Don’t you just hate those freezing cold nights when you wear your warmest flannel pajamas and thickest socks and hurry into bed but are still surprised by the smack of cold that comes off the sheets, so you pull the blankets up to your chin, even that one at the foot of the bed—you yank that up too and tuck the blankets really close to the outline of your body like your grandmother used to do when she tucked you in as a kid and you lie really still and hope this little cocoon you’ve created will somehow become a terrarium by way of your body heat radiating off you while being trapped within the confines of your blanket cocoon and you’re sure you’re gonna be toasty warm real soon, but that doesn’t happen—you’re freezing your ass off and you can’t sleep to save your soul and you think about your furnace and the heat, like where the hell is it? and how is it possible that the thermostat (set by you—to the same temperature every night) does not produce the same amount of heat every night and why tonight it is nose-nipping cold, but you have no answer for this, and somehow by the grace of God you finally fall asleep probably because your body is so exhausted by having worked itself up in a frenzy trying to keep warm that you pass out—and you sleep for a while but don’t know for how long, all you do know is that when you wake it’s the middle of the night and you are in a panic because you’re practically drowning in a sea of your own sweat since it’s so Goddamn sweltering hot in your bedroom that you can’t strip your flannels off fast enough, and thank goodness the fifty pounds of blankets have been dumped in a mountain to the floor along with the bottoms of your flannels, and now you’re so desperate to get the wool socks off but you’re loathe to move too much at this point because you have a history of waking in the middle of the night and not being able to fall back to sleep so you promise yourself you will remove the socks without fully waking, and in order to do this you stay very still, or as still as you can, and you use the big toe of your left foot to remove the sock on your right foot and this goes pretty well which makes you happy, but you’re careful to not get too excited because this might wake you up entirely so you keep the celebrating to a minimum while you now use the big toe of your right foot to remove the sock on your left foot but as your right leg is in a chicken wing formation you get a Charley horse in your toe—if that’s even possible—and then another one in the back of the thigh of the chicken winged leg—which hurts like hell, but you can’t give in to it because half of your body is still asleep and you must keep it that way, so you try to handle the pain as best you can without making too much of a fuss, so you sort of rock the bent knee of that leg up and down, a bobbing action really, and you clench your teeth and breath heavily through your clamped bite which creates a “chee, chee” sound—this helps with the pain and is quiet enough not to wake the other half of you and then out of the dark night you hear, “What the heck are you doing?” It’s your husband. You can’t believe he would brazenly speak out in the night like that, jeopardizing you’re attempt to stay in a partial slumber. To this you reply, “Shh! Stop talking, you’re gonna wake the other half of me that’s still asleep!” Silence. Phew, that was close. Then your husband says, “Well, if that’s the case, I hope it’s the sane half.”
How’s your memory?
Certainly, if you’re anything like me you’ve probably had questions like these pop up from time to time: What’s her name again? Where do I know him from? Why did I open this closet? Where did I put my keys? What’s her phone number?
Some forgetfulness is innocent and normal and happens to everyone no matter their age. Some forgetfulness is more serious, or is a sign of more serious problems to come. Regardless, memory loss at the very least is frustrating and at the worst, tragic.
Personally, I’ve been concerned about my poor memory since I was in my twenties. I developed what I refer to as “police paranoia.” If while driving I’d see a police car in my rearview mirror, I always feared I’d be pulled over and questioned for something I had no recollection of doing. Okay, I’ll admit that’s a little extreme, paranoid and wacky (and perhaps a sign of something else I should be worried about!). But on the positive side, I used this crazy sense of imagination and my own memory paranoia to write my debut suspense novel, The Memory Box, due to release early 2014, about a suburban mom who Googles herself and discovers a past she’s unaware of.
In research for my book, I became intrigued about memory and the advances in science to thwart or reverse memory loss. And that’s why I decided to launch a new blog: thelongandshortonmemory.com. It will feature news from around the world about the complexity and prevalence of memory loss and groundbreaking advances on reversing it.
Why have I chosen to curate news on memory? Simply put, I’m fascinated by the topic and concerned for my own. And while I used to be reluctant to admit my own shortcomings, the more I do, the more I discover others with similar experiences.
It’s also true that memory loss is afflicting more people now than ever. Whether it’s hereditary, stress or poor diet, pregnancy or menopause, early onset due to repeated head injuries, or even cultural changes, more and more people complain of memory loss. Even our reliance on computer search engines, like Google, has affected our ability to remember facts.
