Kitchen Faux Pas

Let me preface this with this statement.....being the good Southern woman that I am....I am a good cook. Yes, there have been times that a recipe has disappointed me, but I can't take blame for that.

So here's what happened:

I took a package of stew meat out of the freezer, intending to make a pot of stew in the pressure cooker  and have it for supper the next couple of days. I got all my ingredients in place, and started to unwrap the beef...but then...wait a minute...I don't buy stew meat wrapped in white butcher paper. I buy a London broil, cut it in half, and cook one half as a steak for me and Dave, and cube the other half for stew, storing it in a freezer bag.

I went ahead and opened the paper package I'd thawed and it was a large boneless chicken breast. *+*+*Sigh*+*+*

Ok, plan B. I pushed all the stew makin's aside to make Friday or so. Today, since I had a thawed hunk of chicken, I decided to make Orange Chicken. I unwrapped the chicken, and put it in the slow cooker and set it for a couple of hours.

I took the lid off to cube my chicken and make the sauce to pour over rice and....wait a minute....that doesn't look right....WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!?!?

Stuck to the bottom of my cooked chicken breast was a ziploc bag. I peeled it off and saw it had something white in it. More chicken? BONUS!

Well I couldn't unzip it cause it was cooked closed, so I slit it open with a knife and inside was.......flour.

Somehow, the flour that I had ready to dredge my beef in for stew wound up in the slow cooker and I didn't see it and put the chicken breast on top of it and cooked them both together.

Oh well.....it all has orange sauce on it, so it's gotta be good.

However, after getting the breast out and dicing it and warming it up in the orange sauce, it has the consistency of that flour. Ugh. I think I'll blame it on the recipe.

Thank goodness for orange sauce.

I'm just sayin'

I gotta put it out there....looks like Extended Hell rehab did NOT send me home with scabies. What I have is a drug allergy.

I'm just sayin'.

Last Bits and Pieces From The Rehab From Hell

I think out of the 8 days I was there, there was one day that I really enjoyed.

They did have a full activities calendar, and one day I cleaned myself up after my physical therapy, and went to Arts & Crafts.

Marie, the activities director, said people were doing different things, and she thought I might like to make a journal. Boy, did she have me pegged.

She gave me a 3-ring binder and I got to look though magazines and cut out pictures and decorate it. I decided to make a binder for the recipes that I print out at home. I usually print them out, then put them into a sheet protector, but I had nothing to put the sheets in. It's really cute, with a lot of foodie words and pictures glued on.

I sat across from a really nice lady who had severe Cerebral Palsy. She couldn't talk, but she responded to things that were said to her. It was a pleasure to meet her.

I wasn't going to tell this part, but since I'm being honest here, I will. This place sent me home with a nice little parting gift.....scabies.

After two rounds of treatment with an insecticide cream...yes I said insecticide...and stripping and washing everything I've slept on or in or wrapped up in or worn, I think maybe we've killed the little boogers. It wasn't my fault, and it's like head lice in a schoolchild....everyone can get it. It's been miserable though, being contagious and all. I just hope Dave and the cats don't get it.

I sure was glad to get out of that place, even though I had to have an IV antibiotic daily for another week. There was nothing like having MY SleepNumber, MY Laz-E-Boy, MY big TV, MY computer, MY MAN, and MY cats.

The Brookshier In Me

Well, after 2 episodes of the Brookshier in me coming out, I was once again Little Mary Sunshine.

Normally, I am the most cooperative, nicest patient anyone could hope for. But I can only be pushed so far.

One day, after Griselda (the CNA with sense) had solved my catheter pain problem, I awoke from the most glorious nap. No blaring TV, no pooping and sobbing....it was the sleep of a contented baby.

Then, a few minutes later I had a full blown anxiety attack. I'd never had one before. I was convinced I was dying. My heart was going to explode.

I hit the call button and got a CNA. I told her I thought I was having a heart attack and she told me "Your medication nurse will be here in a little while."

My response was (loudly)....."Get somebody with their machines in here NOW, I'm having a f***ing heart attack!"

Next thing I knew, I had about 6 people around me. I finally calmed down with the help of Junior, a CNA who was also known as Superman.

I knew I was going to be ok when I felt that my biggest problem was how my mother would have been appalled at my language.

A day or so later, when I still had no TV, no phone, and the wrong bed, I was fed up. The nurses station down the hall a bit heard me shout "Y'all ain't seen nothin' til you've seen a pissed off Texan with a headache!"

About that time, Michelle, my caregiver, was on her way in the door and caught the end of a conversation between two women about "that woman in 21A". She covered her eyes and thought, "Oh no...what has Cyndi done now?"

I never got the TV, and still had to share the phone, but the right bed made a lot of difference in my level of pain, so I found my Southern charm and became sweet Cyndi again.

Food, If You Can Call It That

Ahhhh food. I saw the dietitian twice. The first time she forgot to write down my preferences. I told her I don't drink milk so guess what....I get milk with every meal.  Dave reminded me that I'm 60 and my bones aren't as strong as they used to be, so I'm drinking the dadgum milk. Chocolate milk would have been nice now and then, but I didn't want to confuse them.

