Traditional Thanksgiving dinner at my house always involved a traditional trip to a friend's house to enjoy their traditional Thanksgiving dinner instead of cooking my own. After all, eating other people's food is how the first Thanksgiving was celebrated, so my parasitism had a certain air of authenticity. And besides, who needs a ransacked turkey carcass dripping cold fat all over the fridge for days on end?
Nevertheless, I usually brought some sort of offering with me when invited elsewhere, no matter how paltry or inedible: a price-stickerless bottle of red wine unsuitable for a white-meat meal, for example; or perhaps an almond gateau from whatever bakery had anything left and was still open at the eleventh hour; maybe even a small selection of Viennese wafers if I struck out at the bakery and got really desperate. For some reason, those last two items, despite being de rigueur desserts at any Austro-Hungarian festivity, never seemed very popular at a Yankee dinner table dominated by withered pumpkins, a cranberry sauce bog, "squash," and a holiday theme plate heaped with arid slabs of roughhewn turkey: the stuffed and basted totem of most Thanksgiving celebrations.
Turkey, as any gourmand knows all too well, is a meat only slightly more flavorful than a pair of wooden clogs fitted with odor-eating charcoal insoles. Continental chefs have tried lathering its trussed body with all manner of exotic herbs and fragrant spices, but the bird's stubborn flesh remains about as mouthwatering as a dusty stick of gray chalk. Anyone who has ever attempted to submerge shards of turkey in a lake of gravy will be aware of its absorbent properties. In the past, I have even used uneaten drumsticks or the odd wing as a makeshift loofah when showering, since they are very convenient for those hard to reach places. Of course, everything changes after marriage: I no longer recycle Thanksgiving leftovers as bathtub accessories, obviously; but most importantly, I now bring proper food and booze with me instead of just store-bought snacks and booze. And this year I'm not only married but also suffer with a heart condition, so that makes everything double-different.
Soy protein is not a substance usually associated with the Pilgrim Fathers. Indeed, tofu, seitan and tempeh sound more like origami folds made during the creation of a decorative paper turkey rather than sauteed entree substitutes for a real, roasted bird. Nevertheless, an artfully marinated soy protein loaf makes a healthy and unique addition to any Thanksgiving feast. Tempeh, in particular, has a pleasing chestnutty taste and texture. A pretentious person such as myself might even describe tempeh as exhibiting certain autumnal qualities: an ideal companion, then, for non-buttered Brussels sprouts and other low-sodium sides. I wouldn't recommend bringing a tofu or seitan dish, however, since they are both extremely bland. In fact, you might just as well eat a paper turkey for all the piquancy you'll find in those poor examples of the bean curdler's art.
So this year I am thankful for tempeh; and low-fat frozen yogurt; and whole grain crackers; and organic root vegetables; and the fruits of New England's orchards; and red wine, naturally; and a large slice of Almond gateau - - yes, even diners with heart diseases are allowed to cheat on their diets at Thanksgiving.
Side Effects and Other By-Products
Taking medication is a sort of daily religious ritual, only with less billowing incense and a lot more enteric-coated communion wafer thingies. Fortunately, there is also no falsetto choir, unless, of course, you have taken the wrong pill at the wrong time of day. Regular observance of a medication regimen is certainly an act that requires a great deal of faith in the covenants and testaments of others: this doctor preaching Christian Crestor from his pulpit at the clinic; that doctor calling the afflicted to Islamic Zocor from a hospital minaret; another doctor is on a Hindu pilgrimage to the promised land of Questran; there are even some unorthodox, holistic healers who swear by herbal extracts and drinking fish oil on the Sabbath; and when Carl Sagan famously remarked that human beings are made of "star stuff," I imagine he had merely become confused by AstraZeneca's therapeutic products.
But there is no real evidence that any of these medication creeds actually work, in mysterious ways or otherwise, other than the biological wonders that their proselytizing doctors claim for them. Alas, there is no pharmacological equivalent of Pascal's philosophical wager, since the extremely provable existence of side-effects means that patients have a lot to lose if their prescription pill-God turns out to be naught but a hollow idol.