You’ll also find personal stories from people who’ve experienced firsthand how memory loss can deeply affect the course of one’s life or that of a loved one. If you have a story to tell, please contact me, I’d love to give it a home on thelongandshortonmemory.com.
The first post is a positive one on the power of nostalgia. I hope you’ll check it out and please stop by often. Or at least whenever you remember to.
Visit here: thelongandshortonmemory.com
A sunny day at the beach is a sugar high. A shot of euphoria.
Warm crests of sand meet the underneaths of your knees. It molds to the small of your back and clings to your toes like sugar to a cruller.
A light breeze carries the frothy laughter of others. It lifts the ends of your hair and swirls around your neck. Your shoulders feel the warm tingling love of the sun. The water is crisp and clean and tickles your toes but not your ankles because you’re a camel not a dolphin. Your family teases you for it, and they splash you from afar.
So you read a thoughtful book that has you contemplating what you’ll be when you grow up. What you could be. Most of all, what you want to be.
At the end of the day the beach crashes you like a sugar high. You curl into yourself and draw your towel up toward your chin and sleep a half sleep. Lazy waves succumb, collapse and inch up the shore. The soft pop of clam holes appear magically along wet sand. Metal pulleys clank listlessly against the mast of a sail boat.
You float in and out of your half sleep and its sweet dream, and lucky for you, as good as this dream may be, it’s not nearly as good as your reality.
If you have the time and the patience, and room in your heart to forgive chef Jamie Oliver for referring to his Crispy and Sticky Chicken Thighs with Squashed New Potatoes and Tomatoes as a “simple pan-baked chicken dish” then I encourage you to try this recipe.
But for God’s sake, know up front that it is not “simple.” Okay perhaps, technically, it is “simple” but “simple” implies “quick.” Doesn’t it? To me it does. And quick it is not. The time alone that it took to de-bone and trim the chicken thighs of the cheesy fat clusters could have driven me to chase Mr. Oliver through his English potato garden with a pair of kitchen scissors. To say nothing of the time-consuming tedious task of individually stabbing, then peeling the skins off all those little cherry tomatoes. Peeling skins!
I typically have a rule in the kitchen never to cook anything that takes longer to prepare than it does to eat.
But alas, if I had stuck to that rule I would not have experienced this glorious masterpiece. Could I have skipped the tomato disrobing? Yes. But then I wouldn’t have tasted how “lovely and sweet” the tomatoes become when cooked stripped to their flesh, and the claim from Mr. Oliver that “their intense flavor will infuse the potatoes.” And after all, “Sometimes in cooking, you know what, it’s not all bish-bash-bosh, you need to put a bit of love in it, a bit of care, and it will taste fantastic.”
I got seduced into preparing this dish after seeing an episode of Jamie at Home. He looked tenderly at his ingredients, calling his potatoes “darlings” and “underground jewels.” Everything was “lovely,” from straining veggies to surgically removing the bones from chicken thighs. He even urged viewers to plant potatoes in their own backyard, claiming they’re super easy to grow and there’s nothing quite like using “freshly dug” potatoes. I’m sure he’s probably right about that. Though I have some pretty solid experience using potatoes which are weeks old−in fact, they’re one of the only vegetables that will last and last, even after they’ve practically grown a clone of themselves right there from their own skin. But maybe I should keep that to myself.
There was something charming about Jamie Oliver serving messy portions of his meals into chipped plates and pottery. And the sight of his charming country kitchen, a busy affair with brick walls and jelly jars cluttering counter tops and stacks of dishes and terra cotta, shelves practically leaning to one side. No granite or marble in sight. Not a stand mixer or cappuccino maker to be found. This cozy setting shouted “You can do this too! You American Food Network viewer, sitting on your overstuffed couch in the suburbs!”
Yes, he was talking to me. Thank God I was listening.
He told me to take the fresh oregano and “bash it up a little. Smash the oregano for butt-kicking flavored oil. You can’t chop it up and be nice about it.” It felt so comfortable, the spills and the clutter, the ruffled shirt. It was like I was cooking in the kitchen with my younger brother, if my younger brother could cook. (Of course you can cook, dear! That was just a little joke!) Did I mention the adorable English accent? Who can resist someone who pronounces oregano with the emphasis on the third syllable? Certainly not me.
I can’t explain to you why or how it happens that a mere six ingredients can produce an aroma transcendent. It leaks from your oven door when you least expect it. When you’re not even in the kitchen! You’re upstairs folding the laundry and bam! It finds you. And you go a little weak in the knees. Oh my gosh, you think to yourself, is that coming from my kitchen, from my oven?
Yes it is.
Thank you, Jamie Oliver. I forgive you.