but it's my sister's favorite pie so I adapted this recipe especially for her.  To my surprise, I even like this pie.  This is rather sweet so if you like your pies less sweet subtract about 2 tablespoons of the sugar from the recipe.

Ingredients:

3/4 cup granulated sugar

2 tablespoons all purpose flour

2 eggs

1/2 stick butter [melted]

1 cup whole milk

1 teaspoon vanilla

6 oz. sweet flaked coconut

1 pie shell

Method:

Place a cookie sheet on center rack of oven and preheat oven to 350*

Combine sugar and flour in a mixing bowl.  Beat in eggs, melted butter and milk.  Add vanilla and coconut and mix by hand until combined.  Pour into prepared pie crust and bake [on heated cookie sheet] for 45 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in center comes out clean.  Check occasionally to be sure crust isn't getting too dark.  If the crust is browning too quickly cover the edges with aluminum foil and continue baking.  

Carefully remove pie [on cookie sheet] and allow to cool completely before serving.

SNAPSHOT

Monday April 12, 2010 

a day in the life of a caregiver

2:00 am   Mom woke me up with some rather loud vocalizing.  She hasn't been feeling well so I rushed to check on her.  I changed and repositioned her.  She fell back to sleep.

2:30 am   I returned to bed to try and catch some sleep.

8:30 am   I arise, take a quick peek in on mom who is still sleeping, and stumble to my morning coffee ritual.

9:00 am   The morning care for mom:  bathe, change, clothe, replace wound bandage and feed. All the while  chatting and trying to be pleasant.

9:45 am   Phone call from hospital case worker regarding my aunt Theresa who has been in the hospital  since Thursday.  I'm very tense because this is the call I've been waiting for and hoping to hear that my aunt will qualify for and be transferring to a nursing home facility.  Excellent news!  Apparently my threat of dropping my aunt off at the SPCA worked. At noon Theresa will be moved to a local facility where we know much of the staff either from other family members having been there or from my friend's mom having been there for a few years.

10:10 am  Arrange for an aide to stay with mom so my sister and I can tend to Theresa's transfer and get her settled in at the home.  

Noon:  Patricia [my sister] arrives with the aide.  I give some quick instructions to the aide because the wound care doctor is expected for his weekly visit.  This is an important visit because for the past couple of days I've been worried that the wound isn't doing well and I'm afraid it might be infected.  Also, today is the day that a new aide is going to be provided by Visiting Nurse so my private aide will have to show her "the ropes" and settle her in.  The new aide will be coming 3 times a week for a whopping 90 minutes per visit.  Still, that's a help to me in terms of laundry, bathing, etc.

A side note about wound care.

I hate it.  I never intended to become a nurse or doctor.  I'm a man of the arts not of blood and guts.  I've learned to do it and I do it well but it takes its toll on me.  I have to psyche myself up to the task every time I change the bandages which is once a day sometimes more if necessary.  Aside from the "gross factor" I'm always worried about hurting my mother or contaminating her or what I might find when I remove the old dressing.  There is nothing pleasant about this.  I'd rather do any of the other less-than-pleasant tasks that I have to do on a daily basis other than wound care. But I do it.  I have no choice.  Patricia won't even stay in the room for the changing of the wound.

1:00 pm:  We arrive at the nursing home, which I always refer to as "Shady Pines" in homage to the Golden Girls.  Perfectly appropriate because the character of Sophia could easily have been based on Theresa.  Theresa has already arrived and is settled into her new room.  We chat a little and then Patricia and I make the rounds of visiting the staff.  We want to make sure they have instructions for Theresa's care.  They're all very attentive.  Theresa will be in good hands.  Then we have a visit with the gal in charge of admissions.  We know her.  We have friends in common.  She's a lovely person who fought hard to get Theresa placed with her.  Many years ago when my mom had had a fall and before we had any help at home, this girl came to my house to bathe and help with my mom out of the kindness of her heart.  Now we owe her an even bigger "thank you".