Side-effects come in all shapes and sizes and degrees of severity: bloating, swelling, liver disease and hives, for example; not to mention our old friends nausea and vomiting. Victims are advised to consult their doctors, somewhat counter-intuitively, since it was this drug-pushing know-it-all who originally prescribed the bile producing poison, and will undoubtedly suggest yet another innocuous-looking pill to address the negative symptoms of the first. I don't know what the medical term from such treatment is, but in alcoholic circles I believe it's called "the hair of the dog."
Thankfully, the only medication side-effect I've experienced so far is a creeping, shapeless sense of dread that I'm going to experience side-effects from taking medication: a chronic condition for which medication is unsurprisingly available. And so it becomes a vicious circle; a queasy carousel from which you can't escape once it's started going round. We must just hang on for dear life, literally, hoping and praying that the mechanism won't terminally malfunction. Frankly, it makes me dizzy and lightheaded just thinking about it.
But there is no real evidence that any of these medication creeds actually work, in mysterious ways or otherwise, other than the biological wonders that their proselytizing doctors claim for them. Alas, there is no pharmacological equivalent of Pascal's philosophical wager, since the extremely provable existence of side-effects means that patients have a lot to lose if their prescription pill-God turns out to be naught but a hollow idol.
Side-effects come in all shapes and sizes and degrees of severity: bloating, swelling, liver disease and hives, for example; not to mention our old friends nausea and vomiting. Victims are advised to consult their doctors, somewhat counter-intuitively, since it was this drug-pushing know-it-all who originally prescribed the bile producing poison, and will undoubtedly suggest yet another innocuous-looking pill to address the negative symptoms of the first. I don't know what the medical term from such treatment is, but in alcoholic circles I believe it's called "the hair of the dog."
Thankfully, the only medication side-effect I've experienced so far is a creeping, shapeless sense of dread that I'm going to experience side-effects from taking medication: a chronic condition for which medication is unsurprisingly available. And so it becomes a vicious circle; a queasy carousel from which you can't escape once it's started going round. We must just hang on for dear life, literally, hoping and praying that the mechanism won't terminally malfunction. Frankly, it makes me dizzy and lightheaded just thinking about it.
Feeling the Burn
In bygone days, the expression "feel the burn" was just another insult hurled at poor old witches tied to a flaming stake. Today it's become a bodybuilding mantra for sweaty athletes and workout addicts. But our ancestors required no daily exercise regimen; mostly because they were either rampaging, bloodthirsty cutthroats, or were the sort of desperate, unprotected peasants always running away from rampaging, bloodthirsty cutthroats. Constant rape, pillage and bare-knuckle boxing at weekends kept their adrenalin flowing and their heart rates high. They needed no twelve-speed treadmill or tanned personal trainers in the seventeenth-century. And when not fleeing from psychotic pirates and marauding press-gangs, people were too busy collecting firewood and skinning oxen to bother about slipping into a pair of bright orange spandex pants and joining an expensive gym. The so-called "burn" was felt during their everyday activities. Life may have been, as Thomas Hobbes claimed, "nasty, brutish and short," but it was also a simpler time. Of course, maybe everyone would be dead by the age of thirty, but that's because our ancestors' idea of preventive medicine was drinking frog bile mixed with mandrake juice while chanting old wives' mumbo-jumbo.
These days, thankfully, we know better, even if only slightly so. The local witch has been replaced by the Primary Care Practitioner and frog bile is now called Lipitor. The mumbo-jumbo, unfortunately, has merely been incorporated into your Health Insurance policy, but you can't have everything. Still, on the whole, our prospects of not dying in agony and ignorance before reaching middle age have largely improved. The area in which we have not progressed, however, is our physical fitness. Modern man's sedentary lifestyle means we need far more recreational exercise than our muscular but superstitious, axe-wielding forebears did. This is especially true if you suffer from heart disease, like I do, and so I'm forced to endure something called Cardiac-Rehabilitation twice a week at seven in the morning. Cardiac Rehab, so the brochure says, is an exercise and informational program "designed to increase physical fitness, reduce cardiac symptoms, improve health and reduce the risk of future heart problems."
