What Do I Know?

Same Song, Different Stanza

When my mom died in May from Huntington's Disease, I hoped that was the end of it for our family. HD is a genetic disease, caused by a dominant gene. If you have the gene, you get the disease, and now that there's a test, people who are at risk have the option of finding out if they too will suffer the same fate as their parent.

My brother tested negative about a year ago, which means his children are not at risk for the disease. And I tested negative on September 28, 1999, eight years ago.

My mom's older sister, at 69, has shown no signs of the disease, nor did her brother, who died in his sixties.

That left my mom's little sister, my aunt. We're close in age, more like sisters than aunt and niece. As kids, we used to read in bed with flashlights and peppermint sticks, giggling until we fell asleep. I ripped my pajamas climbing over the cyclone fence in our backyard when she led me on a midnight escapade. We once spent a whole afternoon sitting on the washer and dryer in her house, singing hymns at the top of our lungs: "Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling!"

She was my mentor growing up, the arbiter of what was cool. I remember in sixth grade wanting to mimic her curly artist's handwriting. I practiced for months, making my A's fat and my S's sharp. I carefully wrote the lyrics to "Killer Queen" over and over, and then "Young Americans", until I had them memorized and could sing along with the albums she'd loaned me. I rode in the backseat of her boyfriend's Monza, trying to inhale when they passed me the joint, my throat burning. She even taught me how to pick the right mushrooms—yeah, those mushrooms.

Thanks to her hip influence, I wasn't quite as nerdy as I would have been on my own. I had a secret stash of cool, like our peppermint sticks, ready to whip out whenever Young Americans came on the radio. "Gee my life's a funny thing, am I still too young?"

We've stayed close, over the years. When I found out I was moving here, I had no idea what I'd do with my mom, who by then was living in a nursing home near my house. But my youngest aunt, on hearing the news, only hesitated a beat before saying "Bring her here. I'll take care of her."

On Friday, the other shoe dropped in our genetic minefield. My aunt found out she's the next one in our family to have Huntington's Disease. We can't "draw a line under it", as they say here, with finality, whenever something has run its course. What in most people is an insignificant gene on the fourth chromosome, in my mom, my grandmother, and now my Aunt Pam, codes for a misbehaving protein that picks off neurons one by one until it's destroyed whole sections of the brain.

I've learned a lot about Huntington's over the years, but I haven't learned how to fix that stupid gene. I used to envy my aunt's genes, that gave her that thick dark hair, her inch-long eyelashes, her olive skin. But a genetic makeup can hide cruel secrets, as my aunt found out on Friday, the eighth anniversary of my own game of genetic roulette.

Huntington's is often referred to as a "dance", because of the chorea, the dance-like involuntary movements that accompany its onset. But right now, I'm thinking it feels more like the same song, different stanza.

In Honor

You may remember from several weeks ago the NY Times editorial written by seven men stationed in Iraq entitled The War As We Saw It. They felt like America had outlived its "reluctant welcome", based on their observations.

And then a couple of weeks ago two of the authors of the op-ed died, killed by a vehicle accident before they could leave Iraq.

Now there's a fund being set up in honor of these men, to raise money for Fisher House, which provides housing for families of wounded soldiers. Way back when I lived on an Air Force base, I was involved in raising money for this charity. It's a good cause: there are only a few military treatment centers in the U.S. and Europe, and most families can't afford to visit their loved ones without financial help and a place to stay. (This is a concept similar to Ronald McDonald House.)

The goal is to raise $10,000 dollars. Details are here, and donations can be made here.

Those soldiers, like all members of the military, took an oath to defend the constitution of the United States, and in these days when freedom of speech is sometimes questioned—even by major presidential candidates, we should honor those who exercise their rights while at the same time defending them.

"The First Emperor" Exhibit, At Which I Learn A Lot

On Thursday, a friend managed to score tickets to the British Museum exhibit The First Emperor. It's the largest exhibition of terracotta warriors ever to leave China, and includes horses, acrobats, and accountants as well as the exquisitely crafted warriors themselves.

While thousands of the life-sized figures stand guard around the unexcavated Emperor's tomb, only a few have ever left China. Xin would be happy to hear this; he feared the afterlife and wanted to be sure he was well guarded, and well entertained. His tomb, concealed under a vast earthen mound, is said to be surrounded by rivers of mercury, and indeed, high levels of mercury have been detected in the area.