2:30 pm:  Patricia and I finally stop at the nearby McD's for a very quick snack.  Then we go shopping to get some things for Theresa to make her more comfortable and "at home".  We get some new clothes, snacks, a clock radio and a stuffed kitty.

2: 40 pm:  While shopping, my iPhone rings and it's the wound care doctor calling from my mother's bedside. As I had feared, he suspects infection.  He prescribes medication [which means that I'll have to fetch that later] and changes her care orders. Now the wound dressing has to be changed twice a day instead of once. Great.  Why make me sick only once a day when you can do it twice!  

3:30 pm:  We schlep back to Shady Pines to give Theresa the things we bought.  She loves the kitty but of course had comments to make about everything else.  Well not the snacks.  She's happy to see those and digs right in.  "What do I need [fill in the blank] for" she asks.  This is as predictable as Christmas in December.  It's a family trait.  A very annoying family trait.  Why say "thank you" graciously when you can grumble instead?  Now I write her name in all her new clothes [so they don't get lost in laundry].  Theresa is officially installed.  We're out of there.

4:15 pm:  Home.  Meet the new aide who is just finishing up with my mom.  She seems nice enough.  She says goodbye to us, scratches the dog on the head and leaves.  Now I get the rundown from my private aide.  "She seems OK but she keeps looking at her list and only doing what's on the list".  Followed by "I had to TELL her to change the bed after she bathed Adelaide."  Our private aide loves my mother.  She's very protective.  I love that about her.  "I told the new girl that you mother knows everything that's going on so she didn't think she could get away with anything.  I told her she finds a way to tell you if anyone is mean to her."  

4:30 pm:  Patricia takes the private duty aide home.  Ah, peace and quiet!

4:35 pm:  Phone rings.  My mother's brother calling to see how things went.

4: 45 pm:  I sit on my bed to check my voicemail, etc. for a few minutes.

5:00 pm:   Phone rings.  I wake up.  Aunt calling to check on Theresa.  I know this particular aunt will call at least 10 more times tonight.  Thank God for caller ID and voicemail!

5:10 pm:  Feed the dog.  

5:20 pm:  Rush out the door to fetch the new prescription for my mother.

5:30 pm:  Stand in line behind 20 people at the drug counter, while answering calls on my mobile phone.

6:00 pm:  Feed mom.  Give her her medication.  Change and position her.  Make sure she's OK and comfortable.

6:30 pm:  Rush out to an appointment I had for myself.  I manage to grab a bit of dinner while I'm out.

8:00 pm:  HOME.  12 calls on the home voicemail and I'm going to ignore all of them. Check on mom, she's fine.  Dog is fine.  I'm fine.  Thankfully I managed to grab a double espresso while I was out.

8:15 pm:  Notice that I had TWO aides in the house today and neither of them did my mother's laundry.  So now I have to begin the laundry.  Today was bed-change and bath so there is at least two loads of laundry to be done.  The last thing I want to be doing is laundry.  I can't stand looking at it so into the machine.

9:10 pm:  Laundry in process.  Dog outside for his constitutional.  Time to change mom's bandage.  Yuck!  The doctor did a bit of surgery while he was here earlier in the day.  Now I have to deal with that.  

9:40 pm:  Bandage done.  I survived.  Dog is in for the night.  More phone calls unanswered.  First load of laundry moved from washer to dryer.  I grab a bottle of water, a glass of brandy, a couple of rice cakes and plop on my bed.  Collapse is a more accurate word.  It's "me" time.  News on the TV.  iPad on my lap.  Drink on the night stand.  

11:30 pm:  I awake from my nap!  Drinks still on night stand.  iPad sleeping on the bed between me and the dog.  

11:35 pm:  Tend to Adelaide one last time [I hope]for the day.  She's changed, had a snack and ready to sleep.  I kiss her forehead [both to say "goodnight" and to check her temperature which is a habit], turn off her TV and return to my bed.