Like the Naked City, there are a thousand stories in Cardiac Rehab: this guy had a heart attack while collecting maple syrup sap; this guy felt chest pains while singing second tenor in an amateur production of Rigoletto; and this guy - me, for example - just thought he was going for a routine check-up, failed his stress test, and wound up staying in hospital for two weeks to undergo coronary arterial bypass surgery. And so I have to make my way to 75 New Chardon Street in Boston for my bi-weekly exercise, although, as I discovered to my cost, actually finding New Chardon Street for the first time is an exercise in itself: an exercise in extremely heart-unhealthy frustration and anxiety. Apparently, fifty percent of New Chardon Street is an architectural monstrosity called Bulfinch Place, another forty percent is a concrete wasteland named Bowdoin Square, leaving ten percent of actual street which isn't signposted. When I eventually found the place, fifteen minutes late for my appointment, I was too exhausted to jog on the treadmill and had to sit in a mechanical rowing boat for twenty minutes while a nurse lectured me on removing stress factors from my life.
"That's good," she said, as I rowed through imaginary water. "It looks like you're starting to break a sweat."
"Yeah, but I'm a naturally sweaty person," I told her. "So I wouldn't read too much into that if I were you."
"No problem. Just let me know when you're feeling the burn," she replied.
These days, thankfully, we know better, even if only slightly so. The local witch has been replaced by the Primary Care Practitioner and frog bile is now called Lipitor. The mumbo-jumbo, unfortunately, has merely been incorporated into your Health Insurance policy, but you can't have everything. Still, on the whole, our prospects of not dying in agony and ignorance before reaching middle age have largely improved. The area in which we have not progressed, however, is our physical fitness. Modern man's sedentary lifestyle means we need far more recreational exercise than our muscular but superstitious, axe-wielding forebears did. This is especially true if you suffer from heart disease, like I do, and so I'm forced to endure something called Cardiac-Rehabilitation twice a week at seven in the morning. Cardiac Rehab, so the brochure says, is an exercise and informational program "designed to increase physical fitness, reduce cardiac symptoms, improve health and reduce the risk of future heart problems."
Like the Naked City, there are a thousand stories in Cardiac Rehab: this guy had a heart attack while collecting maple syrup sap; this guy felt chest pains while singing second tenor in an amateur production of Rigoletto; and this guy - me, for example - just thought he was going for a routine check-up, failed his stress test, and wound up staying in hospital for two weeks to undergo coronary arterial bypass surgery. And so I have to make my way to 75 New Chardon Street in Boston for my bi-weekly exercise, although, as I discovered to my cost, actually finding New Chardon Street for the first time is an exercise in itself: an exercise in extremely heart-unhealthy frustration and anxiety. Apparently, fifty percent of New Chardon Street is an architectural monstrosity called Bulfinch Place, another forty percent is a concrete wasteland named Bowdoin Square, leaving ten percent of actual street which isn't signposted. When I eventually found the place, fifteen minutes late for my appointment, I was too exhausted to jog on the treadmill and had to sit in a mechanical rowing boat for twenty minutes while a nurse lectured me on removing stress factors from my life.
"That's good," she said, as I rowed through imaginary water. "It looks like you're starting to break a sweat."
"Yeah, but I'm a naturally sweaty person," I told her. "So I wouldn't read too much into that if I were you."
"No problem. Just let me know when you're feeling the burn," she replied.
Trick or Treat
Halloween 2011: I require no elaborate costume or ghoulish prosthetic make-up to join in this year's festivities. I simply need to remove my shirt, revealing the gruesome surgical scar usually concealed from the eyes of polite society. Just watch those greedy trick-or-treaters run off screaming into the night.
"Don't go to the house at the end of the street whatever you do," they will whisper to one another. "He's a real live topless Frankenstein's monster, and he's only got soy Oreos and fish oil candy. It's truly terrifying."
