Jinx: Chapter Two

Before we begin, I'd like to warn you that this post contains some content of a graphic nature. If you have no interest in hearing about the health problems my "delicate bits" have encountered over the past few months, stop right after "dream catchers."

Dudes, in the interest of full disclosure, there's something I have to tell you: I am listening to Demi Lovato of Disney Channel's "Camp Rock" fame right now. And it didn't even happen by accident. It's not like I was looking at some snarky blog devoted to lambasting whatever girl the "cute" Jonas is dating this week, and my hand slipped over the link to her new single. I just suddenly found myself thinking, "Hey, you know what would be awesome to listen to right now? Someone who's voice sounds like what would happen if Avril Lavigne swallowed a rainbow cloud full of Lisa Frank panda bears, and who looks like a teen-aged American Girl doll. I better get me some Demi, stat!" That doesn't really have anything to with anything. I just thought you should know in case you find this post lacking some of my usual bite. If I can't find the energy to make any good jokes, it's because I'm mesmerized by the dulcet tones of what can only be an electric guitar made of cotton candy and dream catchers.

Also, I wanted to provide you with that bouncy sparkly YouTube link because I thought it might help to balance out the dark tale I am about to tell. As most of you know, I have a long history with jinxes and curses. For most of my adult life, I couldn't get from point A to point B without some hexed talisman of doom -- ranging from plane tickets to underwear -- waylaying me somehow. And yet, in the past year, I've ridden on a number of planes without having to pay hundreds of dollars to fix any stupid mistakes. I was beginning to think I was through with curses all together!

I should know better by now, shouldn't I?

Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to the new, darker cloud over my life's journey: the health care curse. (Or, if you're my mother, you call it "selective hypochondria." But again: potato, potahto). I've already written about my first medical emergency in this blog, but I didn't know then that that incident merely marked the emergence of a larger pattern.

Shortly after I arrived in Baltimore, I noticed a sore growing on my...well I'm a nice Midwestern girl who's been conditioned to blush at any words more dirty sounding than "uvula" and "masticate". So, let's just say it was on my "hope chest." OK, you know what? Never mind. Calling it that is even yuckier than just saying that it was on my breast, which is where it was. Anyway. At first, I tried that good ole' Minnesota method used for dealing with everything in the heartland from cold sores to interpersonal conflict: Ignore it and it will go away. After two or three months though, it became clear that the traditions of my beloved lake land had failed me. Instead of going away, it got worse. I had no choice but to take action.

So, naturally, I thought: "well, I could spend a few hours figuring out how health insurance works (Seriously Obama! What's taking so long?), track down a clinic that will admit me and then get off my ass and actually go there...OR I could stay in bed and anonymously consult thousands of idiots at once who have no idea what they're talking about. Also, my fear of death is pretty much neck-and-neck with my fear of doctors. Hmm...Internet it is!" My first few Google passes were unsuccessful due to my reluctance to type icky words like "breast" or "areola" into the engine. When my vague, dainty searches for things like "rather embarrassing medical dilemma" did not yield the results I wanted, I was forced to get a little more specific. What I found then was troubling, to say the least.

Now kids, we all know that the internet is good at many things. Finding instructions for how to build a cake shaped like a pony; watching videos of babies wrestling cats; and trying to figure out where you recognize ubiquitous 90's actor Steve Zahn from; are all things the internet is great for. Turns out, the internet is also really good at convincing you that you have a terminal illness. After a bit of poking through forums and google answers, the internet had convinced me that it was most definitely one of two things: Either I needed to take a break from breastfeeding, or I had cancer. Since I haven't ever breastfed anyone that I can think of, I felt pretty confident diagnosing myself as a terminal case.

So I called my mother. I thought she might like to know. When I told her my woefull story, she calmly informed me that it was statistically improbable that someone my age had breast cancer. In retort, I quoted the story -- as told by medicalhorrorstories.com -- of the girl who was diagnosed with three or four rare forms of cancer at age 19. My mother did not seem as concerned with this concrete evidence of my incurable condition as I was. She just made me promise to stop doing independent internet "research." She also suggested I see an actual doctor.