11:45: Sip beverages.  Watch something stored on the DVR.  Catch up on emails. Drift to dreamland. 

"I was always looking outside myself for strength and confidence but it comes from within. It is there all the time."

anna freud

TRANSITIONS, DECISIONS AND BUREAUCRACY

"These last couple of weeks have been difficult ones. My mother's eldest sister, quickly approaching 93 years old, had a serious decline in both mental and physical ability. Long a widow and without children, Theresa depends on my sister and me. Until recently she has been amazing.

Barely four-and-a-half feet tall, Theresa has always been a dynamo. She hasn't had an easy life but she has been blessed with longevity and good health. Born at the end of World War I, the first child of young Italian immigrants, her birth mother died when Theresa was two years old. A couple of years later my grandfather remarried and there were six additional siblings. She has out-lived her husband, three of her younger siblings, nearly all of her friends and survived breast cancer. She has always handled adversity with admirable grace and dignity.

Decision time has arrived.

Theresa can no longer live on her own.  This has become obvious.  For her own safety and regardless of her desire to remain independent, we must intervene on her behalf.  Just as I demanded she give up driving after she had an auto accident in her mid-eighties, now I am charged with the task of arranging for her care.  Home care or nursing home?  Those are the choices.  Both are expensive.  Both have their appeal and detractors.  Where do you even begin?  

Because of her declining health I chose to begin with the physician.  I arranged for an appointment and a consultation.  Having been through a similar situation with another of my mother's sisters, I know that there is a Medicare provision for a period of nursing home stay following an approved three-day minimum hospital stay for a qualifying condition.  This Medicare benefit is up to a maximum of 110 days.  That is enough time to make plans, figure out finances and place her home on the market for sale.  

After an unnecessary [for me] lecture on caring for the elderly from the unpleasant doctor, he suggested I take Theresa directly to the emergency room where she could have tests and get necessary treatment after which he would check-in on her and determine a course of action.

This is where the bureaucracy begins....

Upon arrival at the local hospital emergency room, my aunt is met by the ever-competent and usually pleasant staff of nurses, physician's assistants and physicians.  This is familiar territory for me having taken my mother and her siblings here too many times over the past several years.  Everyone looks familiar to me.  Some of them ask me how my mother is doing.  They quickly begin testing, poking, prodding, ex-raying my aunt.  I begin answering questions, filling out forms, offering documents and signing, signing and signing.  I am well aware that I will be answering these same questions many more times over the course of the next few days.  It seems that information is never passed along with the patient.  It's like being in a phone chain with the local cable-TV provider and being asked repeatedly for your phone number.

After several hours of stabilizing her blood pressure, blood sugar and hydration, Theresa's ever-charming physician has arrived to review her condition and chat with us.  

"Fasten your seat belts.  It's going to be a bumpy night."

bette davis [all about eve]

"You know she can't take care of herself" he begins with the obvious. "I'm going to try to admit her but there's not enough wrong with her, the tests aren't bad and she's not going to qualify for that Medicare thing". We're having this conversation while she is receiving three different IV's and her blood pressure is near stroke numbers.  At this point I'm fairly certain mine will be too.

Theresa finally gets admitted to the hospital.  I can have a night of rest [from this obligation] knowing that she is being taken care of.  At promptly eight the next morning the hospital case worker called me.  Theresa is being discharged and she's not qualified for the nursing home.  "Oh, and she can't be left alone" I'm reminded.

"Now what" I ask aloud to the phone after the case worker has already hung up on her end.  I begin calling someone I know at one of the local facilities.    "Let me see what I can do" I"m told.  That hope held out for about an hour until I get a call saying nothing can be done except Theresa can go into the nursing home as a private pay from day one which requires two months payment in advance, roughly $24 thousand dollars.  Not a chance I'm forking over that kind of money with no notice on a Friday if at all.

Hours pass with no contact from anyone regarding Theresa.  Meanwhile I'm trying to come up with any solution.  This is a real problem now.  I certainly can't take on full charge of my aunt since I am already more than busy taking full-time care of my own mother.