To be honest, I had hoped that the scar would be paler by now, but five months after my operation it still resembles a vertical line scrawled on my chest with a bright red sharpie. I still feel the occasional pull, ache and twinge, too, briefly forcing my mouth into a poorly-carved pumpkin-head grimace; and I sometimes stagger around like a dizzy zombie if I forget to eat before taking my beta-blockers.
All these side-effects: a little bit of trick still left in the treat of recovery, and all perfectly acceptable ready-made Halloween costumes.
"Don't go to the house at the end of the street whatever you do," they will whisper to one another. "He's a real live topless Frankenstein's monster, and he's only got soy Oreos and fish oil candy. It's truly terrifying."
To be honest, I had hoped that the scar would be paler by now, but five months after my operation it still resembles a vertical line scrawled on my chest with a bright red sharpie. I still feel the occasional pull, ache and twinge, too, briefly forcing my mouth into a poorly-carved pumpkin-head grimace; and I sometimes stagger around like a dizzy zombie if I forget to eat before taking my beta-blockers.
All these side-effects: a little bit of trick still left in the treat of recovery, and all perfectly acceptable ready-made Halloween costumes.
Me and Them
These days, aside from the inadequately illuminated exteriors of nightclubs and bars, the ever-diminishing socio-economic group known as of smokers can mostly be found loitering outside hospitals and college campuses, or just about anywhere at all during the very early hours of the morning. I mention this observation, not because I begrudge or wish to prohibit people's pleasure in tobacco, but because at the moment I happen to spend a great deal of my time outside hospitals and college campuses during the very early hours of the morning, so I'm in a good position to know.
The smokers huddle around concrete, institutional ashtrays like vagrants around a makeshift brazier. Occasionally they embark upon random circumnavigations of the paving slabs, or make brief spitting expeditions to the edge of the sidewalk, trailing ephemeral jet-streams of nicotine in their wake. They glower down the street at nothing in particular, then return to the communal hearth to discuss the daily injustices encountered by their kind.
For some reason, there is always a preponderance of pale blue jeans and weather-beaten, brown leather jackets with over-sized shoulders amongst this group of puffing exiles. You could be forgiven for thinking you're walking past an historical reenactment of the 1980s, co-sponsored by Marlboro Lights and some anger management guru. I suppose these must be the loyalist smokers: the hardcore inhalers who refuse to quit despite lungs festooned with and blood vessels that are hardening into strands of pure crystalline plaque.
I, on the other hand, smartly turned out and wearing Clarks suede shoes, like the fresh-faced new boy at school, am extremely early for my first appointment with Cardio-Rehab. The doors don't open for another twenty minutes, so I'm forced to hang around in the cold morning air, pretending to find interest in the Brutalist architecture and freight delivery instructions. I almost wonder if the smoking gang will beat me up before I can escape inside.
I don't consider myself to be superior to them, of course. God knows I have my own fair share of stubborn blind-spots and idiotic misconceptions. It's just that I trust in medical science and they put their faith in the fact their best friend's uncle knew a guy who sucked down three packs a day, unfiltered, and lived to be a hundred-and-five. We have fundamentally different creeds, the smokers and me. I'll soon be running on a nurse monitored treadmill while they're only running out of cigarettes. Perhaps my efforts will all be in vain, but I'd rather try than stare at the floor with black lungs full of tar clouds.
The smokers huddle around concrete, institutional ashtrays like vagrants around a makeshift brazier. Occasionally they embark upon random circumnavigations of the paving slabs, or make brief spitting expeditions to the edge of the sidewalk, trailing ephemeral jet-streams of nicotine in their wake. They glower down the street at nothing in particular, then return to the communal hearth to discuss the daily injustices encountered by their kind.