Since my mother is always right, I set out the next morning to take her advice. But, I was hampered by the fact that all my knowledge of America's health care system comes from what I've seen on Grey's Anatomy, where they wouldn't deal with a small blemish like mine unless it had grown a heartbeat and a tiny pair of teeth. What kind of doctor did I even need to see? A general practitioner? A mammary specialist? A world famous neurosurgeon with great hair and a sordid sexual history with half the nurses at Seattle Grace??? My mother had suggested a clinic with an urgent care facility, so I tried calling a few of those first. Though the first few had never even heard of my insurance provider, I got lucky when I called the place that had seen me for my twisted ankle. It was an hour long bus ride away, but I was just relieved to know that my insurance card had not, as I was beginning to suspect, been cut out of the back of a cereal box.

Once I got there, everything went pretty smoothly. Nobody flicked my insurance card or held it up to the light to see if I'd forged it with magic marker. The doctor I saw informed me I probably had a staph infection. She scheduled a mammogram (just to be safe), prescribed two antibiotics and some non-stick bandages, and sent me on my way.If it didn't look like it was getting better in two weeks, she said I should come back in.

The end.

Just kidding! What, you believed me? You think I got it right on the first try? HAVE WE MET? No. Of course it wasn't any better in two weeks. If anything it was worse. Logically, at this juncture -- after having been informed by the Patient First nurse I spoke to on the phone that I was already on the strongest antibiotics available -- I assumed that whatever I had was incurable. The fact that the Patient First doctor referred me to a "specialist" when I went back in did little to dissuade me from this opinion. Come on. I've seen Discovery Health. If you can show me one episode of "Medical Mysteries" that doesn't contain some variation of the phrase, "we saw every specialist in the country, but no one could figure out what was wrong!" I will give you a dollar. My prospects were looking dim, but at least I didn't have to see another doctor for two weeks while I was waiting for my appointment to arrive.

Until, of course, I woke up three days later with nifty rash all over my body. When I discovered it, my first thought was, "Seriously? I've come down with ANOTHER degenerative skin disease? What a horrible coincidence!" Shortly though, it occurred to me that this new symptom was probably connected to one of the medicines I was taking. Sure enough, when I checked my prescriptions, there was "sudden rash or hives" right next to "heart palpitations" under, "Seek immediate medical attention if you develop..."

This was when I became certain that I was going to die. I figured the rash was only phase one. During phase two, by throat would close up, and phase three was probably heart explosion. When I called my boss to let her know that I couldn't come in that day due to the fact that I only had a few hours to live, she offered to give me a ride to the doctor's office. I accepted. This was a good decision for a number of reasons. One was that I didn't want to waste any of my dwindling moments on Baltimore public transit. Another was that Pastor Alice's years of service as a priest in the inner city have made her exceptionally adept at dealing with hysterical people. When I got in her car, we had something like the following conversation:

Pastor Alice: "Are you crying?"

Me: "No..." sniff. "Maybe."

Pastor Alice: "You're going to be fine. I've had bad reactions to plenty of antibiotics before. It's not a big deal."

Me: "sniff."

Pastor Alice: "Have you called your mother?"

Me: "No. I figured they'd do it for me after they admit me to the hospital."

Pastor Alice: "Sigh."

Needless to say, Pastor Alice was right. When I got back to Patient First, I saw a new doctor who made no mention of hospitalizing me or calling my next of kin. She told me that one of the antibiotics I was on was notorious for causing negative reactions in patients. The rash would go away on its own in a few days as long as I stopped taking the drugs. When she took a look at my original problem, she didn't think it was a staph infection and prescribed a steroid cream. Once I was out of the doctor's office, I called my very loving mom who told me that I should feel free to let her know the next time I think I'm dying -- even before a medical professional tells me I'm not.

Thank goodness, the cream worked almost instantly. I kept my appointment with the "specialist" though, who confirmed once and for all that I did NOT have cancer. She also told me not to trust the internet, which I'm 75 percent sure my mother paid her to say.

Oh, and she said that if I continued to have problems, I should consult a dermatologist. Do those guys advertise on Craigslist or the sides of buses? 'Cause if they don't, I'm gonna have to make a few calls. Has anyone seen the number for my phone-a-psychic?

Delicious Cookies: The C-Sell School of Culinary Arts

Did the title grab you? I'm experimenting with sensationalist tactics.

Guys, I know you're all expecting my trademark self-scathing-yet-tender-hearted-wit right now, but I can't find it. Seriously, I've looked everywhere. If you were my trademark wit, where would you be? My present theory is that it's hiding out in the part of my brain where I keep all the re-runs of X-Files episodes I've pretty much memorized, and is wrapped in the hypothetical snuggie I'm going to crochet for myself one day, snacking on the imaginary gingerbread castle with which I win "battle gumdrop" against Bobby Flay in my Iron Chef fantasies. Really, I don't blame it for hiding. Blogging every week (and a half) is really hard on that little guy.