Half past three arrives and my sister and I head to the hospital, still no good plan in place.  I'm thinking that I might just plain refuse to take her home.  "What are they going to do?  Put her in a cab to get herself home?  I doubt they want to risk that liability.  "Damn it, why haven't I heard from anyone?"

When we get to my aunt she is sitting in her chair with her hardly-touched lunch in front of her.  She looks terrible and she is still connected to at least three IV's.  "Oh, she's doing great" the nurse reports.  "Really?" I ask wondering if she simply means "she's 93, breathing and talking [a little]".  Then the nurse, who is really very nice and sympathetic, continues to tell us that they had to give Theresa "some insulin" and she's not walking on her own and "she's been vomiting a couple of times".

Sounds to me like she's perfectly ready to be discharged.  All I have to do is get her home, have IV's set up, learn to monitor her blood sugar and administer "some insulin".  Oh, and don't forget the vomiting!

After ninety minutes the case worker arrives to chat with us.  I express my apprehension and I think I made some sort of joke about sending Theresa to the SPCA "because if they can't find a home for her they euthanize."  Note to patient advocates:  "case workers" do not have a sense of humor and get nervous when you mention the term "euthanize".

"We would never just send a patient home without a plan" explains the CW.  "Theresa is here for the weekend but after that you have to have a plan.  Oh, and she's still not going to meet the Medicare criteria".  I explain that I'm thrilled that she will be safe for the weekend but we are still faced with the problem of what to do.  "Monday is a long time away" she explains "considering your aunt is 93 and all".  I'm told that there will be another case review on Monday and maybe "we'll be lucky and Theresa's health will have declined enough for her to qualify for care".

This is the pathetic state of our current health care system.  How can anyone say that overhaul was not needed?  We're reduced to praying that a 93 year old woman gets sicker in order to get help.

We visited Theresa this afternoon.  She's comfortable although she's not eating.  Today's nurse was very curt but did inform us that they had taken more ex-rays and an ultrasound of Theresa's abdomen since she's still vomiting.  

"Hey, maybe we'll get lucky!" I'm horrified to have repeated. 

Theresa is thoroughly ready to go to a nursing home.  I discussed her situation with her today and explained that if she goes home she will have to have a lot of care and that it would only be in the interim while other arrangements are made.  "I don't want to go home" she declared.  "At least at the nursing home there will be company and things to do I'll have a nice room".  There's the Theresa we all admire.  Ever the optimist.  Ever the pragmatist.  One more challenge that she will face with grace.  She also has the comfort of knowing that we are doing what is best for her and that we are here for her whatever life brings.

I hope we come to an easy solution on Monday but we will do whatever we must to keep her safe and comfortable to best of our ability.

"We're all stumbling towards the light with varying degrees of grace at any given moment."  

bo lozoff

iWant

I'm a PC.  I've been a PC since 1986.  I never understood the allure of Mac.  Yes they're dependable.  Yes the graphics and publishing are stronger than PC but still I'm a PC.  What a silly name, Apple.

I'm a late "baby boomer".  I like toys and gadgets and the magic and wonder they represent.  I can't help myself.  I'm hardwired to be drawn to gizmos.  Personal portable reel-to-reel recorder: had it.  8-track player AND recorder: mine. Personal computer: must have. Walkman: of course. CB radio: doesn't every driver need one? CD player: amazing.  CD Walkman: no brainer.  Phones you carry with you: duh.

Then it happened.  Apple launched, what I refer to as, "the attack of the gadgets".  The first time I saw a commercial for iTunes and iPod I was mesmerized.  I resisted the temptation until the second generation iPod was released. They had me where any manufacturer only dreams of having its customer.  The seamless interaction between iPod and iTunes was brilliant.  The ease of use, economy of effort and instant gratification of music which could be in your iPod and ears in moments was genius.