For some reason, there is always a preponderance of pale blue jeans and weather-beaten, brown leather jackets with over-sized shoulders amongst this group of puffing exiles. You could be forgiven for thinking you're walking past an historical reenactment of the 1980s, co-sponsored by Marlboro Lights and some anger management guru. I suppose these must be the loyalist smokers: the hardcore inhalers who refuse to quit despite lungs festooned with and blood vessels that are hardening into strands of pure crystalline plaque.
I, on the other hand, smartly turned out and wearing Clarks suede shoes, like the fresh-faced new boy at school, am extremely early for my first appointment with Cardio-Rehab. The doors don't open for another twenty minutes, so I'm forced to hang around in the cold morning air, pretending to find interest in the Brutalist architecture and freight delivery instructions. I almost wonder if the smoking gang will beat me up before I can escape inside.
I don't consider myself to be superior to them, of course. God knows I have my own fair share of stubborn blind-spots and idiotic misconceptions. It's just that I trust in medical science and they put their faith in the fact their best friend's uncle knew a guy who sucked down three packs a day, unfiltered, and lived to be a hundred-and-five. We have fundamentally different creeds, the smokers and me. I'll soon be running on a nurse monitored treadmill while they're only running out of cigarettes. Perhaps my efforts will all be in vain, but I'd rather try than stare at the floor with black lungs full of tar clouds.
A Brief Excursion Into The Caves of Self-Justification
Like many writers, I keep a journal beside my bed - not that I actually write anything in mine, of course, but I do keep one all the same. There is a pen, too, although I doubt that any ink runs through its veins. These valuable and venerable tools have been spurned in favor of the smart-phone notepad and its stylus. After all, those digital words are actually readable by their own author; whereas that smudgy, wayward scribble on lined paper, well, just take a look for yourself: Is that blot an f or an s? Does that scrawl say burritos or buttocks? Who the Hell knows? Not I. And it's my handwriting.
Alas, inspiration most often strikes me when I'm taking a shower, a location perhaps unequaled for inconvenience when it comes to writing ideas down quickly, unless you're especially skilled at forming letters in soap scum with the business end of a loofah. And so my most fertile ideas just disappear down the drain, hitching a ride with all those emancipated hairs from my balding head. Gurgle, gurgle, there goes the plot of a best-selling novel and the outline of blockbuster screenplay. Oh well, at least I remembered to wash behind my ears.
Of course, good writing is, like Thomas Edison's famous formula for success, mostly the reward of perspiration rather than inspiration. So I suppose the preceding paragraphs are a scant excuse for lack of quality or quantity on my part. After all, I am not the sort of diligent, industrious writer who drips with sweat and elbow grease after an eight hour shift at his desk. But then I'm cursed with the existential concerns and tedious labors of a proper job, squatting on my brain like a killjoy gang of lugubrious toads and obstructing progress on more interesting and amusing projects.
This blog, for instance. True, it is perhaps the world's least informative coronary artery disease resource, and rarely makes a serious point that isn't blunted by some degree of facetiousness, but at least it's written with some degree of verve whenever I actually find the time to record my experiences, even if they are a shamefully thin gruel compared to the soul-searching tales of triumph over adversity recollected by other bypass "survivors".
Alas, inspiration most often strikes me when I'm taking a shower, a location perhaps unequaled for inconvenience when it comes to writing ideas down quickly, unless you're especially skilled at forming letters in soap scum with the business end of a loofah. And so my most fertile ideas just disappear down the drain, hitching a ride with all those emancipated hairs from my balding head. Gurgle, gurgle, there goes the plot of a best-selling novel and the outline of blockbuster screenplay. Oh well, at least I remembered to wash behind my ears.
Of course, good writing is, like Thomas Edison's famous formula for success, mostly the reward of perspiration rather than inspiration. So I suppose the preceding paragraphs are a scant excuse for lack of quality or quantity on my part. After all, I am not the sort of diligent, industrious writer who drips with sweat and elbow grease after an eight hour shift at his desk. But then I'm cursed with the existential concerns and tedious labors of a proper job, squatting on my brain like a killjoy gang of lugubrious toads and obstructing progress on more interesting and amusing projects.
