Skin Cancer = Not Good

This increasingly warm weather has me daydreaming about sunny beaches and rum-spiked frozen drinks.  Perhaps it’s because I just uncovered a folder on our computer of pictures from our honeymoon in St. Lucia, and after looking through them close to 100 times I have subconsciously scraped, “Shut up, skinny bitch” on our desk with my fingernail.  But that doesn’t concern you - back to our discussion about beaches.  Luckily, we have a preference for cities that are situated on large bodies of water, so we’re never a far subway ride and/or car trip to a sandy urban getaway.  Back in Brooklyn, it was as easy as packing our day bag and hopping on the Q train, and in 20 minutes flat we were arm wrestling “curvy” Russian men in speedos to plant our beach chairs in the last remaining strip of sand without any visible hypodermic needles.  God I miss Brooklyn.  Our last summer there, however, I was hugely pregnant.  HUGELY pregnant.  A fond memory comes to mind of our July 4th trip out to Brighton Beach: windblown and sunkissed, we had all packed our things and were assembling on the boardwalk as we each, one by one, rinsed our feet and shook the sand pebbles from our towels.  We decided it was a perfect time for a group shot, so we lined up prom-style while a stranger snapped the picture.  Then, the dear friend behind whom I was standing alerted me that I was “creeping him out” because I kept “putting my baby on him.”  I miss you guys.    

With so many upcoming hot days spent outside underneath the bright and burning sun, I implore you to please be sun-safe.  From someone whose skin is Swiss cheese from so many moles removed, I wish I had taken my own advice from a young age.  Skin cancer is the most common form of cancer, with 1 in 5 Americans developing it in the course of a lifetime (SkinCancer.org).  And it so often effects young people - lots of them.  I cringe now thinking of the time I bought a membership to a tanning salon in college to “prepare” for vacation.  So. Dumb.  I have no doubt that those stupid mistakes, plus a large dose of heredity, have played a part in my current relationship with my dermatologist.  My former NYC doctor’s son is definitely going to college solely because of how much money I funneled into his practice.  Yep - that $29.99 membership to the Levee Laundry & Tan in West Lafayette was totally worth it...SYKE*! 

(*Yea, I’m still trying to bring that back...your support is appreciated.)

When we moved to Chicago, the first doctor I sought to find was a new dermatologist, knowing that I pretty much need to be in the constant care of a credible practitioner.  Also, believe it or not, having a baby does nutso things to your skin and many cases of skin cancer have been known to develop during and after pregnancy.  I found an awesome doctor associated with Northwestern hospital, and consider myself very lucky to have joined her practice.  However, to say she is “thorough” is an understatement.  You know that phrase, “where the sun don’t shine?”  Well she has obviously never heard that.  I’m no longer able to look her in the eyes, but I do feel...properly examined.  She decided that two spots on my body needed to be removed, “like...yesterday” so I bit another bullet and had that done.  Luckily, I got the call last night that the results from pathology were all clear (phew!), even though she said that of all the patients she saw last week, one of my moles was the one that she was sure was melanoma.  Damn.  Nothing will make you buy the family pack of sunscreen faster than a dermatologist dropping the ‘M’ word.  Thank the Lord it was ok.  

This doesn’t mean that I will stop playing outside at the park with my daughter or enjoying a leisurely afternoon in the sand, because those are some of my favorite things to do when the weather gets warm.  This does, however, mean that we should ALL be a little more sun-conscious, regardless of your family history.  If you take one of these tips to heart I will be a happy lady:

-Avoid tanning beds.  Seriously, this isn’t 2002.  They’re not cool anymore, so stop going. 

-Apply sunscreen 30 minutes before going out into the sun.  A lot of people wait until they’re on the pool deck to slather it on, but in order for it to be most effective and soak into your skin you need to do it before you leave the house.  This also helps you avoid that awkward leg-up-on-the-chair thing...no one needs to see you apply lotion to the back of your thigh.  Unless you’re David Beckham, and in that case - please, don’t stop.

