Bisquick

Okay, one more ...

I've dealt with Campbell's tomato soup--with Kraft Dinner--and now ... yet another staple from boyhood days.

We always had a box of Bisquick in the house when I was growing up, and we used it for a handful of things: biscuits (duh), pancakes (see box), and--perhaps my favorite--a kind of cherry cobbler that my mother made on special occasions, a cobbler she called "cherry cake." It looked kind of like the pic below, though Mom always used a rectangular loaf pan for it.

I loved that "cherry cake"--could have eaten the whole damn thing by myself, but, of course, had to "share" (a word I despised in boyhood). I have a memory that Mom served it hot? With vanilla ice cream? Or maybe that's just Old Man Hunger invading my brain?

Dad was the Pancake Maker in our house. Sometimes he would just do the Bisquick thing; other times he would make buckwheat pancakes--or cornmeal pancakes (a recipe that was a favorite of my Osborn grandparents). And every now and then ... waffles (also Bisquick).

I think Bisquick was the gateway drug to the baking that I do now. It's simple to use, and so I used it. (Bis)quickly, I figured out how to do pancakes and biscuits--though I never tried the cherry cake, not until years later. (Not as good as Mom's.)

Bisquick was on my kitchen shelf from the very beginning of my Years Alone. In my early years of public-school-teacher-penury I would whip up a batch of biscuits. Easy. Filling. Kept me alive until payday. And when I married (December 1969), Bisquick remained a staple.

I can't remember now when I quit buying it. I began bread-baking very early in our marriage (cheaper), and I didn't use Bisquick for that. I think it was a gradual evanescence for that yellow box. I recall no epiphany, no wet-eyed decision to "move on," no emotional scene at the trash can. We just quit buying it.

And once I acquired my sourdough starter in August 1986, well, that sealed the deal. I now use that substance for the waffles and pancakes and bread and biscuits and muffins and ...

Oh, a memory: When I was teaching The Call of the Wild to my 8th graders, I would bake for each of them a tiny little sourdough biscuit. Why? Wild takes place during the Klondike Gold Rush, a time when a Northland veteran was called a "sourdough." Jack London uses the word in his Klondike fiction (though not in Wild). Anyway, sourdough was a substance the miners relied on. So ... I wanted to give the kids a taste. Some gobbled; some eschewed (politely or otherwise); some saw and seized an excuse to run to the bathroom. Bathrooms beat English class, you know?

Kraft Dinner

Okay, one more ...

Yesterday, I posted about my long (and continuing) history with Campbell's tomato soup (and, yes, I did have some for supper last night + a grilled-cheese-and-turkey sandwich). Today ... Kraft Dinner, another staple of boyhood--and even later on.

Trusty Wikipedia says that it was born in 1937, but I don't remember it in our house until the 1950s--and 1954 was the year that Kraft introduced what was then the familiar blue box (a little more basic than the one you see in the pic above).

We had it all the time when I was a kid, and all three of us Dyer boys had no problem making it: boil the macaroni in water (salted, if you like); pour off the water; stir in the cheese powder, butter, milk; eat with a fury so that your siblings don't get more than you do.

Still hungry? Make another box.

Early in our marriage, Joyce and I often had it (cheap, filling), and I learned a very fundamental thing about her: She is a Pasta Freak. She loved spaghetti, macaroni ... Kraft Dinner. I found that on Kraft-Dinner Days there was a kind of sibling rivalry between us.

And that reminds me ... early in our marriage we made spaghetti one evening, then discovered that we had no sauce. I suggested we use some Heinz 57 (which we did have). She suggested that was a bad idea. I insisted (first mistake). Mixed some in (second mistake). Smiled (third mistake).

She, unsmiling, took the pot to the bathroom and commenced flushing it all down the toilet.

I forget what we had for supper that night, but I think I had crow--with humble pie for dessert.

Our little boy loved Kraft Dinner, as well (still does, I think). And I believe his sons are addicts, too?

Our niece and nephew chowed on it for years--and I think they still do (they turned 30 yesterday).