This blog, for instance. True, it is perhaps the world's least informative coronary artery disease resource, and rarely makes a serious point that isn't blunted by some degree of facetiousness, but at least it's written with some degree of verve whenever I actually find the time to record my experiences, even if they are a shamefully thin gruel compared to the soul-searching tales of triumph over adversity recollected by other bypass "survivors".
The Greek Way
In ancient Greek myth, the Gods always punish the human crime of hubris with all manner of grisly fates: getting turned into a spider or a weeping stone; suffering for eternity with an unquenchable thirst; being chained to a rock while an eagle devours your liver; and, although there's no specific mention of heart disease in any myth I'm aware of, it's surely possible that Nemesis also clogged the arteries of arrogant Athenians with divinely vengeful cholesterol and plaque. Imagine, if you will, a shepherd from about three thousand years ago, perhaps someone not entirely unlike me, wandering happily on the sun-kissed plains of Attica telling everyone that he feels as fit as Zeus, only to be suddenly struck down with stabbing chest pains and rushed to the nearest Asclepieion. Such were my thoughts, anyway, as we boarded the British Airways flight to Eleftherios Venizelos Airport.
We had booked the Greek trip many months before I had felt even the slightest twinge of a chest pain, back when the idea of undergoing heart bypass surgery seemed as unlikely as me diving into a large vat of Tzatziki sauce; and so at certain low moments during my hospitalization I doubted whether I'd actually ever make it there; not because I thought I might die or anything quite as grim as that, but because I knew that the extensive physical recovery required might put island hopping with luggage well beyond my puny, convalescent reach. And to be sure, there was a period when I would have encountered almost insurmountable difficulty crawling to the Greek restaurant at the end of the road, never mind jetting off to Athens and points Aegean. Fortunately, the human body brushes aside its traumas much faster than you might expect, and I was able to pack my guidebooks and collect my boarding pass after all.
Having said that, the conclusions of Socratic method, Aristotelian logic, and even a brief appeal to simple common sense would all advocate against climbing the Acropolis - 500 feet above sea level - in my delicate condition; yet I staggered up to the top anyway. Call it Byronic whim (Robert Byron), but making an ascent had seemed like the thing to do when staring at the Parthenon from our hotel window. And also I feel a great affinity for this ancient temple, since its creaky columns are currently held together with iron scaffolding, much like my breastbone is held together with tiny sternal wires.
After all, if the Parthenon is still standing after three thousand years, despite the attentions of Turks, tourists and Lord Elgin, then I suppose I can survive to a venerable age also, providing the Greek gods and their Furies don't read this blog, obviously.
We had booked the Greek trip many months before I had felt even the slightest twinge of a chest pain, back when the idea of undergoing heart bypass surgery seemed as unlikely as me diving into a large vat of Tzatziki sauce; and so at certain low moments during my hospitalization I doubted whether I'd actually ever make it there; not because I thought I might die or anything quite as grim as that, but because I knew that the extensive physical recovery required might put island hopping with luggage well beyond my puny, convalescent reach. And to be sure, there was a period when I would have encountered almost insurmountable difficulty crawling to the Greek restaurant at the end of the road, never mind jetting off to Athens and points Aegean. Fortunately, the human body brushes aside its traumas much faster than you might expect, and I was able to pack my guidebooks and collect my boarding pass after all.
Having said that, the conclusions of Socratic method, Aristotelian logic, and even a brief appeal to simple common sense would all advocate against climbing the Acropolis - 500 feet above sea level - in my delicate condition; yet I staggered up to the top anyway. Call it Byronic whim (Robert Byron), but making an ascent had seemed like the thing to do when staring at the Parthenon from our hotel window. And also I feel a great affinity for this ancient temple, since its creaky columns are currently held together with iron scaffolding, much like my breastbone is held together with tiny sternal wires.
After all, if the Parthenon is still standing after three thousand years, despite the attentions of Turks, tourists and Lord Elgin, then I suppose I can survive to a venerable age also, providing the Greek gods and their Furies don't read this blog, obviously.
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