PAgent’s Progress

As you may recall, in April 2007 I got the news that I was “pre-diabetic”. As I expressed at the time, this was no big surprise, except maybe that I had reached such a ripe old age before getting such a diagnosis.

After that diagnosis, I started testing my blood glucose occasionally, and tried to get enough exercise to make a difference. But after a year or so, with my knees getting progressively worse, and with my blood glucose always falling within acceptable limits, both habits fell by the wayside. And I put on weight.

I had a follow-up with my endocrinologist this August, related to my pituitary tumor. Since this doctor was also my diabetes specialist, I thought I better take some glucose measurements to give him a baseline. Unfortunately, my glucose meter had dead batteries (gee, has it been THAT long since I used it?), and it took a few days to remember to pick up the right kind.

Then I started taking measurements, and found to my surprise that my blood glucose numbers were NOT within acceptable limits any more. In fact, one night before bed I hit 197 mg/dL. I predicted my endocrinologist would not be amused, and he wasn’t.

I walked out of the doctor’s office with a prescription for metformin, otherwise known as glucophage (and formally known as N,N-dimethylimidodicarbonimidic diamide, but I digress). Metformin corrects hyperglycemia by activating a liver enzyme (AMP-activated protein kinase or AMPK) that is a part of insulin regulation, whole body energy balance, and the metabolism of glucose and fats.

In short: take pill, glucose comes down. The doctor said that with diet and exercise, I should be able to control my diabetes with metformin. I bit my tongue before I could express my opinion that if I could have managed a healthy diet and exercise, I wouldn’t have needed the metformin to begin with.

Although making the transition to full-on diabetic was, again, not a surprise, I WAS surprised at the degree to which this felt like a milestone. Instead of thinking “well, I’m going to have to try to change” I was thinking “Things have changed.” I’ve known how a diabetic SHOULD behave for years, from watching family members, I’ve just never had to do it before.

Although metformin by itself will ostensibly not cause hypoglycemia (low blood sugar, leading to irrational behavior, coma, then death), the idea of passing out from low blood sugar has nevertheless became real to me. I had to take these things seriously now. And so I procured this stylish piece of jewelry:

I can’t stand bracelets, or anything else on my wrists, so I needed a necklace. The back of the tag says “DIABETIC”, which I think is succinct and yet informative. This is not a necklace designed to be easily removed. The chain is small, and my head is large, which makes putting it on at all somewhat difficult. I have to take off my glasses, and scrape the chain down across my forehead, over one ear, then the other, and down across my nose. I can feel the links digging into the skin on my face, and the obvious metaphors of bondage and burden represented by a chain around my neck are not lost on me.

I can feel it when I’m trying to sleep, and I’m aware of it when I’m awake. And I think that’s a good thing. I need a reminder of the situation I’ve gotten myself into. A reminder to take this seriously. My daughter asked me what could happen if I didn’t treat my diabetes, and I rattled off a horrific list of complications — neuropathy, losing your feet, blindness. This is serious stuff. I can’t afford to treat it casually any more.

So. Changes have to be made. I hope the little reminder around my neck will help me see them through.

I don’t cook as much as I should. It seems like after coming home from work, I barely have the energy to eat, much less prepare a nice dinner. This weekend, though, I managed to plan, shop for, and prepare a couple of dinners that turned out well. Sunday dinner, in particular, turned out so well that everyone in the family said they liked it. Everyone, including the Boy.

For at least the reason that such events should be recorded for posterity, here’s what I fixed:

Broccoli-Corn Chowder

Caveat – All measures approximate and from memory

8 oz bacon – diced
1 sweet onion – diced
2 small heads broccoli – cut into very small florets
3 large Yukon Gold potatoes – 1/2 potato grated, the rest diced
5 medium ears fresh sweet corn, with kernels cut off the cob, and the cobs scraped with the back of a knife to collect as much juice as possible
3 (14 oz) cans chicken stock
dry mustard
thyme
cayenne
1 cup half-and-half
~2 cups whole milk
salt and pepper to taste

Slice bacon into small pieces, then fry until crisp in the bottom of a large stockpot. Remove bacon from pot and save, remove half the bacon grease from the pot.

