Not really gone, though wouldn't a trip to a lovely vacation spot be just the thing right now?
Anyway, though I've been gone from the internet, I've been quite present in my own life.The greatest mistress of my time lately has been my walking schedule. It's quite difficult to exercise with both EDS and fibromyalgia, but I always feel better when I do. The weather has been so beautiful here the past few weeks and my elliptical has been off-limits due to snake infestation so I decided to take to the trails.
Since I hit forty I have gained at least 30 pounds. Most of this came on gradually and in part can be attributed to hypothyroidism. While treatment of my hypothyroidism has been successful, I have never lost any weight.
A nasty confluence of peri-menopause, age, and illness have conspired against me.
That, and I like food too much to starve myself.
I remember reading that to be truly fit one should walk 5 miles a day.
Considering that most of the time I'm home I'm sitting down, my half hour on the elliptical got me nowhere near this mark.
It's taken me several weeks to do it, but most days I now walk 3-4 miles with several 5 mile days each week. I usually split my walking up into two separate excursions; typically a 3 mile walk in the morning and a 2 mile walk in the late afternoon.
It's quite a balancing act to manage this along with the fatigue and pain, but so far I've definitely been feeling better. I need to take a nap in the afternoon, but most days my energy level is a little higher.
I've always been an endorphin junkie, so my mood has been great as well.
One thing I've learned during this little exercise sojourn is to listen to my body, not my mind, when it comes to fatigue. The tendency is to do too much when feeling good, thereby setting oneself up for extreme fatigue the next day.
I do this, of course, but also have a tendency to push myself even when I'm not feeling good. One day last week, I was suffering from an extreme case of post exertional malaise (sounds made up but it's real folks!). All I yearned to do was go lie down, just for a bit.
Please.
Why didn't I?
Well, there was some cream in the fridge that needed to get used before it turned.
Yes, that's right.
Cream.
The real deal.
I told you I wasn't willing to "diet."
Plus, I originally bought it because my son's are coffee snobs who "prefer" cream to whole milk in their morning brew.
I had already walked, gotten supper ready for the oven, and cleaned up in the kitchen.
But there was that cream.
And I couldn't let it spoil.
Ah, I know!
I'll make a cake.
I paged through my ancient Betty Crocker 1950 cookbook - it's my cake bible - and found just what I was looking for: a sweet cream cake that uses cream in place of shortening.
Perfect!
That's when it all started to go wrong.
First, I couldn't find my cake pans. I searched every kitchen cupboard at least 3 times before calling my husband in exasperation.
Yes, I called him at work because I couldn't find my cake pans. Why would I interrupt him this way?
He was the last one I saw handling those cake pans.
And he knew it.
Unfortunately, he had no idea where they were. He remembered washing them, but not putting them away.
Okay, then, I'd use a 9 X13 pan.
Oops.
All my 9 X13 pans were still holding the billion burritos my husband made and froze. He hadn't quite gotten around to removing the burritos from the pans which were still in the freezer.
In the basement.
A whole flight of stairs away.
I was already exhausted, grunting with exertion with each cupboard door I opened and egg I cracked.
And our little snake problem had not yet been addressed.
A trip to the basement was out of the question.
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| Fortunately, it tasted delicious! |
I'd just have to use cake pans that were larger than those called for in the recipe.
A quick pause to do a little deep breathing helped me regain my walking-induced endorphin-fueled easy-going temperament.
Ahem.
So into the oven they went and I quickly mixed up some cinnamon sugar for a topping. I know, it's a little like having a Diet Coke with your cheeseburger and fries, but that's how my thinking trends.
I carefully set the timer a little early so the topping would bake in nicely.
I did get to sit and rest a bit while the cake was in the oven, but all too soon I had to leap up and sprinkle.
The timer is a relentless task mistress.
Apparently my oven bakes a little fast because that cinnamon sugar fairly bounced off the cake surface. I left them in for a couple extra minutes just to show my dominance.
By now, my fatigue was so thick you could cut it with a knife, but all I had left to do before resting was to remove the cakes from the pans to cool.
I waited about 5 minutes, knowing full well it wasn't long enough to ensure the cakes a clean escape, but all I could hear was the siren song of the horizontal position calling to me.
And sure enough, both layers stuck to the bottoms of the pans and sheets of semi-melded cinnamon sugar cascaded off the cakes and onto the island, the floor, and into my waiting dog's eager jowls.
I did utter a few choice words, but no tears for me - I knew just what I'd do to save the day and the dessert: a delicious vanilla filling would do the trick and bind together all those torn pieces and crumbs.
Of course, that meant another 1/2 hour making the vanilla cream. It's so easy it's fool proof, but it does take time.
And you can't make it lying down.
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| See that layer of yellow goo in the middle? That's vanilla cream. |
As my fatigue increases, not only do I move more slowly, but my brain works less efficiently. Tension builds in my neck and back as I slowly hunch over in true old-crone fashion.
Once the vanilla cream was cool, I placed all the cake and crumbs on a plate, dumped the cream filling in the middle, topped it with the least crumbly layer and there I had it: a vanilla cream filled mess.
Not to be deterred, I remembered our family motto, "Everything is better with chocolate." I whipped up a quick drizzly chocolate icing.
Emphasis on the drizzle.
In my hurry to finally end this torturous culinary adventure, I neglected to add enough powdered sugar.
Oops.
Most of the icing gently, yet purposefully, glided from cake top to counter top in one fell swoop. I hunched over the cake witchily spooning the chocolate ooze back on top. By now I was so hunched and in pain I was nearly half my size, yet I was finally done.
The result looked a bit like a kindergarten project, but tasted phenomenal, reminding me a bit of Boston Cream Pie.
My family was appropriately appreciative and the whole cake was gone in an evening. I managed to survive the ordeal with no long term side effects except a slightly bruised ego.
And best of all?
I had yet again passed the motherhood test: despite my pain and suffering my family would not go dessertless this evening!
Um, yeah.
Next time I think I'll just take a nap.
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