Shingles: Not Just For Your Roof

It has been a very strange few weeks.

Last Monday I felt a slight burning, tingling sensation over my left lip and near my  left eye. On Tuesday, a small blemish appeared over my lip. By Wednesday it was significantly larger, but still not too worrisome. On Thursday morning, my whole lip was swollen and more spots were appearing, including a very faint red bump near my eye. At the urgent care center in Cleveland Park, two doctors diagnosed me with shingles. [I'd highly recommend this urgent care center. It's clean, modern and efficient.]

Since then it’s been an exciting ride of doctor visits, pain killers, topical solutions, and antiviral medicine. I’ve done a lot of research and it seemed a pity not to share my discoveries on the blog.

As most of you probably  know, shingles is the same virus as chicken pox. Most of us get chicken pox when we’re children, but after we recover the virus never leaves our body. It remains dormant deep inside. For some people, it never comes back. But for others–such as myself–the virus returns when we are adults in the form of shingles. The majority of the time it happens to people over 50, but occasionally it happens to people under 50. It appears I won the lottery.

Unlike chicken pox, which appears as blisters all over the body, shingles usually selects one nerve. The virus travels down that nerve and manifests itself as a rash of blisters in one area. In my case, the virus selected the maxillary nerve on the left side of my face. Yikes.

Maxillary Nerve. Image: Gray's Anatomy/Public domain

Now, if you could see my face (which I will spare you) it would amaze you how accurate the above picture is. The blisters only appear immediately under my left eye and down to my left lip. And only from the side of my nose over to my cheek.

Because shingles in the eye can cause blindness, I visited an opthamologist. Just by looking at me, he was able to confirm that the optic nerve is not involved. He did a number of tests anyway and concluded my eyes are fine.

[As an aside, let me say that Dr. Greer is hands-down the best doctor I've seen in D.C. His small, one-room office in Metro Center is a little strange, but he's incredibly kind and thorough. He called me before and after my appointment to check on me. Eye problems? Go to Dr. Greer. ]

No one knows exactly why we get shingles. Sometimes it happens if your immune system is weakened by fighting another illness. People with cancer and AIDS often get shingles. But sometimes it just happens as a result of stress and anxiety. I don’t remember feeling particularly stressed in the weeks leading up to this, but anxiety is something I’ve had to manage most of my life and it was likely the cause.

Shingles is not contagious to people who have had the chicken pox. One person cannot give another person shingles. However, it is contagious to a person who has not had the chicken pox. In that case, the person with shingles would give the other person chicken pox, not shingles. Wild.

The upside? Well there’s not much of an upside. But, as Patrick pointed out, “at least we’re not in Paris.” And he’s right. A few months ago we’d looked for tickets for this exact time frame.

As time goes on, I’m starting to feel much better and the swelling in my face has gone down. In the meantime, I’m working from home and drinking lots of juice. I like juice, so that part is not so bad.

Talking to Fish

Living alone and being single is all the rage right now. Or rather, talking about being single and living along is all the rage. Among the recent articles, there was this one by Kate Bolick for The Atlantic and this one in The Washington Post about being single and living to tell about it and NPR’s Tell Me More had a segment that asked, “Is Single Life Something to Lament or Celebrate?” I even went to a panel discussion at Sixth & I a few weeks ago that featured Kate Bolick and Hanna Rosin. (Rosin wrote The Atlantic article, “The End of Men.”)

I’ve just about had enough. I agree that there’s no road map for this generation of career-oriented, late-or-never marrying singles. But for goodness’ sake, people. I think it’s about time to wrap this conversation up.

Or is it?

What can I say. I’m fascinated.

My favorite so far is this article by Steven Kurutz of The New York Times. Kurutz explored how living alone can increase a person’s eccentricities and quirks. He interviewed Bolick:

In the experience of Ms. Bolick, who has also lived with roommates and boyfriends, living alone breeds “a very indulgent work style.”

“I can work 24/7 for days on end, and I can let my whole apartment fall apart on me and not wash the dishes,” she continued. “And nobody cares.”

