Undercover Scones

I was baking some scones yesterday.  My mother was very interested in what I was doing.  She sat at the counter watching, waiting and salivating.  For her, the best thing in life is sugar; yes, sugar in any form, served in any way and at any time.  If I want her to smile all I have to do is provide her with a never-ending supply of cookies, cakes, chocolates, and creamy, sugary delights. I have tried to cook healthy foods for her but  alas, she rejects all things nutritious.  In fact, I have found her picking and eating only the craisins out of a chicken almond salad and then flattening the rest of the salad with her fork in a show of derision.  "I will not eat this!" she complains.  If I were to give her a piece of broccoli covered in chocolate then rolled in sugar crystals, she would remark, "This is DEEELICIOUS!"

The more her Alzheimer's Disease progresses, the more displays of avarice for confections I see.  Okay, okay.  She's 98 years old and in good health (other than being in late stages of Alzheimer's) so why do I insist she eat her veggies?  Why do I peddle protein like a wicked Nutritionist?  In my defense, I am not alone.  My husband scolds her for ignoring her protein in favor of a syrupy morsel.  She scowls and complains.  She pushes her food around her plate like a petulant two year old.

But I digress.  Back to the scones I was baking: they were lovely little bite-sized treats that were coated with a sugar glaze guaranteed to send her blood sugar levels soaring.  I finished dipping and glazing the last scone when I looked at the clock and realized that I needed to leave for an appointment.  About the same time, my husband, Skip went outside to meet with a man from Critter Control about our problem with voles and moles.  (Yes, we have pests running rampant among our plants chewing roots and digging tunnels in the grass.  To be clear, the moles dig the tunnels and eat insects and worms while the voles borrow the tunnels to find their way to the roots of plants.  Their penchant for devouring all edible greens is truly legendary.  I wish that they could teach Mom to enjoy greens as much as these small rodents!)  Anyway, as I was saying, I had just finished my job of baking the scones and realized that the drying rack was too tempting to leave out.  As soon as I might exit the kitchen my mother was sure to be all over these morsels like  flies on flypaper.  I began to look around for how to hide the drying rack.  It was too large to place in a cupboard.  Skip suggested I put it on the washer in the laundry room and close the door.  I laughed sardonically.  Mom had not met a door she couldn't open.  In fact, she was a known escape artist.  She even managed to figure out how to get baby locks off of cabinets.  A closed door was certainly not going to keep her away from the scones.  I decided to place them in the cooling oven even though I risked a slight drying or melting and compromise of texture.  I couldn't risk leaving my mother alone with the scones.  So under cover they went.  Hidden from my mother's search and discovery I could safely leave home to make my appointment.

One might think that this is quite petty of me. If Mom wants a scone why not let her have a scone?  I hasten to remind the reader that a person with advanced Alzheimer's doesn't remember things from moment to moment; so as soon as Mom eats a scone she will reach for another thinking it to be the first one she has sampled.  This will continue until she gets sick to her stomach often resulting in what I delicately refer to as tossing her cookies!  So I control the amount of food intake and sugar she has.  Oh, and one more little fact; sugar gives my mother horrible indigestion.  We are constantly administering antacid tablets.  (We buy them in bulk!) I really do try to keep some semblance of balance while still giving Mom what she loves.

Over the years I have received supportive comments from friends who tell me I am a good daughter.  I am always happy to hear this when I am struggling with the issues that I have as Mom's caregiver.  This week, for example, I yelled at her when she blew her nose in her sweater.  I had the option of responding the right way or the way I wanted to respond.  My two mini selves (the good mini-me and the bad mini-me) sat upon my two shoulders.  One cautioned me to think carefully how to react. "Just hand her a tissue and then take her sweater off and replace with a clean one."  The other told me "Go ahead.  Tell her how you feel! You know you want to.  It's not good to suppress your feelings!"  Guess who won?  I shouted, "MOM!  What are you doing?  Why did you blow your nose in your sweater?!"
Mom replied, "It wasn't a big blow.  It was just a little blow."
I felt steam coming out of my ears as I bellowed, "I don't care about the amount of blowing.  I still have to wash the sweater now!"  (I said a few other things too and Mom turned around to face me indigently complaining that she did not like me yelling at her.)  I continued for another few seconds until my anger subsided and then left the room.  To those dear friends who think that I am a saint; I confess I am most definitely not!