"I do not read advertisements. I would spend all of my time wanting things."

archbishop of canterbury

When the first talk of Apple coming out with a revolutionary phone that would combine with iPod and iTunes and connect with the internet with a real web browser my interest was certainly on alert.  Then the press releases and news stories and photos were released.  There it was with that unmistakeable touch-screen with its vivid image quality.  Well, I just had to have it.  I'm not enough of an addict to wait in lines on release day or, heaven forbid, camp out days in advance.  I can wait.  One day.  I lasted ONE day.  I walked into an Apple store, saw the iPhone on the table and it was love at first touch of the screen.  

There are two schools of gadget phone geeks.  There are the Blackberries and the iPhoners.  Each is devoted to his own personal preference.  Blackberries are good sturdy workhorses.  iPhones glisten.  

Damn, they're good!  Just when I thought I'd seen and had all the gadgets I could ever want, Apple did it again.  There were those announcements and press releases and advance buzz again.  "Now what"?  A tablet computer?  Really?  They had been tried before and never caught on.  But this is Apple!  If Steve Jobs weren't Apple he could have been a coke dealer in Studio 54.  He knows how to get people addicted.  He's the serpent from the Garden of Eden. Now I understand the name "Apple".  Evil Genius!  

The iPad looks and feels and reacts just like an oversized iPhone.  It shines and sparkles.  It's the Taylor-Burton diamond of gadgets: you don't really need it but it would sure be nice to have.  For a month I swore I could be strong enough to resist the hype.  Apple sent out tempting emails which I promptly deleted.  I have an iPhone.  I have a notebook computer.  It's like going out for a wonderful dinner, being perfectly satisfied with your entree and then they bring out the dessert cart.  You don't need dessert.  You didn't even think you  wanted dessert.  Still that creme brulle calls out like Lorelei called out to ancient mariners.  

"Man is a creation of desire, not a creation of need."

gaston bachelard

I resisted the urge to run out and buy an iPad.  I didn't hunt one down on the internet.  I waited.   TWO days.  Then I had to have it.  I needed my fix.  What was I going to do with it?  How would I use it?  I certainly didn't need it.  I just wanted it. That's not exactly true.  I knew how I was going to use it, it's just unnecessary.  I love my iPhone.  I knew I would love it's bigger, look-alike brother.  Spring is here and I like to sit on my porch or in my garden and read and listen to music.  Now you can add "surf the net" to that for one tidy, convenient, easy on the eyes package.  You certainly can't sit in the garden with your notebook computer on your lap, that's silly and awkward.  iPhone is just too small to comfortably read novels from.  There are also my frequent nice-weather visits to the riverfront, state parks and botanical gardens.  So many places have wi-fi available and if not, I can still read and listen to music.

There really are uses for the iPad.  Apple has thousands of applications ranging from games to beautifully thought out word processors and everything in-between.  There are also accessories such as a full-sized bluetooth keyboard for serious writing although I'm writing this blog on the built-in virtual keyboard to see how it does.  It's fine.  The touch is a bit sensitive and the size is slightly smaller than a netbook's.  

Basically this is a "take-with" computer.  It's big enough to be usable and small enough to not leave home without.  As a writer, it will eliminate carrying a legal pad with me or dictating voice memos on my iPhone.  I also think the iPad is a must for travelers.  

I am purposely not going into all the technical details and attributes of the iPad.You can find that info on the Apple website or in the many tech blogs and magazines.  This is just one incurable tech-a-holic's love story. 

FIRST: TAKE A DEEP BREATH

After so many years as a caregiver there is nothing new about a crisis occurring, however each one is a unique event.  The challenge is finding the inner strength to be able to remain logical.  Panic is the natural first response and that is human.  The difficult part is pulling back from the panic in order to assess the situation. That is a tall order.  When you find a loved one in a compromised situation emotions fight hard to win the battle over common sense.

This week has been a difficult one.  My mother is having a medical crisis. I am sleep-deprived.  Even when my mother is resting comfortably it is difficult for me to sleep because I am regularly checking in on her to take her temperature, adjust her position or just to satisfy myself that she is breathing normally.