One replica figure in the exhibit reveals how the sculptures were originally painted, vividly and in great detail. Even colored lifeless gray, they are remarkably alive. Each one is an individual—some fat, some slim, some with topknots and some with beards. Each stares ahead with sightless eyes, but you can't help but wonder what they've seen since they were molded over two thousand years ago. The musicians, with their wooden instruments long disintegrated—what music did they play? What was the acrobat holding on top of that finger poised permanently in the air—a basketball?

The exhibit raises more questions than it answers—why haven't archaeologists excavated the tomb? Was Qin a tyrannt, or a genius? Why is it that a culture capable of such exquisite craftsmanship—from slaves and laborers never trained as artists—is now known primarily for its cheap and dangerous exports?

The first figures were discovered accidentally in 1974 by a farmer, digging in his fields, and since then more have been discovered, as recently as the musicians uncovered in 2001. They are each great works of art, yet they were never meant to be viewed by anyone but invaders in the afterlife—archaeologist crusaders, perhaps.

I couldn't help but compare the detail and individuality of the figures made in China with the artwork I saw the next day, at The Queen's House in Greenwich. In one painting the faces of all ages and sexes looked identical, yet they were painted over a thousand years after the terracotta figures were formed in China. Our notions of China as a vast, undistinguished multitude are stood on end, thanks to a guy named Qin.

You can read more about the exhibit here, and find out how to get tickets here. (Every morning they release 500 to the public, if you can't secure them online or by phone.) The exhibit is on until April. You can see a 2-minute video about the exhibit here, which includes images of the ingenious clay diorama illustrating the molding and baking of the figures.

One more thing I learned: Qin is pronounced "chin" and hence, China.

Friday Foal Blogging

On Wednesday we hiked again at Chenies, and in the pasture where a large gray horse lives we found these two babies. The gray one followed us along the fence, eager to keep up. The little red one was more shy, perhaps an infant not yet sure of us humans in hulking great boots.

We saw other horses on the hike, but no cows. They must be hiding from bluetongue.

Food News Now, While You're Paying Attention

Wow. I have finally found some animals I would eat. Even though they're adorable, I would still eat them. With mint sauce. (via)

Some guy on the radio was saying we should expect a 10% increase in food prices by winter. That's really incredible. (No link, sorry.)

Roman backlash at McDonald's. The Golden Arches are not welcome alongside the city's ancient arches.

How to taste chocolate, just in time for Halloween. (And if you think I'm giving out this stuff for trick-or-treat, you're mad.) via

If you guys want to attract women, ideally you should raid the neighboring farm for desirable food and present it to her. Note to spouse: pick up bananas on your way home.

Why do foods taste differently after they've cooled? New Scientist knows. Now, raise your hand if you would ever eat cold pizza for breakfast.

So, why does spaghetti always break in three, and other useful science experiments.

And if you're still bored, extract the iron from your breakfast cereal.

We're all sciency today, aren't we?

Wednesday Food Blogging: Maque Choux

Corn Maque Choux, served over quinoa: Slimmed down, yet still as authentic as zydeco.

I was horrified to pick up this month's Delicious magazine and read Simon Rimmer's recipe for vegetarian gumbo: with sweet potatoes, cabbage, red onions and not a dollop of roux, it resembled no gumbo I've ever had. I'm all down with vegetarian gumbo, of course, but if you're going to veganize a recipe, at least try to keep to its roots. Or call it something else.

So it was with no small amount of caution that I attempted to veganize another Cajun staple, maque choux (pronounced "mock shoe"). You probably haven't heard of it; it never became popular when Cajun food spiraled into trendiness during the nineties. But maque choux is much more likely to be found in Grandma's Cajun kitchen than shrimp etoufee, or K-Paul's mistake-made-good, blackened redfish. It's also naturally vegetarian, and a simple country dish, though sometimes sausage was tossed in when times were flush.

Maque choux is basically corn stew. It's often served over rice, but I decided to serve mine with quinoa, which is much higher in protein. I managed to get my hands on some fresh corn, which as I've complained before, is very dear here. But with the end of summer comes the corn crop, such as it is. And for maque choux, you want the freshest corn you can get, so fresh milk squirts from the kernels when you slice them from the cob.

You also will want to use the Cajun trinity, missing from Rimmer's faux-gumbo: onions (yellow or white), celery, and green bell pepper. I added some chopped tomatoes, since I had them, and of course used soy milk instead of dairy milk and cream. No eggs, either, but I never quite understood what purpose they served.

