I downloaded Hipstamatic recently, and get a kick out of the results. Posts on Facebook from a former coworker reminded me I wanted to check out the iPhone app. Thanks, Lisa.
Baby Blocletters goes retro
Here’s a follow up to the last post. Now that I’ve had the iPhone 4 for a few days, a few more thoughts:
I did drop one call today. I had the case on the device at the time, so it wasn’t the dreaded antenna issue. Probably just a network hiccup. Of course, that could just be the fanboy talking. Dropped call or not, this is a stellar device. Its value lies in the hundreds of things it does, all well. That it also makes calls just ices the cake.
I admit I did a little happy dance when the email from Apple to let me know my new iPhone was ready for pickup arrived this morning. Mrs. Blocletters bought it just two days ago for my birthday. At the time, they told her the wait could stretch for three weeks. Imagine my surprise.
First impressions:
Maybe more thoughts later as I put it through a few days of use.
Today I drew the crevé! card. My doctor called this afternoon with test results: I have a stress fracture in my left foot.
I used to play Mille Bornes often. For the unacquainted, it’s a French-import card game. Each player, or driver, takes turns drawing cards representing distances in the hopes of reaching a thousand miles first in the race. Potholes mark the route. One of the pothole-type cards players can draw is crevé, or flat tire (literally, burst).
Two weeks ago today, I was eight miles into a nine-mile run in Vibram FiveFingers — the KSO model (calling them shoes overstates things; they’re more like gloves for your feet), when I felt an unfamiliar tinge of pain near the base of the second toe of my left foot. I noticed, but deemed it more annoying than intense and finished the run. The pain stuck for a few days. The following Monday, I woke with that foot inflated like a balloon. I saw the doctor Tuesday and, based on the range of movement I had, he diagnosed it as likely a tendon issue and asked me to return in a week.
The swelling never quite went down and I continued to limp about. On the return visit, he ordered a bone scan.
First thing in the morning Thursday, my birthday, I found myself getting injected with gamma radiation. The nuclear medicine technician brought out the syringe in a lead flask. The radiation circulated around, stuck to my bones and eventually revealed itself on the whirring scanner. Between that and X-rays of the offending foot, I spent more than half a day at the hospital. Happy birthday to me.
All the while I expected this expensive test would confirm that I just stepped wrong, and all would heal if I’d just give it a few more days. I didn’t prepare myself for the doctor’s call today, but should have. I didn’t think it’d come to this.
It did. The prescription: an obnoxious boot to wear on my foot, to immobilize it and help the healing. No running for at least three more weeks. Training for the Detroit Free Press Marathon will not begin this coming week as scheduled. In fact, outlook for even getting to the starting line looks dim.
Crevé!
Disappointed doesn’t begin to describe how I feel, and I fought the blues all evening. But I’ve drawn a few 100-mile distance cards lately, and should have expected a flat tire to turn up. I’m not invincible — much as I sometimes think — and that’s a lesson I need to learn.
Mille bornes roughly translates to “a thousand milestones,” and this is just another one. With the support of Mrs. Blocletters and Baby Blocletters, I’ll pass this milestone, too.
Here’s hoping the next card I draw is roue de secours, or even increvable.
Recently a nice surprise arrived in my inbox from my Great Aunt Alice. She sent this photo given to her by my great grandfather, Joseph Russel Johnson.
Sproats and Johnsons c. 1905
The photo, likely taken in fall 1905, shows Joseph Russel at age 8. It features much of his mom’s family on the occasion of her parent’s 50th wedding anniversary. The couple, Joseph and Elizabeth Sproat, sit in the front row. They are my great-great-great grandparents and were born in Pennsylvania in the 1830s. Their daughter, Elizabeth Ella Sproat, married my great-great grandfather, Alvah Wilson Johnson. Alvah and Elizabeth’s third child, Joseph Russel — my great grandfather, stands center front in a white shirt.
Alvah Wilson Johnson (who’s not in the picture, though his wife and kids are) brought my Johnson line to Michigan. Alvah, raised as a farmer in southern Ohio, came to the Saginaw, Mich., area as a coal prospector in 1889, according to his obituary.
Alvah and Elizabeth Johnson also bore Harold, standing on the far left, and Mary, who stands behind Joseph in white with a bow in her hair.
Other people in the picture are various distant cousins. Other interesting bits:
Confused? Don’t worry. I’m sure this is only interesting to me, and even I had to draw a diagram.
I fathered a mixed-race child. Honestly, I don’t give her “mix” much thought, and don’t think twice about the idea of people marrying and (gasp) having children across racial lines. Mom didn’t raise me like that.