Ms. Bolick even has a home-alone outfit. “I have this pair of white flax bloomers that go down to my knee. They’re like pantaloons. They’re so weird,” she said. “If someone comes over, I change out of them.”

Even boyfriends have never seen her in them? “No, no,” Ms. Bolick said, laughing. “That would be the height of intimacy if someone saw those.”

What emerges over time, for those who live alone, is an at-home self that is markedly different — in ways big and small — from the self they present to the world. We all have private selves, of course, but people who live alone spend a good deal more time exploring them.

I enjoy having roommates. Lots of them. In college I lived with four girls in two rooms for three years.  We slept in bunk beds. Later, I lived in a group house with people from Craigslist, shared an apartment with a couple I found on Craigslist, slept in a living room for three months in the home of someone I found through a friend of a friend. I’ve shared apartments with best friends too and spent several summers in cabins at summer camp.

But these days I live alone. I talk to my pet fish. On a whim and without reason, I occasionally decide to bake things late at night. I leave craft supplies covering my kitchen table for days on end. I’d clean them up, but why bother? I don’t mind them.

It’s true. I have found that individual quirks increase as time alone increases.

Whether that’s good or bad, I can’t be sure. But I do like eating my cereal in bed in the morning. And I don’t mind finding the empty bowl still there when I get home after work. So that’s something.

EMU EGG BRUNCH

When Patrick gave me emu eggs for Valentine’s Day I will admit that I was a little confused. Sure. I had an ostrich vs emu dream, but still. I think we can all agree that it’s an unusual gift.

He told me, “See, I think this will be fun because with normal eggs you can only make enough food for you and me. But with eggs this big we can make a whole brunch and invite people over.” (That’s a direct quote. I wrote it down while I was still in shock.)

(c) Becky Lettenberger

I gave it a few days of consideration and then I decided to really give it a try. I posted an invitation for emu egg recipes on my blog and on Facebook. I got a variety of responses. I was going to invite just two or three people over. Then I read online that one egg is the equivalent of 10 – 12 eggs. So I invited the whole neighborhood over — or rather friends of mine who live in the neighborhood.

Patrick and I used one egg to make 4 quiches (and had extra left over). Anna brought Texas shaped waffles with blueberry compote. Becky brought roasted pineapple with greek yogurt and basil. Malaka brought Pop-Tarts? Nine of us dined. It was a feast!

(c) Patrick Cooper

Cracking the egg was the most challenging and eggcellent  part. You can read about that in detail on Patrick’s blog. It involves a hammer.

Now. The real question of the day is: What should I do with the second egg?

PERHAPS BAKE A VERY LARGE, MOST SPECTACULAR EMU EGG CAKE. Anyone want to help?

Really Great Meals

Great meals I have enjoyed in the order they occurred. To be updated occasionally.

1. Blue Duck Tavern, Washington, D.C., brunch, Spring 2010

A small group of friends gathered here midmorning on a Saturday in early spring.

Memorable moment: Five different servers delivered our five dishes at exactly the same moment.
Best menu items: Fresh-baked croissants with jam and clotted cream. Hot apple pie with homemade butter pecan ice cream. (The server insisted we have ice cream — on the house — since we ordered the pie.)

2. The Olde Pink House, Savannah, GA, dinner, Fall 2011

Becky and I dined here on our quick “midnight train to georgia” weekend trip.

Memorable moments: On a winding, impromptu tour of the place, a restaurant host told us about ghost sightings. Candlight seating in the wine cellar included a piano player.
Best menu item:  Crispy scored flounder with apricot shallot sauce, creamy grits & collards. (It was a enough to share and they were kind enough to serve the dish on two plates.)

3. Talula’s Garden, Philadelphia, PA, dinner, Winter 2012

Patrick and I dined here after seeing the Van Gogh Up Close exhibit at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

Memorable moment: Rustic farm atmosphere. High ceilings. Candlelight. A kind, knowledgeable server who was obviously a cook himself and delighted with the product he was serving.
Best menu item:  
Everything I ate. ”Bring on the Funk” cheese plate appetizer. Potato gnocchi with buffalo milk Taleggio and charred brussel sprouts. Pink Snapper with grapefruit (wow!), fennel, fingerlings, herbs and warm baby lettuces.