Although our Kraft Dinner Days are behind us, Joyce remains an avid pasta lover. We often go to Parasson's or Dontino's (nearby Italian places), and Joyce does a splendid job of cleaning her plate. Every time.

Meanwhile, I'm thinking about Kraft Dinner right now--wondering if it would be fun to buy a box (or two ... or three ... or ...?) and see how it goes. Boil, drain, mix, munch. Could be fun--especially if Joyce has the larger portion.

Tomato Soup

Yesterday, at the grocery store, I bought a can of Campbell’s tomato soup. It’s a purchase I make regularly. And, to be clear, I cannot remember a time in my life when Campbell’s tomato soup was not on my menu.

When I was growing up, it was a staple—usually with a grilled-cheese (well, Velveeta) sandwich. At least once a week. (Mom made it with milk; I use water.)

Later, on my own, I bought it and ate it because I had very little money—first year’s teaching salary: $5100, which worked out to 24 semi-monthly payments of $168.42. That didn’t buy a lot, but it did buy many cans of Campbell’s tomato soup.

The funny thing is—I don’t like tomatoes. Not raw ones. Can’t eat them. Just can’t. A few years ago, nearing 70, I thought, Hey, you’re nearing 70. You can eat a damned tomato. I tried it. But ... I quickly realized I could not eat a damned tomato.

So why do I like tomato sauce on spaghetti? On pizza? Why do I love Campbell’s tomato soup?

Beats me.

In my boyhood home we had other varieties of Campbell’s. Chicken noodle was another favorite, and we often had it. Mom also kept cans of cream of mushroom, cream of celery, and some other inedible combinations that she used in her cooking. (Those meals were not among my favorites.)

These days, I still ingest lots of grilled cheese (often with sliced turkey) and sip it down with Campbell’s. In fact, I’m having that combo for supper tonight. I’ll probably have it a couple of other evenings this week, too. Oh, what an epicure I am!

I don’t remember how I felt in the early 1960s when I first saw Andy Warhol’s collection of Campbell soup-can paintings. Surprised? No ... no ... not surprised. Vindicated! I was consuming art!

(Link to the MoMA site where you can see Warhol’s work.)

Sunday Sundries, 224

1. HBOW (Human Beings of the Week)--my friends Chris and Michelle, who saved a seat for me at the crowded coffee shop on Saturday--and for numerous other kindnesses I'm generally too clumsy and clueless to thank them for. Dear friends ...

2. I finished several books this week ...

     - The first, via Kindle, was the first P. I. novel by Robert Galbraith (aka J. K. Rowling), the first in what now has become a series of novels (and a TV series on BBC One--which I won't watch until I've finished the novels). The Cuckoo's Calling (2013) introduces us to Strike, a P. I. in London, a wounded Afghan War vet (he's lost part of a leg), down on his luck for the nonce, living in his office, broken marriage, etc.

He has a temp working for him, Robin Ellacott (25), a young woman who turns out to be a bright and fascinating character in her own right. Strike is working on a case of a supposed suicide of a super model (who apparently leaped from a tall building and met the unforgiving street). Hired by one of her relatives, Strike bumbles around for a bit, then ...

I liked the novel a lot--except for (near) the very end when he has a long conversation with the person he has identified as the killer. Pages go on as he explains why he believes this person is guilty (notice I'm not even giving gender clues!). I thought it was a bit ... much. (I'm betting she won't do it again in the subsequent novels, which, of course, I have to read now!)

     - Next was the new novel by Jay Parini, The Damascus Road: A Novel of Saint Paul (2019). I love Parini's work--have read all of his novels, his biographies of literary figures (Frost, Vidal, Faulkner), and a lot of his poetry and criticism. I coaxed him to spend a day with us at Western Reserve Academy  (April 20, 2012). I had retired by that time, so colleague Jeannie Kidera handled well all the many particulars of his visit.

Anyway, Parini employs two narrators--Luke and Paul himself--as he proceeds through the famous Biblical account of Paul's pre-conversion behavior (participating in the stoning of Stephen), through the road-to-Damascus epiphany, his preaching, his travels, his successes, failures, writing, escapes, death.