So, here I sit with the knowledge that it is nearing my mother's tea time.   The angelic side of me says, give Mom as many scones as she likes while the devilish side of me says to give her one bite-sized sample and remove the rest.  What to do, what to do. I am still ruminating over the nose-blowing incident.  I am also reminded that my mother (who never ever goes into our inner sanctum -- the master bedroom) found her way to our bathroom instead of using the one which is designated as hers and which has her toilet chair and easy access.  I looked up from my work and saw that she was M.I.A, called for her, walked around the house looking for her, becoming increasingly worried as to her whereabouts, and then finding her wandering out of the bathroom. She had not flushed the toilet.  She had not used the toilet paper.  She had been less than careful.  (I will not go into details.)  I was livid.  My mini-me's were both screaming in my ears. When confronted she was defensive and irritated with me for being upset.  Yes, I was thinking of the other incidents and how difficult things were becoming. Mom's attitude was far more argumentative after tea-time. Suddenly, I had an epiphany and at that moment I made the decision.  Sugar makes Mom happy but too much sugar makes her cranky. What I did was obvious. The answer could be read as a news headline: Scones Stashed in Effort to Save Survivors! 

Deck the Halls

Deck the Halls

With Mom and All 

 

I thought of skipping the Christmas craziness this year.  I thought that it would be too much for me to handle.   

A month ago I remember crying sadly at the thought that I would forego the joy that the sight of a decorated house brings to me.  I thought that I would skip the annual event we always hold at our home.  This year would be different.  This year, the halls would not be decked, the stockings would not be hung, the packages would not be wrapped, the cookies would not be baked.  No cards, no letters, no phone calls, no parties.  I looked around.  There was so much to do, so much to think about, so much effort and energy to expend just to bring this tradition to life. "I'm getting too old for this!" I told myself.  I can't handle another thing; not with all that I have to do caring for my mother.  I had almost convinced myself that I was right not to enjoy the spirit of the Season.  But then...  Skip said something to me about the tree, the decorations, the family gathering, the holiday guests and entertaining that we do.  He wasn't going to push it and I knew that he would support whatever decision I made regarding the next few weeks.  I looked within myself.  There was a sadness.  We would be missing so much.  We had already sacrificed and missed out.  I looked at my mother who knew nothing of what time of year it was.  I reminded her that it was the Holiday Season.  She nodded her head without comprehension or memory of Christmases past.  My sadness grew into depression.  The emptiness deepened.  The darkness was about to swallow me up.  I was resigned.  My misery was all-consuming.  I rationalized: being a care giver is draining both physically and emotionally.  It would be easily understood if I explained to everyone that this year...just this once I would not be able to 'do' Christmas, that our annual family party could not take place, that I couldn't bake the Christmas bread, that I wouldn't make the sausage dip or the pine cone cheese balls.  They would kindly accept that the home would be undecorated and that I would not have time to shop for presents. Yes, they would accept it, but...  

I began to realize that I couldn't... I wouldn't accept it myself!

I made the decision.  

"Let the lights be hung, the wreath be placed on the door, the candles lit, the presents wrapped, the cards written, the cookies baked, the tree trimmed.  Let the ornaments, the decorations, the special reminders of the season be placed around each room.  Yes!  Deck the Halls."  Immediately my mood changed.  I was excited, pleased, and exhilarated.  Suddenly I felt youthful and energetic. 

It was the day after Thanksgiving.  I sat down in front of my computer and shopped for Christmas gifts.  Immediately I felt better.  I baked some cookies and called a friend who offered to help us decorate the house.  Arrangements were made.  Within a week Christmas preparations were underway and the house was brimming with Christmas spirit.  What a joy!  

