Sleepless but glad

I'm functioning on approximately three hours' sleep but am fighting the grogginess long enough to report that Comfort is simply suffering the effects of venerability and not some raging kitty disease. While this is not wonderful news, at least she isn't suffering. And no, I wasn't up all night worrying. (Brother-in-law just needs to get a softer guest bed!)

The kind vet and his lovely, rosy-cheeked assistant braved chilly winds and an overly excited Neko love attack to pay me a visit yesterday. Comfort was examined and pronounced "long in the tooth with failing kidneys," which made me sad. But the vet assured me she wasn't in any pain and was simply living out the last few days/weeks/months of her life with a slight case of distemper. She got a few cuddles and shot of penicillin in the butt, and waddled off, seemingly no worse for wear.

So, I guess a few extra moments in my lap and some warm milk are all I can do for her now. Sad, really, because she is such a lovely kitty. I'm sorry she won't see one more summer and have the change to lounge in the sun with baby & me. However, she seems to have had a relatively carefree, overfed life - and what more can a kitty ask for, really?

The vet was a real sweetheart and wouldn't charge me for the visit, so I paid him with two bottles of the boys' hard cider. He seemed quite tickled with it and I proudly relayed the story to D on our way to Waterloo last night. He looked horrified - turns out I'd given the vet the old, stinky, dran-o flavoured cider from two years ago by mistake! A quick phone call with instructions to pour it down the drain (or at least clean his toilet with it) remedied the situation; I'll be sheepishly delivering the "good stuff" tomorrow. Kind of embarrassing, especially after I'd extolled the virtues of "Someday Cider" for about 10 minutes to the vet before he left...

The Kittification of Someday

We have four cats at Someday Farm. They are inherited barn beasties, left for us by the previous owner's daughter, who cared for them diligently after her father died. I tried to tell her she was welcome to take the cats before we moved in; she looked at me as though I'd suggested she barbeque them and retorted, "It's the only home they've ever known." This sentiment was forcefully repeated inside a card she left us after we took possession of Someday, along with photos of "the girls."

My mother always had a cat in the house when I was growing up, with a succession of different personalities and a variety of names: Vodka, Snowball, Velvet, Champagne, Selina, Chaucer. But four cats is more than I've ever had to deal with at one time, and I'm now faced with the dilemma of a very sick kitty. Comfort, the friendliest, purriest and most congenial of the barn kitty coalition, has not been well of late. She's gotten skinny, even though she still rams her way into the food bowl. I suspected an ear infection, as she was shaking her head a lot, and made a mental note to go and buy ear drops from the vet. But this week she has deteriorated at an alarming pace, walking with a lean and sometimes falling over when one of her companions brushes by her too enthusiastically. Yesterday I found her looking practically post-nuclear, with a trail of crusty blood coming out of her eyes.

So, much to the amusement of D and C, I'm waiting for the vet to arrive. Most country people don't spend money on barn cats; they are an expendable commodity, and believe me, when one goes to "the bush" or "the happy hunting ground," there are a dozen more willing to pounce into the empty place at the food bowl. But I feel bad about leaving Comfort to suffer. She is the only barn kitty who'll stand up to Neko, and the only one I can pick up and hold in my lap. She's a friend to all children and amuses visitors with her paunch of belly fat that swings when she walks.

We've spent hours together sitting in the sunshine. She truly was a comfort to me while I was on my leave of absence, her purrs a tonic to my grieving soul. So although I am usually a bit more of a hardass when it comes to animals, it doesn't feel right to follow "the country way" in the case of Comfort. I called the vet over on the 4th Concession and he promised to drop by today. I'm going to shell out a fistful of dough, probably only to have the vet tell me she's a goner, but at least then I can put her out of her misery knowing I tried to do something for her.

I wonder how the other kitties will react if Comfort, whom I've always thought of as the feline ringleader, disappears from their kitty coalition? I think Comfort and Betty are sisters; I have no idea if cats care about that kind of thing or not. I guess I'll just have to wait and see.

A simple mood picker-upper

Yesterday was just a yucky day, on several levels. But today has a sunny countenance and no wicked west wind to freeze my face off, so I'm taking that as a good sign. I slept relatively well last night (more vivid dreams, but no swords or devils, thank you) and it's amazing, really, what a good cup of coffee will do to elevate one's mood. Illy decaf espresso is my recommended cure for a variety of ills...without it, I truly am trapped in an Escher or worse - Dali - painting for at least an hour every morning.