Parini, the son of a Baptist minister, has written other books on Christian subjects, so he is not coming to this project as a skeptic. Nor does he accept everything in the accounts of the life of Jesus of Nazareth (he notes, for example, the many legends already circulating during the life of Paul and Luke and the others).

An interesting character is James, the brother of Jesus, who does not come off all that well.

But ... a powerful story of a man consumed by his passion, a profound believer who will not surrender a whit, will not fear death, will not avoid a dangerous encounter.

     - As some of you know, I've been reading my way through the novels of Wilkie Collins (1824-99), a prolific writer, friend and colleague of Charles Dickens. The most recent one I finished was The Two Destinies (1876), not one of his major novels, I fear. It tells the story of two children, George and Mary, who love each other as children, and, as they enter later childhood and early adolescence, they become more serious. But there is a class difference between them, so ... no way their union is going to happen.

George's family (the higher class) quickly move away, and the boy and girl lose touch, lose track of each other. But will they find each other again?

Prophetic dreams, spectral appearances, near misses, and George 's slow recognition of what's going on (George, who appears to be a dimmer bulb than he need be--virtually every reader will see what George does not)--all tumbles us toward a conclusion that will not surprise anyone.

Still, Wilkie Collins can write, and wending my way through his sentences and paragraphs is always a pleasure.

     - And, finally, I finished (for now) my journey through all the works of Kate Atkinson, whom I discovered quite by accident while reading a little notice in the New York Times (July 2018--link to the notice). I've read her "literary novels," her mysteries featuring Jackson Brodie (books that are every bit as clever as her novel-novels--a new one will be out in June!), her collection of short stories, and now ... her play, Abandonment (2000).

It's something of a family story--some sisters (one adopted), a mother, a friend, a workman (who's helping one of the sisters replace some of the wood in a house she's just bought), and ... some characters from the past who used to live in the house.

All sorts of issues emerge as the play progresses--sibling rivalry, sex (of all sorts), murder (!), family history (the good, the bad, the ugly), and, of course, a resolution of the surprising sort that Atkinson often employs. Lots of lines to like--like this one: "I can't imagine being dead. ... How can the self be obliterated?" (37). And this one: "I suppose real love is where you have no choice" (97).

Of course, it's far more fun to see than to read a play. On the page, it takes a while to figure out who people are--to keep them separate; this is not an issue at a performance. So ... I'm glad I read it--but wish I could see it!

3. We finished watching the Netflix film The Highwaymen about the pursuit of Bonnie & Clyde. Interesting, the differences between it and Arthur Penn's 1967 film about the duo. At the end of the Penn film, you felt kind of "Aw, that's too bad"; at the end of this one, you think, "They got what they deserved."

You rarely see B&C in the Netflix film; the focus, instead, is on Kevin Costner and Woody Harrelson, who play two former Texas Rangers re-employed to hunt down B&C. They are both great--some wonderful scenes between them--and with others.

One wee problem: Why are all the vintage cars in such good shape?!? Link to some video.

4. We're also nearing the end, via Hulu, of season 2 of Fargo, which, at times, has all the weirdness you associate with the Coen Bros. (who did the original Fargo film in 1996). Grim stuff, this season--gang warfare in Minn. and N. Dakota. Lots of blood and viscera. But also fun to watch for its visual style--for its sanguinary humor--and for some of the performers.

Link to some video.

5. Last Word: A word I liked this week from one of my online word-of-the-day providers ...

     - from dictionary.com

pseudepigraphy  [soo-duh-pig-ruh-fee] noun

1: the false ascription of a piece of writing to an author.

QUOTES: If de León was the author, his exercise in pseudepigraphy was among the most successful in history.

-- Ezra Glinter, "A mysterious medieval text, decrypted," Boston Globe, June 26, 2016

ORIGIN: The noun pseudepigraphy comes from Late Latin pseudepigrapha, a neuter plural adjective (from pseudepigraphus) used as a noun meaning “books or writings falsely titled or attributed to Hebrew writings supposedly composed by biblical patriarchs and prophets.” Pseudepigrapha was borrowed unchanged from the Greek compound adjective pseudepígrapha (from pseudepígraphos), composed of pseudḗs “false” and the Greek combining form -grapha, neuter plural of -graphos “drawn or written.” Pseudepigraphy entered English in the 19th century.