Add diced onions and the 1/2 grated potato to the pot and saute over medium-high heat. Add 1/4 tsp dry mustard and 1/2 teaspon dried thyme, a small dash cayenne, some black pepper and salt. Cook until onion is soft and the potato just starts to brown.

Add diced potatos and broccoli to the pot. Saute briefly, then add the chicken stock to cover the ingredients. Add another 1/4 tsp dry mustard, and 1/2 tsp thyme to the stock. Heat to boil, then reduce to a simmer for at least 20 minutes, preferably 30.

When the diced potato is soft, and the grated potato has dissolved to thicken the soup, add the freshly cut corn kernels and collected juice. Then add the reserved cooked bacon. Stir and simmer for a couple of minutes.

Add 1 cup half-and-half, stir, then add whole milk to the desired consistency (2 cups? maybe?). Allow to heat back to a simmer but do NOT boil. Adjust salt and pepper to taste, and serve with crusty artisan bread.

It’s the fresh sweet corn that makes this. Frozen or canned may work, but it won’t taste the same.

If you ever want to know how people look at serial killers, just repeat those three words to someone. Chances are you’ll be amazed at the response you get.

Once upon a time, men carried knives. If you go far enough back, it would have been a sheath knife, used for eating and general handywork. More recently it would have been a “pen” knife, kept handy so you would reshape the nib on a quill pen when writing. Then there’s the all-purpose “pocket knife”, which usually referred to a knife with a folding blade or blades that a gentleman could carry in a pocket. But regardless of the particular type of knife, men have carried knives for millennia.

At one time in this country no boy could imagine anything finer than owning a Barlow knife. After all, without a sturdy pocketknife, how could you possibly play a rousing game of mumblety-peg? Today if a kid is caught with a nail file, their school goes into lock-down. I can understand the reasons for it, but I don’t think this is progress.

I’ve always loved knives. I like the way they look, I like they way they feel in my hand, and most of all I love how handy they are. I’ve carried a pocket knife since the first time I could afford to buy one of my own. After churning through a few cheap ones, I bought my first quality pocket knife, a three-bladed Buck:

God, I loved that knife. I carried it through high school and used it to shave acres of bark and whittle mounds of chips from slim pieces of alder. That Buck was my trusted companion. My best friend carried a similar knife, a Schrade Old-Timer, and the two of us could spend hours carving walking sticks and hiking staves with them.

Years later, I gave that Buck to my wife to carry in her purse.

But I digress.

I have purchased other knives, including a beautiful Opinel French Country knife for picnicking, and a few lockblades. I have worn out a couple of swiss army knives. I must admit to buying a knife or two that were less utilitarian than they were simply dangerous. I purchased a Gerber Guardian “Back-up” knife in college. I kept it razor sharp and carried it in a sheath tucked inside my waistband. This was an affectation as well as an invitation to an accident, and with the solemn inevitability of such things, I managed to stick it into my own thigh a couple of years later. It took 8 stitches to close the wound and I had a patch of numb tissue on my leg the size of my palm for years. I didn’t carry it after that. But I still have it. I couldn’t possibly get rid of it. It’s a beautiful piece of work.

It must be said that a lifetime of playing with knives, including kitchen knives, has given me a number of fine white scars, mostly on my hands. Each one has been a potent reminder to handle a blade carefully, respect the edge, and keep it sharp. A sharp knife is safer than a dull one. If your knife is dull, you have to apply more force to make a cut, making it easier for the blade to slip and go awry. A sharp edge makes a clean cut, which heals much faster and neater than a jagged tear from a dull knife. I can personally attest to the veracity of this. If you let your kid have a knife, you owe it to them to keep it sharp. If you don’t trust your kid with a sharp knife, then they shouldn’t have one at all.