So, I was taken aback on a trip to a local hardware store this week by a comment from the cashier. I dashed in to buy light bulbs and trudged up to the register with the bulbs in one hand and my daughter in her carrier in the other. The older woman took the cash and began cooing. “She’s beautiful!” she said.
I’ve gotten used to the coos. I think my girl is beautiful, and regular comments from strangers just reinforce my bias and warm my heart. Then the woman said one of the most ignorant things I’ve ever heard.
“Have you had her since birth?” she asked.
I paused for a second, my brain trying to find a word. “Um … yes,” I responded. I found myself, for reasons I still don’t understand, not wanting to lecture or embarrass a stranger.
Adoption has a nobility to it. Taking responsibility for a child where the parent could or would not ranks among the more selfless actions I can think off. But obviously this woman, a nice white lady of about 65, reads too much People, and thinks brown babies must come from Malawi.
But beyond my daughter’s provenance, this woman questioned the idea that people of different races might marry or have children. In 2010, with a black president in the White House, I kinda thought this question was settled. The Supreme Court ruled on Loving v. Virginia in 1967, a generation and a half ago.
I fairness, I don’t know this woman’s background. Still, while Oakland County, where she at least works if not lives, has a population about 80 percent white, it’s hardly homogeneous. One in five residents counts as non-white. Surely she’s met whites who married blacks or Asians or Hispanics. Mrs. Blocletters and I enjoy the friendships of several interracial couples. It’s not rare by far.
And notice I said ignorant, not stupid. She doesn’t know my family. But, while ignorance isn’t its own excuse, I can’t wish it away either. I can wish, however, that ignorant people think for a moment before they speak. Even if you suspected a child was adopted, why would you ask a stranger such a question?
Clearly, ignorance is here to stay and I need to come up with a better response than a dumbfounded “yes” next time I get this question. How about: “No, I won her in a card game a few days ago. Cute, isn’t she?” I’m interested to hear other snappy responses. Feel free to leave them in the comments or hit me on Twitter of Facebook.
Three weeks have passed. Recovery stands at about 95 percent, though I still ache in my left shin when I extend my foot too far. My finish time: 5 hours, 22 minutes and 32 seconds.
The Trail Marathon sits in a well-earned first place among the most demanding physical acts I’ve done. I started out slowly, actually following the plenty of advice I’ve gotten on running races. A few miles in, I resigned myself to just finishing, scrapping any pretense or hope of a sub-four. (I’ll always have Detroit, I reasoned.) I settled into a pace of just over 10-minutes a mile, trudged up the hills and worked downhills in the best controlled descent I could muster.
Despite the slow pace, I felt good. The leaves had peeked out since a test run a few weeks prior, and thunderstorms in the forecast held off, leaving a mild, cloudy day — perfect for a long run.
Dark moments in the woods
Then, just shy of Mile 11, I caught my toes on a root, landing with a thud that took the wind out of me and the skin off both knees. When I got to my feet, my dirt-caked knees protested. Fifteen more miles? You’ve got to be joking! I ignored the protests, and ran injured.
The full marathon consists of two 13.1-mile laps. As I neared the midway point, I really thought about quitting. Banged up pretty good and running slower than planned, I thought Mrs. Blocletters might have checked out of the bed and breakfast and made it to the park to cheer me on as I hit the split. I’m glad she wasn’t there. Bruised as I felt, I could easily have stopped and demanded she take me home. I wanted to quit, and might have had she shown up.
A second dark moment came around Mile 19. I don’t know if it’s what you call the wall, since it wasn’t mental, but my on-board fuel couldn’t keep up with the hills. On a wicked uphill, both calves seized up at once and I dropped again. Agony. I stayed on my back for several minutes, unable to move without twitching pain. After that, it took several more minutes of deep stretching to even walk.
All uphill from here
The next few miles sucked. Hard. I walked much of it. Tenderly. Hoping my calves would take me even to the next mile marker. I stopped at Mile 21, fishing a pebble from my shoe. When I got up, I actually felt a lot better — maybe Goo or bananas I’d eaten a few miles back finally kicked in. I wasn’t asking dumb questions. One foot in front of another. Repeat.
Somehow, I could now manage a trot, at least on downhills and the rare level terrain. Each mile, I told myself, got me closer to seeing my girls again. I wasn’t going to keel over in the woods and be picked apart my scavengers. I kept it up to Mile 25, which is all uphill. Where I bounded, despite injury, during the first lap, I now walked.