Return to Seidman Cancer Center

Seidman Cancer Center
Beachwood, Ohio

April 25, 2019; 9 a.m.

It’s that time again. In about a half-hour Joyce and I will head up to Seidman Cancer Center for my quarterly visit with the oncology team that’s been following my struggle with prostate cancer, a journey that commenced more than fourteen years ago. (My initial diagnosis was late in 2004.)

I had surgery in June 2005–didn’t work. Radiation in 2009–didn’t work. Since then I’ve undergone other procedures—hormone deprivation (Lupron, then Trelstar), immunotherapy, and, late last summer, yet another course of radiation treatments—this time to my spine. The cancer, you see, has metastasized into my bones.

Before my last radiation treatment, my PSA (Prostate Specific Antigen) had risen to over 20. This was alarming because it meant that the cancer was active again. I have no prostate gland now—but prostate cancer cells also reveal themselves in PSA.

Post-radiation (#2)—this time—is yielding better results. The graphic below shows my scores in recent months.

6 August 2018	20.13
12 September 2018	11.98
16 October 2018	3.36
9 November 2018	1.93
15 January 2019	1.07
18 April 2019	0.33

I am, of course, pleased about those scores—but I also know they are temporary. I am, at this point, incurable, and we’re in a battle of delay, not victory. One of these days my cancer will reawaken—my PSA will start to rise again—and we’ll be moving on to other remedies of delay.

I’ll add to this post later today (or tomorrow) when I get back from Seidman.


April 26, 1:00 p.m.

We were at Seidman for about two hours, but we were actually with medical professionals for only about fifteen minutes. So it goes.

Check in. Wait. Back for vitals check. Wait. Nurse Practitioner arrives and interviews. Wait. Nurse arrives with shot of Trelstar (inhibits testosterone—the food of prostate cancer). Shot in the rear. Ouch. Wait. Head out to the waiting area (!). Step to window to deliver my co-pay. Wait. Pay.

Then fly for home!

I didn’t see my oncologist this time. But the NP went over my recent tests, did some checking of heart and lungs. Is happy that I’m working out regularly (at least someone is!). Tells me I’m doing well.

And that, of course, is comforting to hear. But, of course, I also hear in the room the echoes of the darker news that other patients have heard—today, other days—and I know that I will one day hear the same sort of thing. Such knowledge subdues any celebration, replaces it with humility. And gratitude.

So—of course I’m pleased for today, for the recent test results, for the efficacy of my meds, my lifestyle (eating sensibly—except for an occasional crunchy-peanut-butter binge), exercising—oh, do I despise it now: It’s just so much harder without that “push” from the testosterone I no longer have).

Joyce keeps me sane, keeps me hopeful. More time with her, you see, is priceless. And that thought is ever-present in my head, ever dominant in my heart.

I can’t imagine going through this alone, and Thursday, in the waiting room, I saw several people doing precisely that. Heading back, alone, for chemo. Heading back, alone, for consultations and other treatments. Some limped, used canes or walkers. Alone. I simultaneously feel so sorry for them—and admire the strength that animates them, that keeps their hope alive.

Robocalls

I think I've blocked more calls on my cellphone than the great Bill Russell blocked shots for the Boston Celtics.*

But unlike Russell's blocks, mine have done no good. They keep coming, several a day (sometimes more); I keep swatting them away like nettlesome flies--and here they come again, swarming.

Same thing on our land line at home. I'm on the do-not-call list. Does no freaking good. About, oh, 4:45 p.m. each day they commence, ending about 5:30 (are people somehow more susceptible at suppertime?).

There was an editorial in the Times today that suggested things will soon get better--for a while. The robo-dudes will figure out a workaround. Of course. And I'll be blocking (ineffectually) again. (Link to Times piece.)

Here's the thing that puzzles me: The robo-calling must somehow work. I mean, would companies (and swindlers) be using them if they didn't?