I don't know if K-Paul would approve—I based my recipe on his, since no one knows their way around a Cajun kitchen better than the big man himself. But with zero cholesterol, and a whole lot less saturated fat, my version is a lot less likely to make our waistlines kitchen-sized.

That's a good thing, cher.

Clearing My Mood

The sun came out today, after a rainy start this morning. I really needed a walk to clear my mood, which has been rotten for the last week—so rotten I was in danger of getting an ASBO*.

First we walked through the neighborhood, and saw that Fall has taken notice of the calendar:

Then we walked through town (the dog insists on heading in that direction now, ever since I took her to the Fun Fair and to the Harry Party midnight release party) and to the woods, where three squirrels taunted us and were subsequently chased up a tree. (The animal kingdom sorts these things out without the need for ASBOs.)

Then we crossed the street to the pond:

It's really a pond now, not just a bit of muck like it was last summer. Good to see global warming has not won yet.

Then we ate some blackberries:

and finally came home through the woods, a spring in our step and our tails held high:

I feel much better now.

*Anti-Social Behaviour Order, given to yobs who toss eggs and/or sausages at people or are generally just disagreeable.

Let's Move On, Please

I'm sick and tired of hearing about that MoveOn ad. It's gotten far more attention than it ever deserved. Not because it criticized a member of the armed forces—those guys are tough; he could take it—but because it was a stupid ad.

Any comedy writer would recognize it as a cheap shot, a close relation of the cheap laugh.

Just because Gen. Patraeus's name happens to rhyme with "betray us" is no reason to use that rhyme in what otherwise would be valid criticism. Because betrayal is not what Patraeus was primarily up to when he testified before Congress. Ass kissing, yes, but that doesn't rhyme. Brown nosing, maybe, but again, that's more easily portrayed in cartoons than in one-line ad copy. And selective reporting—well, that's so commonplace from the military press office it's hardly worth buying an ad to announce it.

If Patraeus was guilty of betrayal, then so are a lot of gung-ho generals—a trait that previously got them promoted. So were a handful of presidents I could name, starting with Kennedy. Do we really want to go down that road? Who gets to decide which leadership style constitutes betrayal, with the insidiousness and deliberateness that implies, and which is merely stupid or uninformed?

Not an advertising copywriter I hope.

But anyway, the ad was hardly worthy of the air time it's received. Yesterday I had to turn off the Sunday talk shows, which I finally had a chance to watch. (They come on in the afternoon here, when I'm usually cooking a big Sunday meal.) Health care? Who cares? Deaths in Iraq? Done that. Blackwater mercenaries, who incidentally earn far more than Gen. Patraeus, involved in senseless killing? BORE-ing.

It left me in a bad, bad mood. How on earth is our next president going to accomplish anything with a bunch of senators who can only come together to pass a bill condemning a stupid ad?

When a presidential candidate's worth is judged by both sides by how he or she voted on the most important issue of the day, condemning or supporting an ad, we're truly in trouble. And when presidential candidates imply that they would support a law banning speech that criticizes military members (who, um, give their lives to protect our constitution with its freedom of speech amendment), we've surely been betrayed. Not by MoveOn, not by overly eager generals, but by the Echo Chamber, who solemnly debate a two-week old newspaper ad yet ignore a forest of burning trees.

There's a cheap laugh in there somewhere.

Busted on CNN

I just discovered some of my friends were on CNN the other day. And some of you may recognize your favorite blogger in one of those shots.

I guess now you know who I support in the presidential campaign. Remind me to expound on that one day.

Friday Cow Blogging

Just checking out Mrs. Cow's feet and mouth. They look okay to me.

Fridge Cleaning

Today I cleaned out both my refrigerators. I'm thinking with Daughter Number Two gone, we could get by with one. The problem is they're both British-sized refrigerators, a little more than half the size of American fridge/freezers.

And then where would I store my white wine?

Oh well. It was a good idea.

Now I'm cleaning my office. Can you tell I'm procrastinating?

Wait, I see some yogurt in there I might want. Maybe with those strawberries...

I don't know how British people manage with those tiny refrigerators. It's not much bigger than a dorm fridge, is it?

By the way, this is what Daughter Number Two gets to choose from for today's meals. Should she go with the vegan ravioli at Cutter-Ziskind or the Mediterranean Night at Lamont?

I bet she goes for the ravioli.

Wednesday Food Blogging: Pintos with Polenta and Cilantro Cream

What I did with leftover pintos.

