Last Friday was a bizarre day.
I had had a cold all week, but still looking forward to going to Denver. Tyler had 50-yard-line tickets to the Chargers-Broncos game and had asked me to come visit him and Kathleen and go to the game. Friday morning, getting up and getting ready to go to the airport, I actually felt better. But as Karen drove me down, I felt some real congestion starting up.
She let me out, I got into a curbside line, but was coughing so hard I had to step out of line twice. I couldn't get my breath and felt like I might throw up. I started to feel totally isolated, alone in a crowd. I got upstairs and through security, but on the concourse it really hit me. It felt like I had a column of warm, salty water, bubbling in my windpipe, and it was coming up to drown me. Coughing did no good. The water was right there, bubbling just beneath my throat, and I couldn't breathe.
I stopped and sat down. I envied the people passing by, completely unconcerned with their health or immediate future. I had my boarding pass in my pocket but realized that I was not going to get on the airplane. My seat was 25A, and I could see one of these futile coughing fits starting up as the plane left the gate, and I could not get up to go the restroom and put my head between my legs to let the mucus drain and get some air.
I took my pass up to the gate and handed it to the boarding agent. "I am sick and can't go on your airplane today." I called Karen to come get me. "You're kidding!" she said, knowing how I had looked forward to this trip. Tyler and I had been figuring menus all week, and he had asked me for a recipe for elk chili. I made one up and sent it to him, without any confidence it would be edible.
An hour later Karen and I were on the phone to Kaiser, begging to see my primary care physician. When I told the screening nurse what had happened, she referred me straight to the emergency room. I felt so bad for Karen; she had been looking forward to some quiet time, and now this. Talking to the registration nurse, I could barely breathe. Half an hour later, in Bed 13 of Module D in the emergency area, a nice, engaging doctor named Chiang confirmed I had pneumonia. "But I had a pneumonia shot last year," I said. He shrugged. "There are different types of pneumonia."
He and a wonderful nurse named Rhonda took care of me, getting xrays, studying histories, taking blood cultures out of one arm and feeding antibiotics into the other. I told her I had really wanted to be on an airplane on this particular morning, but the way I felt, this emergency room, under her care, was really the place for me to be. And then I had an epiphany. Money is the combat issue in the health care debate, but to anyone in a situation like mine, there are two words that are priceless: "under treatment." Until those two words are available, on any given day, to any given citizen, this country is not prioritizing correctly.
November 23, 2009
November 12, 2009
Stretch Cooking: The skillet pork fat starter
I'm not sure I want you to try this at home, but I want to tell you about a cooking technique that worked for me, and it is one I will use again, maybe with one modification.
It started with four big country-style pork ribs, but you could also use pork shoulder or baby back ribs. Any other cut would be too lean. I seasoned the country-style ribs with salt and pepper, put them in an 11-inch cast iron skillet, and baked them for three hours in a 250-degree oven. They came out tender, crunchy and delicious.
I put the skillet on the range and didn't think about it until the next day. I was about to wash it when I saw quite a bit of nice fat and jellied juices in the skillet. That evening, I heated the skillet on the range, just above medium. I had two leftover ribs. I cut each into two pieces and fried them in the leftover fat. They came out better than the original ribs, crunchy and redolent, true carnivore candy.
"Hmmm," I said. Karen, who might have balked at this sort of idea, was out of town for a few days. So I decided to leave the skillet on the range, covered, for another day. The next day I fried bacon in the fat. Delicious. In the evening, I fried a couple of slices of pork loin in the fat. Delicious. On Sunday, I cut a thick chunk of sirloin into two thinner slices (thus doubling the area for the crunch effect) and fried them in the fat and had them with some black-eyed peas. Delicious.
It reminded me of bakers and their sourdough starters. You can keep a sourdough starter around for years. Why couldn't you keep a black skillet of pork fat around for years? Or at least weeks. Or days. At this point, I would remind health officials that in the first paragraph, I said I wasn't sure I would want anyone to try this at home. I certainly, however, plan to do it again, this time starting with some of that great CostCo pork shoulder.
The modification: I'll keep the skillet of fat in the refrigerator, covered with foil, between uses. I am seriously considering dedicating one of my black skillets to this theme full-time. If Karen will let me.
I know I have not blogged in awhile. I am going to start again, but with different material. I had hoped to grow readership with the old format, which I put in place last spring. But it didn't happen. Starting next week, I'll be posting columns written during my 20 years at The San Diego Union, plus some graynation material as it materializes, and of course the various cooking adventures.
I will use the available time to write novels. This is the time to learn to write novels, and write one, before I die. I have a couple under way, including one that has really focused my attention. I hope someday it will focus yours.
It started with four big country-style pork ribs, but you could also use pork shoulder or baby back ribs. Any other cut would be too lean. I seasoned the country-style ribs with salt and pepper, put them in an 11-inch cast iron skillet, and baked them for three hours in a 250-degree oven. They came out tender, crunchy and delicious.
I put the skillet on the range and didn't think about it until the next day. I was about to wash it when I saw quite a bit of nice fat and jellied juices in the skillet. That evening, I heated the skillet on the range, just above medium. I had two leftover ribs. I cut each into two pieces and fried them in the leftover fat. They came out better than the original ribs, crunchy and redolent, true carnivore candy.
"Hmmm," I said. Karen, who might have balked at this sort of idea, was out of town for a few days. So I decided to leave the skillet on the range, covered, for another day. The next day I fried bacon in the fat. Delicious. In the evening, I fried a couple of slices of pork loin in the fat. Delicious. On Sunday, I cut a thick chunk of sirloin into two thinner slices (thus doubling the area for the crunch effect) and fried them in the fat and had them with some black-eyed peas. Delicious.
It reminded me of bakers and their sourdough starters. You can keep a sourdough starter around for years. Why couldn't you keep a black skillet of pork fat around for years? Or at least weeks. Or days. At this point, I would remind health officials that in the first paragraph, I said I wasn't sure I would want anyone to try this at home. I certainly, however, plan to do it again, this time starting with some of that great CostCo pork shoulder.
The modification: I'll keep the skillet of fat in the refrigerator, covered with foil, between uses. I am seriously considering dedicating one of my black skillets to this theme full-time. If Karen will let me.
I know I have not blogged in awhile. I am going to start again, but with different material. I had hoped to grow readership with the old format, which I put in place last spring. But it didn't happen. Starting next week, I'll be posting columns written during my 20 years at The San Diego Union, plus some graynation material as it materializes, and of course the various cooking adventures.
I will use the available time to write novels. This is the time to learn to write novels, and write one, before I die. I have a couple under way, including one that has really focused my attention. I hope someday it will focus yours.
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