-Find a dermatologist, and actually go see them once a year.  They’re not a bunch of weirdo freaks with a skin fetish (barf), they are highly trained and competent doctors who just might spot a spot (pun intended) that saves your life.  Trust me, the two days of soreness after having a mole removed is so worth it when you’re faced with one of the yuckiest cancers out there.  Real talk: having a hole cut out of you is less unattractive than having part of your leg removed because of an aggressive melanoma.  Scars fade, cancer kills.  Or I’ll be happy to remove any questionable lesions for a $25 gift card to Coldstone Creamery (PER MOLE).  Don’t worry, we have Wusthof knives and I’m handy with a sewing machine.

-No one is immune, regardless of skin color.  You’re probably saying, “Hey Jackie, quit killing my buzz.  I get really tan when I go in the sun, so there’s no way I’m going to get the melanoma that effects people like you, ghost face.”  First of all, rude.  Second of all, did you know that Bob Marley died of melanoma?  I didn’t either, I actually just learned that by Googling “melanoma”.  My point is that it can happen to anyone.  

-Finally, for God’s sake, if you see something “different” growing on your body don’t ignore it.  These here edumacated fisishans use a system called “ABCDE”.  A mole should be checked if it has one of the following:

A- Asymmetry
B- Border - uneven or notched
C- Color - two or more different pigments within the same mole

 D- Diameter - cancerous cells usually grow to be larger than a pencil eraser  

E- Evolving - any change at all

As you see, it’s really not hard to potentially save your own life.  Now go and frolic in the sun and sand (or clouds and concrete, because seriously, it’s only May.) And please stop sending me pictures of your moles.  That stuff grosses me out.  

Remember That One Time I Quit Writing for Two Years?

Ok, so I owe you an apology.  It’s not you...it’s me.  You see, things have gotten a little busy.  First, we’re riding high in our New York City lifestyle - me: cooking (duh) and attempting to forge my way through my new culinary career; Steve: doing...work...at...work...(??).  Then all of a sudden, we have a few glasses of vino, “The Notebook” comes on TCM and before I knew it I was elbow deep in miniature clothes and saying things like, “Honey, is that poop or sweet potato ground into our brand new couch?”  So yeah, a lot of things have changed for the two of us, including but not limited to:

-We no longer have cable because my husband (who shall remain nameless) decided that he’d rather be a technology weirdo and wait for some dumb internet service to come to our city to provide television.  I have to watch “Teen Mom 2” online, and that makes me angry.  Also, the original “Teen Mom” ended.  I paced the house for a full week wondering if Maci and Ryan were going to work out their issues and raise Bentley with or without the help of lovable yet redheaded Kyle.

-My mom gave me her awesome old sewing machine.  Since then, I am constantly looking for things to repair and/or alter with a little wool felt, a carefully cut applique and polyester thread.  On a related note, I am not the one who keeps sewing purple hearts and ribbon to everything in our apartment.  That was someone else...  

-I have two new nieces since I last wrote about the idle dribblings of my life.  Nieces and nephews are the best!  Adorable little humans who kind of look like you (or your husband), yet you don’t have to worry constantly about whether or not they’re going to write an essay in college about the time you took a toy away from them when they were six months old, unintentionally creating a deep-festering sense of abandonment that can only be quelled with the compulsive hoarding of Coney Island memorabilia.  But hey, kids are great.  

-We travelled to Italy!  I can honestly say they were two of the best weeks of my life.  We went with my parents, my brother and my sister-in-law (pre-children).  I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to do those two weeks of complete heaven justice by attempting to discuss it here.  I’ll just say this: whenever I see a picture from our trip, or just Italy in general, I get misty eyed.  My previous experience with Italy was at famed NYC market Eataly (which you can read about here), but the real country is a masterpiece in every sense of the word.  The food, the people, the rolling hills and orange sunsets.  Ah.  Maybe some day I’ll make it back...God willing. 

-And finally, I gave birth to a baby girl, moved to Chicago, bought a car, got a washing machine, dryer, dish washer and central air, I became a stay-at-home mom (or if we’re being PC, a “homemaker”), I cut my hair, started a weight-loss program and got a new mug that says “I love you”.  Obviously you’re shocked to hear about the new mug, so I’ll let that one marinate for now.  But it’s important to note that my life, and my chosen place in this ever-changing world around us, is completely, COMPLETELY, different than it was even a year ago.  