I love the texture of food almost as much as the taste. This dish, with smooth polenta on the bottom, a melange of pintos in the middle, and cilantro cream on top, provided a series of firmaments for my fork to slide through, a bonanza of textures and tastes. (I am practicing to be a food writer. Wait till I talk about wine!)

The beans themselves, tender, but not too mushy around the edges. The polenta, crisp on the outside, yet surprisingly smooth when faced with a fork. And the cream, drifting down over the top like snow on a rocky hillside. A perfect combination, in my mind.*

I’m finding more of my dishes feature these triple texture whammies. Adding a sauce to the top makes an okay dish even better. When I first made this, I just served the pintos over polenta, with chopped tomato on top for my husband.** But it was lacking something.

So for the next day’s leftovers, I dreamed up the cilantro cream—which took seconds to make, and that seemed to do the trick. Another trick: Since the pintos were already made, the only time-consuming part of this recipe was the polenta. It took 20 minutes to stir, and then normally would need another half hour or more to set.

But I happened to have a bag of ice sitting on the counter. I set the pan on the ice and by the time I’d chopped some onions and heated up the pintos, the polenta was firm enough to slice and fry. (You could also use the pre-made polenta, if you're the cheatin' type.)

From the package of dried beans, I ended up getting three meals for the two of us, plus my husband had them for lunch one day. A triple pintos week, and a very thrifty one too.

*As long as those nasty raw tomatoes are kept out of the mix.

** Truly, some people will eat anything.

Food News Returns!

A quick roundup of what I've seen on the 'nets lately:

A reason to go to Akron: No, not the downtown revitalization; Chrissie Hynde's new restaurant.

A reason not to eat out in London. And then multiply those prices by 2.08 and you see why you are not reading restaurant reviews in this space.

Global warming and your dinner plate: "In developed countries, people typically eat about 224 grams per day. But in Africa, most people only get about 31 grams a day." The Lancet, talking about meat.

Meet Your Mystery Meat. Macrophotography at its best.

Just how much of a jolt do you get from that soft drink anyway? You might be surprised; some of the citrus flavored drinks contain more caffeine than the darker ones.

Our British ancestors and their prickly meals. (The nettle pudding actually sounds good.)

The Ridiculously Thorough Guide to Making Your Own Pizza, And this sounds like a great gadget to have.

A moratorium on new fast food restaurants is on the menu in South L.A.

Tell me this is some sick kind of Canadian joke? "La Presse newspaper even reported that poutine (french fries smothered with cheese curds and gravy) will be cut from school cafeterias." No! Don't take away the poutine!

News on the grocery wars front. Whole Foods building smaller stores, lowering prices at Wild Oats. (I wish they'd buy out Tesco and finish that hulking structure that's been looming over my village for two years now.)

The most surprising thing about the McRib sandwich.

How meat producers are screwing you (if you are one of their workers).

And too good not to add at the last minute: How to feed foreigners. If you're French.

Three Guesses

I went to a Democrats Abroad meeting last night. Afterward there were sign-up sheets for those interested in volunteering or receiving information on the various presidential candidates. Guess which one people were hovering around?

And then today I read that, of all the presidential candidates—Republican or Democratic—Barack Obama has gathered more contributions from members and employees of the military.

Could that have anything to do with the fact that he's called for a withdrawal of all troops from Iraq by the end of 2008?

I guess maybe they're sick and tired of coming home in body bags.

Also interesting: Michelle Obama is coming to London. You can go to the event, for a $100 donation to the campaign. Bill Clinton is also coming to London to campaign for his spouse. You can get a ticket for that event too, but you'll have to pay $1000.

Guess which one I'm going to?

Do You Facebook?

A few weeks ago I got myself a Facebook page. My daughters were mortified. One refused to befriend me, the other did, reluctantly, though now some of her friends have befriended me as well. (When you've cooked for these kids, they often reward you in the future.)

Miraculously, some people found my page even though I never told anyone I had set it up. I got nudged and poked by others out there, though not by anyone from my high school. I guess they're all too busy with Algebra homework.

Anyway, if you have a Facebook page and want to befriend me, go ahead. I have no idea how to put one of those banners on this blog, like Cottontimer has on her page, so you'll have to click here.

The thing is, I really see no reason for most people to do that. If Facebook is the face of social networking, it needs a nose job. Or at least a more user middle-aged mom-friendly interface. (See previous paragraph.)