So, this week, I've decided to give it a rest and try something different. You're probably thinking, "Caitlin, what else can you possibly try? The only things you know how to do that amuse us are telling stories about how bad you are at math and people and falling down." We'll you're right. I have nothing left to entertain you with, but perhaps I have something to teach you.

No no wait! Don't go! It's not about Dostoyevski or fractions or heart-thoughts, I swear. It's about cupcakes! Look, there are two things in life I know how to do very well: deprecate myself and make delicious cookies. Today, I'd like to take a break from the former and tell you a bit about the latter. Lots of people incorrectly assume that I'm a talented cook because I make good food. This is not true. I'm just a terrible cook who's been doing it for so long that I've made every mistake in the book before you met me and I fed you those delicious cookies. And you know what? You can make delicious cookies too. You don't even have to go through that tooth grinding "egg shell vs. egg white" debacle or that failed "flour and cornstarch are basically the same thing, right?" venture to do so! All you have to do is learn from my mistakes. I'd like to impart a little wisdom upon the recent college graduates of America who just learned the difference between teaspoons and tablespoons last month. (hint: the tablespoon is the big one).

Gosh, I've been giving unsolicited cooking advice for so long, I hardly know where to begin! To get things started, I'm going to elaborate on five of the passive-aggressive suggestions I most frequently make, hovering in the kitchen while other people are cooking.

1 "Yeah...that's going to need a few more minutes": Of all the free cooking advice I've doled out over the years, this is perhaps my most common refrain: When it comes to cooking times, trust your senses more than you trust the numbers your recipe has given you. If a recipe says, "Cook for 40 minutes, or until golden brown," This does not mean you get to pick one or the other. Your recipe is not a choose-your-own-adventure story. Or maybe it is, but I'm telling you: If you don't wait until that cake is nice and golden on top and the toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean, your adventure is going to end poorly. Every oven is dishonest, and every cooking time in any recipe is an estimation. So, even if you have to cook your cake for twice as long as your recipe leads you to believe -- unless the recipe specifically tells you otherwise -- it's not done if it doesn't look and feel done.

In general, impatience is one of a cook's greatest foes. So set a timer and do something that will take your mind off your cakelust while those youthful blobs of batter take the time they need to mature into sexy full-grown cupcakes. Do some yoga perhaps, or maybe brush up on your Hebrew. Your good eats will repay you for it in the long run.

And P.S. While we're on the subject, never frost or assemble any baked good before it is COMPLETELY COOL. No exceptions. Watching frosting melt into a warm cake is like watching Lindsay Lohan's youth melt away: It was gone before it's time, it's never coming back, and no one feels good about it. So put that spatula down.

2 "Um, does the recipe call for 'low calorie non-dairy spread'?": Listen, I'm all for experimenting, but I'm telling you right now, this one will fail. When a recipe calls for butter, it's calling for fat. If you don't have enough butter on hand, margarine, shortening and even sometimes applesauce or oil can be used as substitutes. But butter spread, -- the stuff that comes in a tub and has zero grahams of fat -- is missing the whole point. You can't use it in your cookies or fry a grilled cheese sandwich in it for the same reason why you can't fry a grilled cheese sandwich in salted water: It's just not going to get the job done. Sure it will be healthier, but what's the point if your toast is burnt and your cookies taste like frisbees?

In general, I say substitute responsibly. Don't substitute a cup of this for a cup of that until a reputable source -- preferably one with an editor, publisher and copyright -- has given you detailed instructions on how to do so.

3 "You know we don't have a blow torch, right?": This one's kind of common sense, but even I get in trouble every now and then when I forget: Read the recipe from start to finish before you begin. Even if you've scanned the ingredients list without any red flags going up, the instructions may still be fraught with landmines. You don't want to wait until step eight -- where the recipe tells you to plug in your imaginary electric ice-cream maker -- to discover you've just made a batch of really rich, possibly toxic, chocolate milk. Likewise, you don't want to wait until the night of the big party to realize that, if you start now, your marinated chicken skewers might be ready for brunch tomorrow. If you're lucky.