So my dear friends, old and new, I hope you will join me on this next chapter of the “Getting Cooked” saga.  Some of you are excited, and were beginning to wonder if I’d given up writing, or worse, lost all my finger tips in a freak Bagel Bite incident (highly likely).  Alternatively, some of you are wondering why you visited this page, and are contemplating ways that you can ask me to compensate you for the five minutes you just wasted staring at incoherent black scribblings on your computer screen.  If that last one describes you: relax, those black scribblings are called words.  You should probably get out more.  J/K love you all! Smooches.  

Happy early Mother’s Day!

EASY BARBECUE TURKEY MEATLOAF    

Meatloaf is one of those things that I consider a “kitchen sink” meal - you gather all the leftovers in your fridge, throw them into some ground meat and voila!  You have a gross pile of raw meat and old vegetables.  But after it’s cooked - a delicious and nutritious weeknight meal.

Serves 4

You will need:

-1/2 bell pepper, 2 carrots, 1/2 red onion or any other remaining veggie in your crisper drawer, all chopped finely or shredded

-2 garlic cloves, minced

-1 egg

-a handful of chopped parsley, or about a tbsp of dried parsley

-1 lb of ground turkey

-salt and pepper to taste

-1/2 cup (or a bunch of squirts) of barbecue sauce, preferably Sweet Baby Ray’s

Preheat oven to 350 F.

Combine the vegetables, garlic, egg and parsley in a large bowl by hand.  Mix in the turkey, salt, pepper and barbecue sauce, making sure all ingredients are well distributed and mashed together. 

Pile into a small, greased loaf pan and bake for about 45 minutes, or until an internal thermometer reaches 165-170 F.

Serve with additional barbecue sauce on the side.  

Enjoy!  

A Love/Hate Relationship

I love New York. Wait, let me rephrase that: I hate New York. But seriously, my relationship with this city is somewhere between murderous and newlywedy. Every day I wake up to the sound of my fantastic upstairs neighbors stomping around in heels. I brush my teeth with overpriced toothpaste, pull my hair into a loose bun and grab my heaviest wool coat, my walking shoes and purple gloves. I lock all thirty-five deadbolts on the front door of our apartment, hold my breath through the smells of other people's B.O. in the hallway and burst out the front door with a large gulp of polluted, construction-dust air. I slip on the 3-day old New York Times plastered to the stoop, falling into dog excrement as someone yells, "You suck!" from a delivery van stuck in traffic in front of me. I wait for a subway car that will be so crowded I'll be forced to stand in someone's armpit and get asked for money (that I don't have) at least three times a day. This is my lady, New York, and although she sh*ts on me pretty consistently I still cannot thank her enough for not spitting me out the moment I set foot in this concrete jungle. The city I love (hate).

That doesn't mean I won't be ready to pack up and move out of the Upper East Side the minute our lease has expired, which happens to be at the end of March. We're not yet ready to leave the Empire State, so we're seeking a change of pace in lovely Brooklyn. Am I ready to move to Brooklyn? Yes. Is Brooklyn ready for a pale, sarcastic chef who wears fake pearls and K-Mart moccasins and a faux-hawked math freak who wears ties for "fun"? No; my guess is that we're going to get eaten alive. Do they even broadcast "Jeopardy" in Brooklyn? Remind me to look into that…

At the end of December I was wound so tight with stress and cold air - I think I yelled at an infant for taking my seat on the subway. I was walking around with a frown on my face, hating everyone that looked at me the wrong way and didn't jump out of my path as I approached. It was bad, and I needed a vacation STAT! Enter my in-laws, living in the gorgeous and ideal Dallas. We were fortunate enough to spend the holiday in Texas with them and my sister-in-law, her husband and my Godson were also in town. It was one big, happy family reunion and we definitely made the rounds, visiting everyone and anyone who would have us. We saw aunts, uncles, grandmas, cousins, brothers, neighbors, toddlers, pre-teens and best friends. We danced, made pasta, drank beer, mingled, ordered pizza, opened presents, took preventative flu medicine, slept in, rode an old-fashioned train, ate candy/cookies/cake/pie, shopped the deals, talked, relaxed…phew. It was wonderful, and I didn't think once about my hectic New York City lifestyle.