If I had followed my own advice yesterday and made a fresh pot of coffee instead of warming up some two-day old slop, my day might not have been as nasty as it was. Chalk it up to all the brain cells I lost during the night. If I'd had the strength to rearrange the top shelf of the fridge in order to extricate our giant pitcher of milk, I could also have followed a very simple, tried and true mood picker-upper: Mexican Hot Chocolate.

My Mexican cookbook - purchased in the Chapters bargain bin for $4.99! - was, sadly, lost somewhere in the avalanche of divorce, and I've never found the exact same copy again. But even though I've forgotten the recipe for empanada dough, I was clever enough to memorize the Mexican Hot Chocolate and Margarita recipes.

Making MHC from scratch beats any other HC mix hands down. Plus it's a soothing ritual - unwrapping the squares of chocolate (and eating the little semi-sweet bits that tumble out of the wrappers), whisking the milk, pouring in just the right amount of vanilla and pinching just enough chili powder...it's balm to an injured - or sleepless - soul. Why didn't I think of this yesterday?

Mexican Hot Chocolate
- 4 ounces bittersweet chocolate, cut into chunks ('Cause I doubt you'll find actual Mexican chocolate, although there used to be a good Latino store on King street behind the TD bank in Kitchener near Water St. that sold it...)
- 3 cups whole milk
- pinch chili powder
- splash of vanilla (or use 1/2 a vanilla bean pod, slit open if you want to be fancy)
- 1 cinnamon stick (or a pinch of cinnamon powder)
- 2 tbsp brown sugar

1) In a saucepan over medium heat, combine chocolate and milk, stirring constantly, until chocolate is melted. Careful not to boil the milk.
2) Add sugar, vanilla, chili and cinnamon stick and stir well for 5 minutes.
3) Remove cinnamon stick (and vanilla pod if using), turn up the heat and stir with a whisk until tiny bubbles form around the edge of the pot. (DO NOT BOIL or this experience will immediately become anything but relaxing.) If you have one of those fancy electric whiskers, those work like a charm.
4) Pour into cups and serve immediately. Adding a splash of real cream or a dollop of whipped cream is nice, but not needed.

Holy bad sleep, batman

I had the world's worst sleep last night, thanks to two very distinct nightmares. A few people have reassured me that vivid dreams are the norm during pregnancy, but holy! I've had bad dreams before, but nothing like these full-on nasties of nighttime. I've always been big on interpreting dreams (see the link on my left nav bar) but honestly, I don't even want to scratch the surface of these puppies.

They were so scary that I was actually to afraid to go to the bathroom after I woke up from Nasty No. 1 (I was watching a guy go around and murder people with a large, sharp sword but was unable to do anything about it..until the very end, when, of course, he decided it was time to murder me). So I crossed my legs, snuggled up to D's reassuringly warm body, took a few deep breaths and went back to sleep - only to be plunged into Nasty No. 2 (a lovely end-of-the-world-apocalyptic-chapter-outta-revelations-devil's-comin'-to-get-us type deal). I will spare you the details, but rest assured (oh, terrible pun) that they were sufficiently gory, grisly and freaky-deaky enough to make me pull D back into bed this morning and comfort my whimpering self.

The result of these nightmares? A near-sleepless night, a tearful morning and a horrendous day. I felt like the walking dead. I yelled at the dog. I lost my temper with a colleague. I haven't done any dishes or brushed my hair and I'm currently clad in one of D's shirts for lack of ability to pick out anything from my own closet.

To top off this stellar day, I called my favourite Chinese place to order a nice Chinese New Year's supper, thanking my stars that D wouldn't be subjected to another of my brain-dead supper creations. And guess what? They're CLOSED on Mondays.

Thankfully, D is doing chores tonight so I can schlepp around in a stupor for a few more hours. Supper is bound to be interesting...peanut butter sandwiches, anyone? As long as they are not served on the end of a long, sharp sword, I think they'll have to do.

BLECH!