Squirreled away with my other knives is the Ka-Bar that my father-in-law carried in the South Pacific during World War II. He gave it to me when he learned how much I liked knives. The Ka-Bar is one of the most-beloved combat/utility knives ever made, and after I scrubbed and polished the blade and remoisturized the leather of the handle, it took an edge like a razor. When I hold it, I feel a little kinship with my father-in-law, as well as all the Marines and Naval officers that have carried their Ka-Bars into combat, and sometimes never came back.

I have a Henckel Five Star chef’s knife. I keep it clean and sharp. It fits my hand like a tailored glove, and makes slicing and dicing a joy rather than a chore. It is the only knife in the kitchen that I ask my wife not to use.

Eventually, I started carrying multi-tools instead of pocketknives. I have a first-generation Gerber multi-plier and a more modern Leatherman Wave. There is no question that you can accomplish more with a good multitool than just a knife blade, and there is a certain satisfaction in pulling out a desperately-needed pair of needle-nose pliers when you are miles from anywhere. But the extra weight and bulk of a tool and sheath on my belt became somewhat awkward, particularly when I was working in a “business casual” office environment.

Lately I’ve been missing the reassuring presence of a pocketknife in my pocket. Opening boxes is bad enough when you have to hunt down a box cutter or a pair of scissors, but trying to open up plastic clamshell packaging seems to require nothing less than a Bowie knife and high explosives. Plus, I admit, I just flat-out wanted a new knife.

So I went to REI over my lunch hour, and selected a folding lockblade with a pocket clip. It’s a Gerber Remix (one of my favorite brands, even though they’ve been purchased by Fiskars) and it is a thing of beauty:

That big ring in the middle looks kind of awkward, until you hold the knife in your hand. Your index finger fits inside handily, giving your grip an extra degree of security. You can also use it to sling the knife on a carabiner. The blade itself takes an edge beautifully. I’m in love.

Which brings me back to the serial killer comment. I’ve been truly surprised at the number of people who, upon discovering that I was carrying a shiny new pocketknife, expressed shock and dismay. “What on earth are you going to use it for?” one coworker exclaimed. Well, whittling for one thing. “You whittle??” Yes, I do whittle.

But I don’t mutilate cattle, rob grocery stores, or threaten sorority girls, which from the looks I’ve been getting, is what most people think a pocketknife is used for these days. It makes me sad. A knife is a great tool. It has few moving parts, requires minimal maintenance, and has endless uses. You can cut bagels, spread cream cheese, cut up an apple to share, open packages, make elegant curls of shavings for tinder, cut loose threads on your clothes, cut off the excess string after you tie a knot, etc. etc. ad infinitum.

What’s more, I can’t begin to count the number of times I’ve sharpened a pencil with a pocketknife, because I needed to write something down and there simply wasn’t a pencil sharpener. To be honest, if there wasn’t any other reason to carry a pocketknife, in my opinion THAT would be sufficient.

So please, when you see a man carrying a pocketknife, try to remember that it’s a tool first, and a weapon second, if at all.

Thanks to the Warning Label Generator

I used to work with a sociopath. I say that not to shock you, but to inform you. After years of interaction with and observation of this person, there is no other simple definition that can convey as much information, as accurately, as that one.

I am reminded of him this morning because I was cleaning my keyboard. I don’t clean my keyboard as often as I should, I’m sure. I sometimes look down at the surfaces that my fingertips are lovingly stroking and gag a little bit. There’s an accretion of skin oils, dust, food bits and miscellany that forms an evil skin of “geek grease” on the keys. The home row keys are all kept slick and polished through use, but the outliers begin to grow scum around their base, like the slow growth of coral, and soon they harbor their own ecosystems.

With the advent of sentient life, I could well imagine the kind of warfare that would erupt in the mountains and canyons of my keyboard. Hawkish slogans would echo across the keys: “F1 to F5 or Fight!”, “Send the invaders back HOME!”, “Page Down über Alles!” But I digress.