"It is truly said: It does not take much strength to do things, but it requires great strength to decide what to do." 

chow ching

At any given time there is a whole list of symptoms and manifestations which are part of my mother's health repertoire.  Some are more serious than others but all need to be monitored.  Even on the best of days when my mother is in good health, she is still an 89 year old patient in late stage Alzheimer's so no symptoms are taken lightly.  In the past several days the "perfect storm" developed.  At first I noticed the mildest of symptoms had arrived.  When my mother is not feeling well she holds her contracted leg very tightly to her body.  I did some physical therapy in an attempt to loosen the stiffness for her.

The next symptom to arrive was lethargy.  Normally Adelaide is awake and alert most of the day.  She smiles when she sees people.  She eats and drinks robustly.  She never cries out or whines.  Now she presents as exhausted.  She eats and drinks but struggles to stay awake long enough to finish.  Smiles are scarce.

I know something is "brewing" so I am vigilant.  I keep close track of fluid intake and bodily functions.  

I have a remarkable dog.  He's a loving golden retriever named Mickey.  He's quite old now but completely devoted to Adelaide.  He is very in tune to her health.  In the past he has woken me up to alert me that my mother was having a seizure in time for me to get 911 to the rescue.  An event that I might well have slept through until it was too late.  My friends and I affectionately call the pooch "Nurse Mickey".  

Nurse Mickey was on full duty this week.  He remained at my mother's side 24 hours a day except for the necessary visits to the food bowl and brief trips outside.  Normally Mickey sleeps with me but not when he senses a problem with Adelaide.  I am convinced that he can smell infection in her system.  He's never been wrong and I have full faith in him.

Next symptom to arrive was fever.  My mother woke me up by moaning and when I checked in on her she was HOT.  When my mother has a fever it puts me on edge.  I don't like to see her so red and uncomfortable.  It worries me.  I get the cold compresses and begin giving her Tylenol but these things take time.  

Stiffness, lethargy, fever and Nurse Mickey's concern: I know this is a urinary tract infection.  Luckily we have antibiotics on hand because she is prone to infections.  In the past, when we had a less cooperative doctor, these symptoms would land us in the hospital emergency room for hours of tests followed by a diagnosis of urinary tract infection.  

Visits to the ER will be another entire blog at some point.

I started the drug regimen in hopes that she will respond quickly.  Meanwhile the other sure sign of urinary tract infect has presented itself and my mother is holding her urine for stretches of up to 14 hours.  "Come on drugs, work your magic."  I push fluids on her.  

"When someone tells me there is only one way to do things, it always lights a fire under my butt. My instant reaction is, I'm going to prove you wrong!" 

picabo street

What followed next was no one's fault except bad timing and my temporarily giving in to fear.  Adelaide's wound care doctor came for his weekly visit.  He hasn't experienced my mother in crisis before.  She was throwing a fever and lethargic and he was, of course, concerned.  I'm glad that he shows concern for my mother's well-being.  Over the years there have been health providers who lacked concern.  

I explained that she had been ill for a couple of days and that she was on her antibiotic.  He was worried that her infection might be more serious.  He checked her wound and deemed that to be OK so we didn't think the infection was from that.  He did however say that he thought her overall condition might be in decline and that I should keep a close eye on her because she might need to go to the ER.  We decided to switch her medication to a different antibiotic because he didn't think the current one was working.  This is common for us.  Non-specific infections react differently to different medications.  Antibiotics target different bacteria.  

The wound care doctor left.  Contrary to all of my instincts and magnified by lack of sleep, I worked up a small panic.  I am completely aware of the fact that eventually everyone dies.  I am not in denial but I am also a fighter.  Adelaide is a fighter.  

After a few minutes I regained my composure and re-assessed the situation.  I switched the medication as suggested.  I put in a call to our friend in the doctor's office to alert them of the situation.  I was assured that I was following the right course and that we would try hard to keep my mother out of the ER.  I would keep monitoring the situation and the physician's assistant would come for a visit.