Addendum to Crankpot: Cranberry Crockpot Chicken was AWFUL. The recipe has now been resigned to the recycle bin. D didn't even take the leftovers for lunch! That guy rarely complains about my cooking and will eat whatever is put in front of him, so for him to leave the CCC behind means he is making a very big statement. Additionally, he left the M. Croquepotte "soaking" in the sink. He conscientiously washed every other dish, so scrubbing M. C's stinking innards is obviously my punishment for serving such a horrendous meal.

M. Croquepotte is going back where he belongs - THE BASEMENT. And I, my friends, am going back to using the stove.

Crankpot

I am not, nor have I ever been, a crockpot kinda gal. I felt obligated to put it on our wedding wish list and with the resulting gift certificates, D and I bought a big beautiful one. It has a built-in porcelain serving dish embossed with lovely patterns and it's big enough to comfortably stew Mr. Marmalade should the need arise (hey, I'm just saying...). But I don't really like it. It's too clunky for the counter, and too unwieldy to carry up from the basement for any type of frequent use.

Several of my friends extol the virtues of crockpots. "Oh, it's so easy!" they say. "You hardly need any ingredients. And your whole house will smell wonderful when you walk in the door." So I broke down last night, hauled Monsieur CroquePotte out of the basement and he is now busily making us some Cranberry Chicken for supper. (Heck, that 8lb bag of muskoka cranberries Nana gave me last summer has got to get used up SOMETIME).

I went out at noon to pick up a parcel at the post office (How to Child Proof Your Dog) and stuffed myself with a marvellous Chinese buffet lunch at the New Seasons restaurant for $10. An hour later, I drove home, anticipating the wonderful aroma of M. CroquePotte's artistry when I opened the door. Well, there's an aroma all right, but it ain't wonderful. In fact, it smells like someone took a bottle of ketchup and sprayed it on every surface of my kitchen. I had my suspicions when I read the recipe - really, ketchup should only be used on hot dogs and in sloppy joes - but I wanted to join the ranks of the crock pot elite so I took a chance. I can just hear D now: "So what is this? Ketchup chicken?"

*sigh*

I will report back on the results of my crankpot cooking in a future entry, provided I haven't expired of crock-pot related poisoning.

The Grumbling Tummy - Part III

Here's part three in the "geez, I'm hungry lately" themed bloggery that's been going on this week. I promise not to torture you with more recipes...at least, not for awhile.

This recipe comes from a cookbook I compiled and printed for my Nana to honour her 90th birthday. I borrowed all her "scribblers" (as she called her soiled, stained, well-used recipe binders), polled the family for favourites and put together about 40 pages of her recipes. I did it because I couldn't think of anything to buy her, and figured she might be tickled by the cookbook, but I'm so glad I did - now that she's gone to the Great Kitchen Beyond, I've got something to pass along to the next generation and keep Nana's memory alive.

The thing I liked about Nana's cooking was that it was never low-fat, or particularly healthy. She just threw caution to the wind and cooked in what I like to think of as a blissfully ignorant, 1950's kind of style (e.g. LOTS of butter).

Nana loved meat and had dozens of chicken recipes in her "scribblers." Chicken breasts are my least favourite meat on the planet, but even I adore this recipe. (Of course, it's hard not to like something smothered in butter and Parmesan...) If you were lucky, she'd have a pan of these waiting for you when you popped in to visit, accompanied by roasted potatoes. The smell is indescribably wonderful.

Parmesan Chicken (aka the best chicken ever)
2 cups seasoned bread crumbs (I season mine with paprika, chili powder & onion salt)
1 cup grated fresh Parmesan cheese
1 tsp salt
1/3 cup fresh parsley, chopped (optional)
1 clove garlic, minced
1 tsp mustard (I like Dijon)
1 1/2 tsp Worcestershire sauce
1/4 cup butter, melted
6 chicken breasts

1. Mix Parmesan with bread crumbs and put in a shallow bowl.
2. Add Wooster sauce and mustard to melted butter and mix well.
3. Dip chicken breasts in butter, then in bread crumb mixture to coat well.
4. Place in single layer in greased casserole dish; pour remaining butter over top.
5. Bake at 350 for 1 hour and 15 minutes.

Serve with roasted potatoes - cut up 5-6 potatoes into small pieces, toss with olive oil and dried spices of your choice. Sprinkle liberally with sea salt and roast alongside the chicken until done, tossing occasionally.

Hmmm...I think I'll make this for D tonight!