Now with just two weeks to go before Christmas day, I make lists and check off the things I have done and the things left to do.  It takes more organizations than usual.  There is no time to spare.  My mother requires more and more of my time as I watch her closely, trying to protect and run interference. She paces like a caged animal, fingering touching, tasting everything.  I stop her from tumbling down a step as she is oblivious to height changes. I catch her before she touches the hot pot, trips over the dog bone, runs into the table with her walker.  I admonish her for blowing her nose in her shawl or for throwing her panties in the trash can. Safety, cleanliness, humanness...they are things I strive to preserve at great emotional and physical sacrifice and cost.  I am torn between decorating the cookies, and watching Mom, providing her with a distraction, an activity, something that will fill the time.  I compromise.  I will forego the special chocolate bars that everyone expects me to bake.  I will not wrap the packages with elaborate decorations and will use more gift bags.  But there will be no compromise on the traditions -- family traditions will be celebrated regardless.  This is my treat to me, for me, and by me.  

I put Mom to bed singing some Christmas carols as I help her get undressed.  She sings along smiling broadly.  It has been a long exhausting day but as I close her door my spirit is lighter.  I walk back downstairs, pour myself a nightcap and sit down in front of the Christmas tree.  A calmness spreads over me.  There is no negativity.  There is no darkness, sadness, despair.  For a minute I am a child thrilling at the twinkling lights.  I forget everything I have left to do to simply enjoy the moment and the lights...and the joy...and the season...and the knowledge that we are all together.  It is the magic of the season; and it heals, cures, reassures, stabilizes, and reminds me of just how grateful I am to have this time, this moment, this love, this joy, this life.

Tomatoes and Pies and Cookies, OH MY!

Our son presented us with a bag of Roma tomatoes the other day.  I had just been thinking about making a tomato pie, so when I saw these beauties grown at a friend's farm I was quite pleased.  Unfortunately it was a busy week and I didn't get around to making the pie.  Every day, I would practically hear the tomatoes ripening and calling to me.   Finally I found two free minutes and thought that I would begin preparing the pie.  Oh wait...first I would go feed my friends' cats. (My friends were out of town for a few days.)

I ran over to their home, opened the door and was greeted by two hungry cats.  One of them decided to curl around my feet as I was walking  and caused me to trip.  I caught myself before toppling, but not without twisting my ankle on the same foot that was trying to heal from an old break and some painful tendinitis.  Once back at home I pulled out an ice pack and treated the swelling.  Oh!  But the tomatoes were now shouting at me.  I had to make the pie.  I limped my way into the kitchen and began putting together ingredients.  I was halfway into the recipe when I discovered that I was out of a key ingredient.  Being a resourceful cook I found a substitute without losing any time whatsoever.  Putting together the special crust I felt reasonably assured that it would still be tasty.  I put it in the oven to brown while I began slicing the tomatoes.  I was rushing and didn't take adequate precautions.  Before I knew it I had sliced more than the tomatoes.  Looking at my poor finger I realized that I needed a bandage.  I ran to the bathroom cabinet and began administering first aid.  By the time I returned to the kitchen I had burned my crust -- not all of it, but the edges were definitely toasted! With most of the tomatoes sliced I couldn't scrap the project.  I had to make a new crust.  Once again, I had to use a substitute for the key ingredient and once again I assembled the crust and put it in the oven for browning.  This time I watched it very carefully.  I looked over at the previous crust and took a little nibble of the part that wasn't burnt.    Mmmm...it was delicious!  I cut away the burned edges and regarded the remaining crust.  It was made with 1 1/2 sticks of butter and I hated to throw it out.  All night long I thought about what I could do with the good part of the crust.  When I awakened this morning I had a solution.  I would crumble the crust , add sugar and coconut oil and make a crumb crust.  Then I would make a French cream coconut pie.  I forms the crumb crust and baked it until it was firm.  Meanwhile I found my recipe for a French Pastry cream.  It called for four egg yolks.  What was I going to do with the egg whites?  I finished preparing the pie and then decided that I would make chocolate meringue cookies.  I was halfway finished beating the egg whites when I discovered that I didn't have enough chocolate.  Once again, I improvised adding different ingredients to substitute for the chocolate shortage. 

Currently I am staring at a sink full of dirty dishes, a stove covered in spills and splashes, an oven covered in fingerprints, a rack of cookies cooling, a mixing bowl, spatula and beater being licked clean by my mother, dish towels strewn on the counters and a kitchen that is about 100 degrees!  I am sitting under the fan in the family room, feet up, icing my ankle and thinking that I never want to look at a bag of Roma tomatoes again!