Restore Belief in Happiness

I’m going on to Philadelphia tomorrow (hooray!). But after reading this hunger-inducing article in yesterday’s New York Times, all I want to do this weekend is make a pie.

“We must have a pie,” David Mamet wrote in “Boston Marriage,” his 1999 play about Victorian women struggling not to talk like Mamet characters. “Stress cannot exist in the presence of a pie.”

It may well be true. For much of the nation, this is the season of deep winter blues, lake-effect depression, the sad pull of midwinter dismay. There is either too much snow or not nearly enough. The furnace clicks on regardless. Night comes fast.

Introduce an apple pie into the equation, though, and watch what happens — as a result not just of the pie itself, but also of the process of making it. Apple pie is a weekend project to slow the baker’s heart rate and restore belief in happiness. The scent of fruit softening, kissed by cinnamon, of buttery crust, of sugar caramelizing — these can combine into a fragrance of redemption for the cook and everyone else. The taste delivers bliss. [Pie Fidelity, by Sam Sifton]

However, I’m not sure I agree that all pie bakers should precook the apples. I rather like a bit of crispness to the filling. To each his own, I suppose.

CALL FOR ENTRIES: EMU EGGS BRUNCH

Let me start by saying that dating Patrick is always an adventure. You never know what kind of plan he’s got up his sleeve. Maybe it’s a screening of Casablanca. Maybe it’s a trip to New Jersey. Or maybe it’s emu eggs for Valentine’s Day.*

Emu eggs are GREEN! (like avocados)

 

That’s right. Emu eggs. Maybe I’m going out on limb here, but somehow I suspect that I am the only girl in the world to receive emu eggs last Tuesday.

Eh?

Anyone?

(chirp, chirp)

OK. Well. The idea here is that I will use these massive eggs to make a brunch. The best gosh darn emu egg brunch you’ve ever seen. Here’s where you come in: WHAT EMU EGG DISH SHOULD I MAKE? The person who submits the best answer wins an invitation to the most exclusive brunch spot in town — my studio apartment. Submit your answers via email, comment, Facebook, etc. and we’ll cook, eat and blog the whole thing. I’m really looking forward to this.

 

 

*He also gave me beautiful red roses. We will not be cooking them at brunch.

Be Mine, Neon Valentine?

I had fun crafting an extra special Valentine yesterday. At the risk of over sharing, here are few images. If in doubt, use neon orange!

Sending Love to R.I.

Play It, Sam

Last Friday, Patrick and I went to the grand opening of the Warner Bros. Theater at the National Museum of American History. We dined on Moroccan hors d’ oeuvres, watched Casablanca and heard Stephen Bogart reminisce about his father, Humphrey Bogart. Patrick wore a tie and a nice gray sports-coat and I wore a new blue dress (which incidentally matched one worn by Malia Obama in a White  House photo). But the best dressed attendee was the film itself, which sported a restored and re-mastered look. It was captivating.

I’ve seen the movie a few times. I watched it at a younger age and disliked Ilsa for lying to Rick when they left Paris and disliked her even more for meeting Rick in his apartment while her husband risked his life attending an underground meeting against the Nazis. I found it terribly frustrating that she would need Rick to think for her in the end. Couldn’t she decide right from wrong for herself?

However, watching it with a few more years of life under my belt, I let go of the unforgiving moral compass I once held and appreciated the gray areas, poor timing and misunderstandings. Life is full of miscommunication.

The movie, of course, stayed the same. But I continued to change and somehow the film felt like it changed along with me.

Here’s lookin’ at you, kid. I suppose you’re growing up.

Ostrich Dream

The other night I had a dream that an ostrich was my best friend. It took a dark twist when an emu tried to hurt us, but my ostrich-friend protected me. I crafted this piece of art to honor his bravery.

Ostrich & Large Flowers