We had a quiet evening followed by a quiet night.  There have been no more fevers so far.  This morning finds my mother alert and far more comfortable.  We're not through with this crisis yet but the signs are cautiously hopeful.  Perhaps we can both rest up before the next crisis.

FOODIE FRIDAY RECIPE- ITALIAN MEAT PIE

Pizza Rustica

This is a savory torte which is served either cold or at room temperature and is dense, rich, salty and wonderful.  Traditionally my family served this for lunch on Easter Saturday to break the fast of Lent.  I like to serve it as an appetizer on my Easter Sunday menu.

This is the perfect companion "Easter Pie" to the Ricotta Pie recipe because it uses the 10 egg yolks left over from the 10 egg whites used in the other pie.  This pie is fairly easy to make but it is slightly time consuming and relatively expensive but it is completely worth the effort and cost.

Over the years I have slightly altered the recipe to my taste and because of availability of some items.  I have substituted boiled ham for prosciutto because I prefer the milder flavor and the much reduced price tag.  I have substituted mozzarella for fresh "basket cheese" because it is easier to find.  When buying the salami and ham ask for it to be cut in 1/4" slices.  This makes the dicing easier and more uniform.

Ingredients:

2 cups Genoa salami diced 

1.5 cups boiled ham diced

1.5 cups mozzarella diced

2 tablespoons grated Romano cheese

3/4 pound ricotta

10 egg yolks 

1 whole egg [for glaze]

3/4 teaspoon ground black pepper

top and bottom pie crusts for 2 pies*

Method:

Preheat oven to 400*

 In a small bowls separate the egg yolks and whites. Reserve the whites for another use. Dice the salami, ham and mozzarella into (approximately) 1/4 to 1/2 inch cubes and place in a large mixing bowl. Add ricotta, Romano egg yolks and ground pepper and fold all the ingredients to combine.  Divide equally into two prepared 9" pie crusts and cover with top crusts.  With a fork, prick the top crusts all around.  Beat the whole egg with 1 teaspoon water and brush it onto the top crusts.

Bake in preheated 400* oven for 1 hour or until a knife inserted into the center comes out clean.  About half-way through the baking  time check to see if the edges of the crust are getting too brown.  If so cover the edges with aluminum foil.

Remove from oven and allow to cool to room temperature and then refrigerate.  

*I prefer to use the boxed pie crusts you find in the refrigerated section of the grocery.  Each has 2 roll-out crusts.

Served cold, this is perfectly matched with a nice glass of beer!

  

Happy Easter

DIARY OF A MAD CAREGIVER

Have you ever had a nightmare so horrible that you woke yourself up with a muffled scream?  I have a recurring dream that I am in a stream and being eaten by a school of pirana.  I wake up screaming and shaking and then I realize it is real and the "pirana" are a metaphor for the people in my life requiring my care.  That's even more frightening than the carnivorous fish.

"Families are about love overcoming emotional torture."  

matt groening

My mother was one of seven siblings.  A large family by average standards and they were all blessed with the longevity gene.  The first to pass away was well into his seventies and the other two who have passed away were into their eighties.  There are four siblings remaining and they range from 80 to 93.  Not counting my mother, there are two childless widows and the 80 year old baby brother who still has his wife. They live on their own, are in good health and look amazing for their years.  None is what he was when they were younger and to varying degrees my sister and I have to keep tabs on them.

My uncle and aunt are completely self-sufficient and only require some help on infrequent occasions or anytime the television has to be re-tuned to channel 3 so the cable box will work.  They are fortunate to still have each other to rely on and to keep company.

The eldest of the sisters is quite amazing.  At 93 she looks 60 and is still as spry and active.  In fact she is far more spry than I.  She doesn't grunt or groan and boasts that she has no aches or pains except for a little "stiffness" in her hands.  She is a 15 year breast cancer survivor.  She has no plans of going anywhere soon although she has the comfort of her faith and is well aware of the eventuality that she is on "borrowed time".  Her only hint of melancholy is when she talks of having outlived most of her friends.