I'm always amazed at how adaptable Steve and I are to our surroundings. As New Yawkers, we're tough, rude and decisive. When do I want my dry-cleaning delivered, you ask? In an hour, but make it quick I'm busy. When we're in Indiana, we tend to convince ourselves that we are happy to be back in the Midwest. OMG, I'm so happy the sun hasn't come out for three weeks. Wow, it feels warmer than 3 degrees Fahrenheit! My favorite transformation, however, occurs in the air somewhere over Tennessee on our way to Dallas, Texas. All of a sudden, Steve looks tanner, his hawk gets a little higher and he sits straighter and calmer. My hair lightens, black mascara magically appears on my lids and I have the extreme desire to buy a Chevy Tahoe. We start throwing in little ya'lls everywhere, and saying things like, "I'm fixin' to get ready to go to the kitchen, honey pie. Can I get you some chips and queso?" When I'm out and about in Dallas, I smile at everyone, and strike up conversations with random "natives." I feel special when someone looks at me like I belong here, like I was born a Texan. Today, I had to return an item of clothing I bought at a Dallas mall over our Christmas vacation.

"Hi, I bought this shirt at one of your stores in Dallas, I hope that won't be a problem."

"No, not at all, I'll just make the even exchange."

"Oh I'm so glad, because I bought it in Dallas."

"Yep, not a problem, ma'am. Just give me a second."

"Cool…Dallas…gotta love that Dallas! Doo doo doo…did I mention I bought this in Dallas?"

She wasn't impressed. Whatever.

As the week came to an end, we boarded the airplane with 20 pounds of extra luggage and a few less knots in our city-worn muscles. Three hours later we circled into the New York area, descended into LaGuardia Airport, grabbed our luggage and…waited in a snow-filled line for 45 minutes for a taxi. Crossing the Triboro Bridge back into Manhattan, though, was a religious experience: the Empire State Building shone like a beacon in the smog-filled skyline. I could almost smell the burnt street meat, urine-soaked trash piles and cigarette smoke coming from 15-year old lungs. I felt the most myself, however, when Steve got in a fight with our cab driver. Welcome home.

Since then, the muscle knots have returned and the luggage has been unpacked. What remains, as always does when I travel to Dallas, is a storybook sense that somewhere, far away, exists my own personal sanctum where the weather is mild and you can get chips and queso at any hour of the night. But for now, we're back in New York with some new clothes, a refreshed attitude and a new year to look forward to. 2010 was epic – whatcha got for me 2011?

Happy New Year!

JACKIE'S SWEET POTATO SOUFFLE

I adapted this from a Food Network recipe that seemed a little…excessive. It was a huge hit at our Thanksgiving table, and will definitely become a staple for years to come. I hope you enjoy it as much as we did.

Serves 8+

You will need:

-3 large sweet potatoes

-1 cup sugar

-2 eggs, beaten

-1/2 teaspoon salt

-1/2 cup butter, room temperature

-1/2 cup heavy cream

-2 teaspoons vanilla extract

Topping (optional):

-1/4 cup butter, cold

-1/2 cup brown sugar

-1 cup pecans, chopped

Preheat oven to 400˚F.

Poke potatoes several times with a fork and bake in oven until very soft, about 45 minutes.

Reduce oven temperature to 325˚F.

Scoop potato out into a bowl and whip with a hand mixer. Add sugar, eggs, salt, butter, milk and vanilla. Mix well and put in a greased casserole. Set aside.

In a food processor, chop butter and brown sugar together until it's a course, sandy consistency. Fold in the pecans and distribute evenly over casserole. Bake for 25 minutes, or until top is brown.

Enjoy!

Therapy…of the Physical Kind

I've had a lot of "free time" lately, but of course I use that term lightly. "Free time," to me, conjures up feelings and scenes from second grade, when we would be granted fifteen minutes of spare time after lunch to do whatever our little hearts desired: transferring our vocab words to flash cards, touching and smelling the new shipment of dictionaries in the library, thinking about ponies, having fake conversations with fake friends…you know, the normal things that normal second graders do. Now that I'm an adult who currently works part time and finds herself with a few unscheduled hours, I'm still trying to replicate that feeling of productivity that drove my days back when I was a miserable office drone. When I'm not working (or preparing for work), I have the wonderful ability to do whatever my little heart desires: organizing my recipes, writing lists about things I need to write lists about, touching and smelling the new shipment of books at the library, thinking about ponies and having fake conversations with my fake TV friends. I also take an inappropriate number of pictures of my cat, but let's leave that for another day.