When I do become aware of the shocking state of my keyboard, I will trek down the hall to get a bottle of cleanser and some paper towels, and vigorously wipe it down. I will turn the keyboard over and smack it sharply, trying not to gag at the detritus that rains down from the keys. If all those bits of skin are coming from my fingers, I marvel that I have any fingers left.

And when I am done, I have a clean keyboard. Well, if not clean and sterile, at least not revolting. And the cycle repeats itself whenever the keys get disgusting enough to attract my attention.

But back to the sociopath that I worked with, he had a different approach. He would continue to use his keyboard and mouse until they were absolutely filthy — black and gummy with geek grease, so that you couldn’t even read the labels on the keys. Then, instead of say, cleaning them, he would just come in early some morning and swap out his keyboard and mouse with those from someone else’s computer, giving himself a fresh new start.

Of course if you were the unwilling victim, you would come into work that morning and sit down at your workstation, only to realize with horror the kind of evil, black, and sticky mess that sat before you. Looking around you might notice the perpetrator working away on his pristine and clean new keyboard. If confronted, he would flatly deny making the switch. Going to HR with such a problem would make you look like some kind of idiot, because really, who would do such a thing? This would leave you furiously scrubbing your new keyboard, all the while fuming and pondering various untraceable ways to commit murder.

Like I said, he was a sociopath.

My mother always had a vegetable garden. As a young man, I wasn’t too keen about helping with the weeding, but I certainly enjoyed the fresh produce. There is nothing like the flavor of a green bean, or a snap pea, or a raspberry that you just plucked yourself.

Our neighbor across the street is one of the original residents of the neighborhood, and he always manages to put in a garden, although he moves a little slower every year. Yesterday he called me over to ask if I liked cucumbers.

“Of course I do,” I said, and he handed me some cukes fresh off the vine. There were two large ones, and three mediums, too many to eat all at once. “You know what my mom used to do?” I asked. “She kept a tupperware bowl full of vinegar on the kitchen counter, and she just kept adding sliced cucumbers and onions to it. We’d eat out of that bowl all summer.”

He laughed. “Mine did, too,” he said.

I returned home with my bounty, but I couldn’t stop thinking about that bowl of cucumbers and onions I used to dip into as a kid. It had a particular flavor, a combination of the cool flavor of the cucumber, the bite of the onion, and the tart pucker of the vinegar. Over the years I’d often found myself craving those flavors, but every time I’d tried to recreate it, I’d failed miserably. Over the years, I’d quit trying.

Ah, but now I had the power of the internet behind me. Sure enough, after a bit of searching, I found a salad recipe that sounded like the right combination of ingredients. So, I mixed up a batch using all the cucumbers, then let it marinate for a few hours.

When I pulled a slice of cucumber out of the bowl and popped it into my mouth, it tasted precisely right. The flavor took me right back to the summers of my youth. Over the last two days I’ve gorged myself on cucumbers and onions, and every bite was delicious.

If you have a few ripe cucumbers laying around, give this cucumber salad a try. It’s incredibly simple, and so very tasty. Maybe your kids will come to love it as much as I did.

Cucumber and Onion Salad

3 medium-large cucumbers
1 medium onion
1 cup white vinegar
1 cup water
1/4 cup sugar
(1/4 cup vegetable oil)

Peel the cucumbers and slice into rounds. Slice the onion and separate into rings. Layer the cucumber slices and onion rings in a bowl.

In a separate bowl, mix the white vinegar, water, and sugar, and mix until the sugar is dissolved. Pour the dressing over the cucumbers and onions and toss gently. Let the solution marinate for about 4-6 hours in the refrigerator.

The recipe I found called for the addition of vegetable oil to the marinade, but I’m pretty sure my mom’s version didn’t include oil, and I thought it gave the salad a more heavy and oily texture. As I said, my mom kept a bowl on the counter, and just replenished the veggies. Although I doubt any pathogens could survive in such an acidic environment, I would still recommend keeping it in the fridge instead, and limiting the reuse of the marinade. Enjoy.