The youngest sister (85) is also a testament to the longevity genes.  This one is best described as "a character".  She was a cheerleader in high school and 70 years later still perceives herself in that way.  We perceive her more as Baby Jane or perhaps as Norma Desmond.  This aunt demands attention regardless of its form.  She's equally adept at summoning pity or rage.  To be fair, she has a generous and caring side.  She   just has an amazing ability to obscure with her ability to raise the hair on the back of ones neck.

Due to the fact that I have my mother with me and under my care I am accessible.  Naturally the family comes to visit and spend time with their sister.  I'm glad that they do.  When they were just a bit younger and knew where they kept their marbles, they would offer me some very valuable freedom because they could "babysit" my mother while I got out for a few hours.  They still generously want to help but now I need "babysitters" for the "babysitters".

"Having a family is like having a bowling alley installed in your brain."

martin mull

OK, so I took a bit a poetic license with the opening paragraph.  I don't have dreams of pirana.  I should have them, but I don't. The old gals are pesky.  [I'm attempting to be polite]  There is this odd phenomenon that I have observed repeatedly.  It seems that sometime past the age of 80, perfectly mature people reconnect with their inner six year old selves.  I don't mean that in a nice or cute way.  I mean that in a way that drives me crazy.  They touch things.  They touch and break things.  My things.  They touch, break and lie about touching and breaking my things.  When they are alone with my mother for an hour so I can buy groceries so I can cook them dinner I never know what I'll find when I return.  Did I mention that they also hide things?  My things.  I'm not sure if it's some intentional game they have invented to torment me or if they're trying to be helpful. I find bowls in the closet with the pots and pans.  I find the dish towel in the living room.  I find butter in the spice cabinet.  

The old ladies think I believe in gremlins or interloping spirits.  They must.  No matter what I discover when I return, they didn't do it.  Ever. Understand that my mother is confined to her hospital bed in her upstairs bedroom.  No one else is in the house.  They didn't do it.  Whatever mischief  "it" is.  It wasn't them.  I refer to them as the "deniers".  Unless I have the most amazing dog ever, I doubt he opens jelly and peanut butter jars and leaves the gobs of jelly prints on the handle of the refrigerator.  I love my dog but he doesn't have opposable thumbs.

Yesterday was an amazingly lovely and rare spring day.  I had to get out of the house for a break and I left the two munchkin sisters alone with my mother for a couple of hours because I was desperate.  I had a terrific, much needed time out in the sun.  When I returned (with groceries, of course) and went into my kitchen I immediately thought that Charles Manson had been released from prison and had recreated his "helter skelter" theme.  I was sure that my family had been slain while I was out because the outside of my white refrigerator, the floor and some of the kitchen cabinets were covered in dripping, deep red liquid.  When I heard the sisters in the living room, over the twelve decibels that the TV volume had been raised to, I quickly snapped out of my Manson fantasy.  No such luck.  Upon investigation, and a little screaming on my part, I discovered the liquid was in fact syrup from the frozen strawberries that had been in the fridge.  

I'm offering a reward for any information leading to the arrest of the offending stranger that must have entered my home, walked past the sisters, escaped being detected by my 110 pound dog and headed straight to the container of strawberries in order to vandalize my refrigerator and cabinets.  Of course neither of the conspiring sisters would "fess up" to being the culprit.  Neither could understand that I would be bothered by a "little accident" in the kitchen.  They did, however, offer to "help" clean up the mess.  I calmly suggested they could best help me by returning to the living room while I cleaned.  I know how they "help". 

I cooked and served these poster women for the Dr. Kevorkian fan club a lovely dinner which they of course criticized in their usual "stage whisper" subtlety.  While I watched [and unfortunately listened] to them eat I tried hard to picture them as they were when I was an obnoxious six or eight year old.  

Indeed, payback is bitch...