Maybe I've just reached the saturation point for social networking. Isn't blogging about mostly inconsequential things a trivial enough activity? Don't I have enough to do, checking my stats every five minutes? Do I really need to obsess about who's Facebooking me as well? (My daughter, the one who won't Facebook me, tells me that's a verb now. Though I suspect she tells me these things just to taunt me.)

So explain to me why Facebook matters. Or, hey, you could just take my Facebook quiz!

Okay, NOW Will You Stop Global Warming?

This is not your grandfather's Tuscany.

I had a rather disturbing conversation with a friend yesterday. She was doing okay, so was her family, but then she told me about her trip to Tuscany this summer. She spent several weeks at an art school near Florence—heaven, right?

Not quite. Tuscany, and all of southern Europe, was baking under a heat wave this summer. And Tuscany is not air conditioned. They've never needed it. Nor did they traditionally need mosquito repellent, yet my friend reported, along with the 108 degree temperatures, they had to endure mosquitoes coming in through their open window. It seems Tuscany did not traditionally need window screens.

I suspect the mosquitoes flew in from England, where we were having record rainfall and floods.

My friend said after about five days they couldn't bear the thought of covering themselves with repellent every night, and just let the buggers bite. But the upside was everyone else was covered with welts too, which made for a nice bonding experience.

Personally, I'll take AC over bonding any day.

But it turned out mosquitoes weren't the worst thing to result from the heat wave.

A few weeks ago our news was dominated by news of the forest fires in Greece. The whole country had turned into a hell on earth, with people trapped in villages, seeking refuge on beaches, escaping sometimes with only the clothes on their backs.

The Greek government tried to blame the fires on terrorists, but since there were over a thousand forest fires in neighboring Bulgaria this summer, that story seemed suspect. My friend told me they saw fires burning in the hills of Tuscany, and without a volunteer fire department—not traditionally needed in Tuscany—they just burned.

Global warming, terrorists, what's the difference?

It's one thing for Texas to turn into a dust bowl—miles of it were uninhabitable wasteland anyway. And the North Pole melting—well, its lone human inhabitant, Santa, was already planning to retire to Florida. And without misery in Africa, Sir Bob and Bono would have to, like, sing or something.

But Tuscany—that's just not right. It should not be 108 degrees in Tuscany. You should not need to include mosquito repellent on your list of Things To Bring To Tuscany. You should not have to ask if there is an alternate escape route from your hillside Tuscan villa in case of fire.

When all the essential ingredients of a foodie lifestyle—EVOO, porcini, prosecco—are threatened, isn't it time to get serious about our nasty little addiction to carbon?

"Don't Mess With Tuscany." Now there's a catchy slogan for enviro campaigners.

Mystery Dinosaur Eggs Photo

Can you guess what this is?

Hint: It's very old.

Another photo below, if you can't guess from this one.

UPDATE: Claire nailed it, right off! No, it's not petrified poop. I don't think Oxford likes to acknowledge the existence of poop, much less place it on display at their Museum of Natural History. I happened to be there with a geologist, who gave me the poop on dino eggs. Most of them are found in China, but this collection, she told me, was better than the one on display at the museum in Beijing.

I'll try to write more about the museum later. It's well worth a visit if you're in the area.

Friday Calf Blogging

Are you my mommy?

Isn't he a doll? I wish I could keep him. He reminds me of my little friend Socks, who went away one sad November weekend.

If you want to support farm animals like this little guy, go to Bazu's donation page and support her Walk for Farm Animals.

Animals: Expect More

At the end of a week that's been pretty rough for animals here in Britain, I just have to post this link to the most amazing photos (presented in video form; be patient) I've ever seen.

Polar bears. Huskies. Do not be alarmed. All is well.

These lines from Verlyn Klinkenborg, writing in the NY Times on Alex the parrot, seem appropriate:

Scientifically speaking, the value of this research lies in its specific details about patterns of learning and cognition. Ethically speaking, the value lies in our surprise, our renewed awareness of how little we allow ourselves to expect from the animals around us.

Stay tuned; you can expect a pretty cute calf photo to be posted later.

Diseases Involving Appendages

After talking to Daughter Number One I've learned that there are some misconceptions about foot and mouth disease.

Note that, you do not need to be more careful about putting your cat's paw in your mouth. You cannot catch foot and mouth from your cat.

You may, however, catch foot IN mouth that way, and that is truly an awful disease to have.

Just thought I'd clear that up.