I realized recently that I've been taking extreme advantage of my physical therapist. I've known her for a little over a year now, back when I saw her for an undiagnosed painful wrist, and I now consider her a friend. Now that my problem has been surgically fixed, she's helping me recover and gain back my mobility. The thing that I struggle with, though, is not the excruciating and blinding pain this "friend" puts me through several times a week; it's a word in her professional title: Therapist.

"Hey Jackie! Come on in, have a seat. How's everything going?"

"Yea, I'm doing alright, I guess."

"How are you feeling?"

"Well…honestly, you know, hmm…I'm feeling a little insufficient. I mean…really…what am I going to do with my life??"

"…Because of your wrist…?"

"I mean, no, not really. Am I living up to my own expectations??"

"You must have misunderstood me…how does your wrist feel."

"Oh, my wrist is fine. I mean, seriously, what is my main purpose for being on this earth? What is the goal…"

"Jackie…the wrist…physically, you're here about your wrist, right?"

"Should…should I lie down?"

I think it's something about medical authorities that automatically makes me want to over-disclose, made worse by the fact that I already have a predisposition to over-disclose information about myself to those not in the medical profession. I consider myself to be an honest person, an open book of sorts, but I tend to relax too much in beige midtown medical offices. Then again, I also tend to relax too much when I'm in awkward situations (quiet elevators, locker rooms, interviews, etc.) or when I'm wearing my Magic Velvet Sweat Pants. It's a slippery slope. One minute you're engaging in idle chatter about a recent trip to Target, the next minute you're explaining how you forgot to put the lid on the container for the prescription pads that you use to wipe your cat's vulva (because she's too obese to clean herself) and they're starting to dry out. Those things were expensive! And you can rest assured that I'm going to tell at least five people about it.

I think the solution is to start having random conversations with random people. That would take up some of my free time and also allow me to tell awkward stories without ever having to see these people ever again. No one wants to tell a good vomit story and then have to face that person again…not cool. Or maybe I could start calling 1-800s routed through India so that I can ask them insensitive questions like, "Have you had Chipotle?" and "Do you speak Hindi in your dreams?" Then again, I should probably just get a hobby. One that doesn't involve cats.

Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds…

If I could undo one day in my life, the entirety of my twenty five years, one day (nay, one HOUR) stands out in my memory like a large, sore thumb. It was that one day (one hour) that changed my life as I know it and is still causing a shockwave of consequences to this day in the form of medical and physical therapy bills.

In college, during a fun and joyful trip to the roller skating rink to welcome a new class of Freshmen into our sorority, I was tooling around on my skates when I fell…hard. So hard in fact that witnesses said the impact on my wrists made me pop several feet in the air, only to come back down on those same abused wrists and spine. To make a long story short, I broke my right radius, tilted my tailbone and dislocated my jaw (seriously). The trauma also caused both wrists to choose to develop nasty little cysts deep down in the joint, which, once the rest of my problems were under control, started to give me serious pain. I had my right wrist surgically fixed in college, but my left wrist has been the bane of my existence ever since, flaming up during the most inopportune moments.

So, after my wonderful and happy graduation from culinary school, I decided that there was no better time than the present to finally fix my left wrist, just in time to ruin my Halloween. I'm just now getting back on my feet/hands, and am able to type sentences with full punctuation, thoughtful candor and insightful wisdom. I've been dying to get back to the keyboard, so here I am. Is this the end of the backlash from that one night? We'll never know…if only I could go back to that dinky skating rink in West Lafayette, Indiana. The worst part of all is that I was 100% dead sober, something the emergency room nurse was quick to confirm. Had I been drunk, this might be a great life lesson. Alas, I'm just clumsy.