My mom--a very bright, circumspect, skeptical woman (she had a Ph.D.)--later in her life fell for one of those Nigerian-prince scams and lost about $10K before my younger brother realized what was going on and put a stop to it. Mom was absolutely convinced she was going to get a million bucks--and soon. This is the same Mom who never once fell for any pathetic schemes that Adolescent I ever proposed.

When I found out about this, I revised my position on capital punishment. Oh, we should definitely execute people who swindle the elderly, the vulnerable.** A mass execution as part of the Super Bowl halftime festivities?

I was actually in my mom's apartment when the "Nigerian-prince" dude called her (after my brother had stopped her ... contributions). I yelled at him. Warned him never to call her number again. Asked him if his mother was proud of him. (I used a few, uh, more colorful expressions, too) Slammed the phone down.

A half hour later he called back.

Which shows how ominous I am.

There are many annoyances in our wireless/wired world, aren't there? Maddening Facebook posts; tiresome Tweets; bogus "news." Texts from people who clearly aren't the person they are claiming to be. Etc.

But robo-calls are driving me to the precipice--and over it. I guess "invasion of privacy" just isn't a thing anymore, eh?


*For those of you who are chronologically challenged, here's a piece about BR and his shot-blocking prowess. Link.
**Not really.

Happy Birthday, W. S.

So, today is the Bard's birthday ... sort of. We know when he was christened (April 26, 1564), but christenings then were not on the day of birth. So we've (somewhat arbitrarily) picked the 23rd for The Day.

Four hundred and fifty-five years ago. Not too many folks live that long--none, for course, physically; few in other ways. Those who have endured in the public memory for hundreds--even thousands--of years (some for positive reasons--Shakespeare; others, for negative ones--Attila the Hun) have done so because of their notable--or regrettable (or downright heinous)--behavior.

William Shakespeare was something of a celebrity in his day. A popular London playwright and poet. Thirty-six plays are in the First Folio (1623)--and some of them (The Tempest among them) we would have no copy of if his friends had not published the Folio after his death in 1616. (He co-wrote some others; some may be lost.)

As I've written here and elsewhere, I was not an early (or easy) fan of the Bard. My dad, who could be waggish, liked to joke that his real name was Billy Wiggleshaft--maybe hoping that joking would send me off in search of Hamlet. It didn't.

I had to read Julius Caesar and Macbeth in high school.  Couldn't do it.

Had to read Macbeth again in English 101 at Hiram College. Couldn't do it.

And even though I was an English major, I did not take a Shakespeare class in college--or graduate school. At Hiram, the professor who taught the course (Dr. John Shaw) was on sabbatical the year I would have taken it. Back then, I was highly pleased with myself for avoiding the Bard. But the real reason? Fear.

But I wasn't too worried: I was going to teach in a middle school ... no use for the Bard there, right?

Wrong.

I somehow slowly entered the world of the Bard--and by the 1980s was teaching The Taming of the Shrew and then Much Ado About Nothing until the year I retired from public school teaching (January 1997). Oh, and I also took busloads and carloads of kids to see his plays in and around Cleveland throughout those years.

In 1989 I directed a production of The Merry Wives of Windsor at Aurora High School and, a few years later, took some cast members to Washington, D. C., to see that play at the Folger Shakespeare Library.

Later, at Western Reserve Academy (2001-11), I taught Hamlet for about ten years to the juniors (all of whom had to read that play). And I loved doing so ...

Meanwhile, Joyce and I were driving all over the place, seeing as many of the plays as we could. And we ended up seeing them all--Richard II was the last (and a wonder it was at Shakespeare and Company in Lenox, Mass.).

I've memorized a lot of the Bard's work, too--famous speeches from some of the plays (yes, "To be or not to be" is among them), about twenty-five sonnets or so.

And I have to say: I remained dazzled by the dude. Every time I see one of his plays (and, by the way, every time I've taught one), I notice--I "get"--things that I somehow missed before.

As I said, I taught Hamlet ten years in a row, and every year--yes, every year--I saw things I'd missed--and often it was because one of my students had noticed it first. (If you wanna teach, you'd better be a willing learner, too!)

Anyway, Happy Birthday, Bard. Four hundred and fifty-five years later, you're still making a difference. The list of human beings who have done so is a very short one.