Noses

It's the time of year when Northerners feel Jack Frost nipping at their noses, but I am unfortunately in the land of relentless sun, facing the prospect of a surgeon nipping at my nose.

It all began a few weeks ago, when my dermatologist biopsied a spot on my nose. The diagnosis came back: basal cell carcinoma. Basal cell is, fortunately, a non-life-threatening type of cancer, but it can be as disfiguring as a deadly melanoma (which I survived in 1998). Visions of ending up with half a nose danced in my head, in a sort of gruesome south-Florida parody of ye olde holiday verse.

Reason soon takes hold, however, and after trips to the surgeon (who specializes in Moh's micrographic surgery) and the plastic surgeon, I am much encouraged. While they can't predict how large the wound might be until they actually operate, it appears that I found my cancer early, and will hopefully not need extensive removal or reconstruction. The plastic surgeon says I'll always be able to tell where it was, but others will not be able to see it, once it heals....which may take up to a year.

So, I will go for surgery on the 23rd (two sessions, two locations, two docs), and celebrate the holidays anyway. No photo ops this year, but what the heck....we all know it's about the good company of much-loved friends and family anyway, right? (Not to mention the presents and the good food...)

Entering the new year with a "franken-nose" won't be all bad either. Having my dignity bruised now and then probably helps me have more compassion for others. And I'll be forced to remember that old saying, about being "a spiritual being having a human experience," and not the reverse of that.

Finally, since I was a child-devotee of bedtime stories that ended with a moral, I must seek the moral in this little life episode, that is applicable not only to me, but to others. The moral of this story is: Wear sunscreen, visit the dermatologist regularly (especially if you have fair skin), and find the bad stuff early.

Happy holidays to all.

Once again, I find myself writing about cooking. The unusually cold weather in Florida has put me in mind of comfort food, and when I started thinking about what to cook for my solitary lunch today, I thought of fried corn. My grandmother used to make this very simple dish-to-die-for, and my mother taught me to make it when I was quite young. It's terribly easy, and can be made with leftover corn-on-the-cob (sliced off the cob, of course), or with frozen corn.

Here are the directions: Put a pat of butter in a skillet, and add corn as soon as the butter is melted. Stir frequently with a wooden spoon. At first, nothing happens other than simple heating. But then, as the corn really begins to fry, the yellow color deepens. Then the edges of some of the kernels begin to turn brown as the natural sugar in the corn caramelizes. A few minutes before it's done, add fresh-ground black pepper. Doneness is a matter of personal preference, but I like mine to show a little brown on almost every kernel.

OK, so if anyone out there needs any other ways to turn innocent fuits and vegetables into fat & calorie-laden delicacies, just let me know. I can always post the directions for another one of my granny's favorites: fried apples.

A Few Words About Cooking

For those of you who know me, it will seem exceedingly strange to have my first blog be centered around the topic of cooking. I am a long-time, legendary "bad cook," and I've always been vocal about my dislike of cooking. However, moving to Florida from Minnesota changed many things, and one of the things it changed is my food habits. I can no longer cook without Adobo, sofrito, Goya's little packets of sazon . . . and I can't imagine life without plantains.

So, my mind opened a little. And I cook a little now. I'm still pretty low-key about it, and the idea of cooking a meal every evening for years on end makes me want to fill my pockets with rocks and walk into the ocean, but I can handle the occasional culinary fits that overtake me now.

Recently, I attempted a new dish called Gulab Jamun. Translated literally, the phrase means "Milk Balls," but that doesn't describe them very well. They are meant for dessert, and the best way I can describe them is that they're like donut holes in sweet syrup, but that doesn't do them justice, either. Anyway, I got a recipe from my friend and coworker, Ranjan, who lives in California, and I decided to make them for Diwali, which is an Indian holiday celebrated by several of my coworkers here in Florida.

My first try at making Gulab Jamun was a miserable failure. My carefully-photographed culinary journey ended in defeat, and I sent the pictures of my miserable wilting dough-shapes to Ranjan for a little long-distance critique. His verdict was: not enough kneading, and turn down the temperature on the oil.

So I went to the Diwali celebration carrying only tales of my attempt to make Gulab Jamun. I enjoyed the feast that was prepared by my coworkers, and vowed to try again. Rishi said he would have been honored to eat my failed dish, and his words truly warmed my heart. (May I always respond so graciously when faced with a less-than-perfect offering from a friend.)

A couple of days later, one of my coworkers, Pradeep, was leaving, and there was to be a going-away party. It was my chance to redeem myself, and I went straight home the evening before, and began cooking. I kneaded the dough thoroughly, thoroughly, thoroughly, and I happily sprinkled the majoram and saffron into the sweet sauce......the smells were beautiful, and I just had a feeling that THIS time, it would work out. And it did! (See photo.)

My friends at work said, "Are you sure you didn't import these from India?" And Rishi said, "These are better than what we had for Diwali!"

I felt triumphant for a week -- sufficiently so that I'm now gathering a list of ingredients for samosas.....can't wait to try them.