Having surgery on one of your necessary ambulatory joints is not easy…especially when it's the livelihood of my new career. There is an upside, though, in the form of a serving-size chalky combination of Oxycodone and Tylenol – the coveted Percocet. Don't get me wrong, I'm not pulling a Lindsay Lohan here…it was entirely necessary. When a doctor deconstructs your wrist joint to dig out a cyst and the local numbing wears off 24 hours later, you're in a bad place. I felt like a newborn calf, struggling to navigate this cruel world with unsteady and unbalanced limbs, helpless to the elements and losing the ability to wash myself. Every three and a half hours, though, I was rescued from the throbbing pain and delivered to a world where black, silky ponies combed my hair with sunshine and unicorns adorned with crowns of jewels microwaved my Bagel Bites (both of whom might have actually been Steve…I still haven't determined dream vs. reality). I was happy and pain-free without a care in the world, thanks to the joys of modern pharmacology. I saw strange things while pill-popping, things that I wouldn't dare speak of aloud. Things that would make a heroin addict uncomfortable and a psychologist nervous. It was an interesting few days, and I'd like to think I'm a better person after going through it all.

I stayed in that narcotic-induced purgatory for several days, during which I developed an unhealthy addiction to daytime television. Those first few uncertain days post-surgery, where I was not only unable to complete basic life tasks but was often either fighting a migraine or hazy from the drugs, I struggled to develop a routine that would make me feel like a slightly less waste of flesh.

9:00am – First alarm goes off. Take pain pill and continue to snooze until iPhone no longer allows it.

10:05am – 10:15am – attempt to pull on elastic-waistband pajama pants and wide-sleeved t-shirt. This takes longer than I'm willing to admit.

10:15am – 11:00am – watch "Rachael Ray", all the while thinking of how much I don't like Rachael Ray.

11:00am – 12:00pm – my favorite time of the day – "The View"! Watch listlessly with mouth agape while they have the exact same argument they had the day before and Joy Behar gets fined by the FCC for calling someone a "bitch" during daytime television.

12:00pm – 3:00pm – kill time by either spacing out on the couch, watching "Bridezillas" or "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" and counting down the minutes until I can take my next pain pill.

3:00pm – 4:00pm – "Dr. Oz," my man. Learn about five new medical conditions that I didn't know were possible. Begin to become paranoid that I have five new medical conditions that I didn't know were possible.

4:00pm – 5:00pm – Take another pain pill, which helps me get through an hour of Oprah Winfrey talking about how generous she is and laughing uncontrollably (Percocet) at her antics whilst camping with her best friend, Gayle. She cooked sea bass on a campfire!! Oh Oprah…money has changed you.

5:00pm – 5:30pm – Think about how much I want Steve to come home from work. Call him five times to ask him what time he's coming home from work. Watch the local news and become paranoid because I live in a city with at least five murders and three apartment fires a day. News is a bummer…luckily I'm feeling good!

5:30pm – 6:00pm – After receiving the much-anticipated phone call that Steve is on his way home from work, attempt to struggle into a clean t-shirt, change socks and brush hair with one hand. When this doesn't work, wipe drool off face, gargle with Listerine and resume spot on couch.

6:00pm – 10:00pm – Spend the evening regaling Steve with stories of my daytime television friends. "Oh my God, then Elizabeth told Whoopi to shut up, and we were all cracking up!!" or "When Oprah told me that, I just had to believe it." Try to ignore the deep pity in his eyes, and knowingly accept the final pain pill of the day, which makes me stop dead in my tracks and fall into a restful, kooky dream-filled sleep.

This went on for a few days, until I was finally confident and strong enough to venture outside into the real world. A trip to the library, for example, became the highlight of my day, and I would plan my eating/sleeping/watching schedule around that one errand. I was soon able to visit with friends again, when the unexpected and dreaded happened. I was happy as a clam, hanging out at a friend's house eating pizza on a Friday night, when I looked down and…I had dripped pizza grease all over my cast. Needless to say, I felt like an irresponsible 10-year old boy and couldn't make eye contact with the nurse as she carefully cut off the padding a few days later. I might as well have spread dirt on it and tucked a few worms in there while I was at it. Pizza grease…on a 25-year-old woman's cast…unbelievable.

So here I am, recovering nicely and on-track for a fully healed and functional wrist, for the first time in five years. I resumed my normal work schedule, yet am still struggling to break free from the grips of daytime television. Every time I see a commercial for "The View" my heart hurts and the "good times" of those few days come pouring back in a nostalgic and bittersweet wave. The pain of surgery is already forgotten, but the joy of delusional one-sided friendship still exists. Thank you, Barbara, Whoopi, Joy, Elizabeth and Sherry for helping me through a hard time. Thank you. Then again…it was probably all just a Percocet dream…