Breakfast has been rubbery scrambled eggs, toast steamed under a cloche til it was soggy, Honey Nut Cheerios (she remembered that one),  a banana, and GULP....a carton or glass of milk. At least it was whole milk and not that yukky 2%.

Lunch has been fairly decent a couple of times...other times it was a case of WTF is THAT?!?!?!

Dinner I've kinda confused what was for lunch and what was for dinner, so I'll just hit the high points.
Have you ever seen broccoli that was waaaaay overcooked? It gives new meaning to 50 shades if gray. Seriously.
I had sent word to the kitchen 3 times that I wanted NO mayo and NO mustard. So what do I get? A chicken salad sandwich with a generous filling on a bun. I mumbled that I'd rather have a PB&J. All of a sudden, my CNA, the one with sense, appeared with a PB&J. Thank you Griselda.
2 nights later I was presented with another chicken salad sandwich that might have had 2 tablespoons of salad on a whole piece of white bread. Very skimpy. There was a green salad on the other side of the plate. I told the CNA that I was to have NO mayo and she actually opened the sandwich and said, "I don't think this has mayo in it." Oh Come ON!!! But she took it away and brought another PB&J and kept my green salad. I told her I wanted the green salad, just not the chicken salad. She picked up the plate and rudely said "If it's not right this time, I'm done!" I said "Good, cause I'm done too!" I wish I'd gotten her name. Then a very nice young man came and said "Miss Cynthia, would you like a grilled cheese sandwich instead?" BOY, WOULD I!! I was about to turn into a PB&J.
It was a little over grilled, but it had my green salad. It was an AH HA moment.
I think the best meal was a fish sandwich (NO mayo YAY!) on a bun, you know those little orange squares of fish, some peas and carrots perfectly cooked, and some rice. I also had a graham cracker and the pudding I'd saved from lunch.  And.....you guessed it.....milk. It was yummy, or as yummy as hospital food can get.

The Roommate From Hell

Laws, laws. Now don't get me wrong. I fully understand that everyone is different and everyone has their way of coping with life. I do too. BUT...I try not to let MY thing infringe on your space.

During my stay in the Rehab from Hell, I was placed in a room with a lady, whom I'm sure had her good points. The woman in the room before me was there for 9 years. Not sure where she went...I was told she didn't die. Maybe the 5 weeks with the RMFH was just too much for her.

The first night I was there, I came in about 11pm. When her sleep apnea machine kicked in and her TV started to blare I figured I was in trouble. I had no TV on my side of the room (they said the 9 year woman didn't watch much TV so they didn't put one in. Maybe she would have watched it if she'd had one.)

There was only one phone in the room. After throwing a fit that would have made the Brookshier part of my family proud, maintenance came in and plugged in a phone. Into a non-working jack. So we could not get incoming calls without someone running down from the nurses station and switching the phones. Since she had taken control of the one TV that was on her side of the room, I took control of the phone and kept it on my side. Seemed fair.

So anyway, let's get on to the part that made her the RMFH. This lady was 70, if she was a day. No spring chicken.But she had a quirk left over from her childhood.

When she was a little girl (what? 65 years ago?) her mother broke her leg on a toilet. (how do you DO that?) Then, also when she was a child, she knew of a girl who drowned in a toilet among all the things that I toilet holds. I was told in detail, but I won't gross you out. Then, a few weeks ago, she ran into a toilet and hurt her leg. Are y'all seeing a pattern here? It gets worse.

She told me that her way of coping with all these things was to poop, even though she had an aversion to an actual toilet.  So she would sit on a bedside commode and poop (stinking up the joint, usually before mealtime) and SOB the whole time. If that wasn't bad enough, she would follow up with a healthy shot of Febreze. All this did wonders for my COPD. I started breathing through a damp washcloth and being more grateful for the oxygen I was on.

I'll give y 'all a minute to let this all soak in.

The Rehab From Hell

I will start part 2 of my blog about my recent illness with a disclaimer. I realize that rehabs are understaffed. I also realize that those people are underpaid. But Geez, do they have to hire what I refer to as bottom feeders? These are the people who must have graduated at the absolute bottom of their class, and only have the sense that God gave a crawdad. (My apology to crawdads, lobsters, and catfish everywhere.) With the exception of maybe 4 CNAs and a couple of LVNs
I  was in an ocean.

This place which was known as a 'hospital' and I will refer to as Extended Hell, had to be the loudest place to try to recover from anything more serious than a hangnail.

Vacuums whirring in the wee hours of the morning..the blaring TV from my roommate from Hell (more on her later) with the ear shattering applause of an overzealous studio audience. People constantly in and out of your room, unless you need someone at a reasonable hour, of course. Those folks take 15-20 minutes to answer, if they come at all.

Oh boy, at this writing (done by hand instead of sleeping) the sleep apnea machine of the RMFH has kicked in and the TV volume is up again. What I wouldn't give for an uninterrupted nights sleep in the quiet and the dark.