Sidenote: Like ingredient substitutions, you can MacGuyver substitutions for a lot specialized kitchen equipment -- deep fryers, double boilers, steamers, etc. -- out of more common pots and pans. But, for my thoughts on all substitutions, see tip #2.

4 "No, it's not that I don't trust your judgment, it's just that I don't think allrecipes.com user "ChefTastykinsHeartsHottieBobbyFlay13" is the most trustworthy recipe author...": You already know that the internet is a dangerous place. You figured that out back when your eighth grade English teacher told you that Harry Potter fan forum poster "RaDcLiFfE*FoR*PrEsIdEnT" was not an appropriate secondary source for your book report on "The Chamber of Secrets." Online cooking resources are similarly hit and miss. If you don't know and trust the place your information is coming from, you're likely going to end up with a check-minus result. Cooking forums like allrecipes, cooks.com and Recipe Zaar, where anyone who wants can post recipes, are full of unclear instructions and incomplete research. At best, you could end up with a custard that won't set. At worst, you might give all your dinner guests salmonella as a party favor.

I'm not saying every recipe on the internet is shifty. The web is brimming with great, creative, easy to follow cooking instructions. But, I'd advise you to use the same criteria for an internet recipe that you would use for potential book-report source: Is the author clearly identifiable? Is it well edited? Are there any spelling, punctuation or grammatical errors? Does the website layout look like it was designed by dyslexic thirteen-year-old Hannah Montana Fan? Etc. If you wouldn't cite it, for Pete's sake, don't eat it! Though, if you must -- if KitchenHotttie69Degrees's recipe for Fruit Loop Casserole just looks too enticing to resist -- make the recipe on your own once (and maybe wait 24 to 48 hours after you've eaten it, just to be safe) before you feed it to your unsuspecting friends.

If you're interested in getting sucked into the world of internet cooking and you've got a few dozen hours to spare, this guy has a great list of trustworthy food blogs and websites to browse.

5 "You're the chef!":Usually, I don't mean this one passive-aggressively. No, really! I think a lot of people are intimidated by cooking because they don't think they know what things are supposed to taste like. But guess what? If you think it tastes good -- unless you have some kind of serious taste-bud malfunction that causes motor oil to smell like pancake syrup in your brain -- it probably tastes good. Recipes that say, "season to taste" aren't referring to some cryptic state of food zen that exists only in Plato's realm of forms. They're talking about YOUR taste. You say it's salty enough? Then it is! There's nothing wrong with asking for a second opinion every once and a while but ultimately, you're the one wielding the spoon. You call the shots. Just remember to add seasonings a little at a time and taste as you go, and your tomato sauce is going to be beautiful. I promise.

And now, I'd like to close with one of my most favorite recipes for cheap, simple and creative eats. People ask me for it all the time. (Or, people often say, "this isn't bad Caitlin," then I say, "I know! Let me give you the recipe..." Again, potato, potahto.) Anyway, without further ado, here's how you make Frying Pan Pizza:

Ingredients:

1 cup of flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
a pinch (probably a little more than 1/8 teaspoon) salt
a few tablespoons water
olive oil, for frying

Directions:

1. Mix flour, baking powder and salt together in a small bowl. Then, add water two or three tablespoons at a time, stirring well after each addition. Add water until you have what looks and feels like a bread dough. The dough should stick together in a ball, but not to your hands.

2. Shape dough with a rolling pin or with your hands into a disc no bigger than the bottom of the medium frying pan your about to use.

3. Heat a tablespoon of oil in a medium frying pan. Fry your disc of dough for a minute or two on each side until it is golden brown.

4. Top as desired. If you want your toppings melted or toasted, put the whole pizza - toppings and all -- in the oven and broil on low for 3 to 5 minutes, or until the cheese is bubbly. Then, enjoy! For toppings, you can use traditional pizza toppings, or you can get as creative as you want. I've used baked beans and cheese, chili and onions, apple cheddar and brown sugar and fried potatoes and scrambled eggs.

This recipe is enough for one personal sized crust, but if you're feeding your friends it's easy to multiply by the number of people eating. Stir the dough up all at once, then divide it into individual portions after it's mixed. If you're having an extra crazy party, you can let your guests shape their own. Have fun! Let me know if you have any questions.

P.S. I'd like to dedicate this post to Anne, "Muffin Face," K. She recently turned 22, and girl knows what to do with a gas burner. Happy late birthday Muffin Face!