type II diabetes
Back in France, when I wished there were more hours in the day to study, two female Mormon missionaries showed up at my door. They tried to get inside, wanting to assimilate me to that religion. I had not yet developed the method of chasing Mormon missionaries that I used years later, when we lived in Palm Springs. I took the bus and the Mormon missionaries would nail me at the bus stop. I did not want to run away and miss the bus, so I yelled “Devil get thee behind me” in English and numerous Psalms in Hebrew. This method worked quickly and efficiently for getting rid of many southern California Mormon missionaries. This method has been replicated by me in numerous situations.
Back in France, I was less experienced. I hit them with Genesis Chapter 3 verse 16; in French “Tu enfanteras avec douleur.” I suppose I could have used the English standard version. I basically convinced them not only that I knew my Old Testament pretty well, but that I had enough problems being female and a French medical student without being a Mormon. The older of the two women, a preceptor guiding a young student, said the equivalent of “she knows Scripture; we better leave her alone,” and I hid my joy. Read more on Women’s Pains…
You can deep fry just about anything and it will taste good. Ask just about anyone who lives in the south. Twinkies, cheesecake, pickles, or whole turkeys. Maybe even an old tennis shoe. Nothing is exempt!
This woman has grown a Southern comfort food empire by cooking deep fried cheesecake and other things I am unlikely to eat. She did not go public with her Type II Diabetes until three years after she learned of it. Now someone from some group for science in the public interest says she should have come forward earlier.
Her empire can’t be doing that well, for I bought a little bottle of her mint jelly at some deep discount store about a week ago. I liked it, but it wasn’t any better than anyone else’s mint jelly. Admittedly, I’ve never watched her on television. I don’t watch cooking shows because I don’t care about food the same way I used to. I remember when all I could think of after one meal was what I would get for the next. And I was never even the primary food preparer at home. My honored husband has always taken that in hand for me. Read more on The Cooking Guru’s Health Problems…
When I was little, my Grandfather-of-Blessed-Memory (maternal) came to visit us at 6 am every Sunday morning, arising very early to drive about two hours from Springfield to our Boston suburb of Chelsea.
Springfield would be considered “way out west” as compared to civilized and urbanized Boston, so it is like the country mouse coming to the big city.
He said the road was not busy and drive was relaxing and pleasant for him. But his visits were anything but relaxing and pleasant for us, who would much rather have tried to sleep in on Sunday.
The exception was my paternal Grandmother-of-Blessed-Memory – who was also an early riser. Older folks often seem to get up early.
(That’s how I know I’m not old yet – I still love to sleep late). These two senior members of our family seemed to get along well. Grandfather called her “Mother Goldstein,” and even brought her a nice bottle of (coincidentally named) “Mother Goldstein” brand kosher wine. There was one incident that I recall that upset a peaceful Sunday morning when I was about five. I came downstairs in my best baby blue lace dress to hear Grandfather yelling at Grandmother never to serve him that “horrible drink” again. Read more on Chicory, Belgian Endives And Me…