After that, I knew I could finish. I trotted as best I could, knees singing an aria of pain. On a long wooden bridge about a third of a mile from the finish line, a race volunteer says to me: “Hang in there, man, there’s a cold beer waiting for you.” I imagined a cooler of Coronas just the far side of the finish and was really disappointed to not find one. (Dear race volunteer, don’t say such things to a delirious runner after 25-plus miles.) But I finished. And I wanted to see my girls so badly I almost walked past the woman handing out the medals.
I finished the second half in 3:08:05, a 14-plus minute pace. In addition to being no fun, injuries apparently wreak havoc on your time.
Recovery is a four letter word
I felt great that day. Wrecked and wracked, but great. The next day, I felt even better. On day three, I could barely walk. I don’t know what I did to my shins, but the right stayed angry at me for a few days and the left for more than two weeks. Lots of ice packs and Alleve later, the mending continues. I look forward to running again, probably this week.
One thing’s for sure: The Trail Marathon will make the Detroit Free Press Marathon look like a cakewalk. And for an extra twist, the goal for Detroit is to run in the new Vibram FiveFingers.
Lump quiche in the easy-to-make category. Eggs, milk, cheese and filling — that’s it. Of course, you can use a pie shell if you want, but that just complicates things. I worked for a while at a cafe that featured a daily quiche and, having hundreds of them under my belt, this is pretty much my template.
3 eggs
1.5 C. milk (I use soy milk)
6-8 oz. grated cheese
1.5-2 C. cooked filling (veggies, meats, a combo)
Dash of salt, pepper, cayenne and nutmeg
Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Start with the filling. For today’s quick, I used leftover carrot and yellow pepper from another recipe, onion, turkey bacon, mushrooms and rosemary. Saute filling until done. After cooking, you should have 1.5-2 cups, though this is a forgiving recipe so the exact amount doesn’t matter. Set aside.
Spray a 9-inch pie pan. Transfer the filling into the pan, add the cheese and mix thoroughly. Spread evenly over the bottom of the pan.
Whisk the eggs and milk. Like I said, I use soy milk, but you can use cow’s milk or even half and half. Add the salt, pepper, cayenne and nutmeg to taste, I’d say up to a half teaspoon of each (except the nutmeg), and whisk again. Nutmeg’s powerful stuff, so you only need a little bit, maybe a quarter teaspoon. Again, really forgiving recipe, so if you end up with too much cayenne or nutmeg this time out, cut back next time.
Pour the egg mixture over the cheese and filling mixture. Garnish the top if you like. For today’s quiche, I used six thin slices of tomato arranged around the top.
Bake at 400 degrees for about 10 minutes, then reduce the temperature to 325 degrees and cook until a toothpick comes out clean from the center of the pie, maybe another 25-30 minutes or so. Oh, if you use a shallow pie pan, you’ll want a cookie sheet underneath to catch spillover.
Allow the quiche to rest until it’s room temperature or so before cutting, or you’ll have a runny mess. If you can’t wait, that’s fine too, but know the consequences. Enjoy with salad, perhaps mixed greens in a light lemon vinaigrette, or a fist-sized hunk of bread.
Raw fish scares a lot of people, but it shouldn’t. People eat a lot creepier things* all the time and live to tell their tales. Plus, the tuna here isn’t technically raw, since it “cooks” in the acid of the lime juice.
This recipe is versatile and delicious. Sorry, no picture with this one.
1 lb. raw tuna steak
1 roma tomato
half a red pepper
1-2 green onions
3 sprigs of rosemary
Juice of 2-3 limes
Splash of olive oil
Salt & pepper to taste
Rinse the tuna in cool water with a dash of lime or lemon juice, and slice into half-inch cubes. Set aside. Remove seeds and protoplasm (that’s a technical term, right?) from tomato and chop into small pieces. I sliced it, then bisected the slices so I had thin, bite-sized pieces. Cut the red pepper into similar pieces, and slice the green onion. Throw the veggies in with the tuna.
Next, the marinade. Juice the limes into a food processor. Remove the rosemary leaves from the stems, and add to the lime juice. (I think cilantro is traditional for ceviche, and I’ve used that too. I bet basil is nice as well. About a handful.) Drop in a jigger of olive oil and a bit of salt and pepper. Puree for a moment, then pour the mixture over the fish and veggies. Stir to coat, cover and refrigerate.
Now is a good time to chill a few nice glass dishes. I once used martini glasses for this, and it made for a handsome presentation.
After 15 minutes or so in the fridge, stir the fish. Return to the fridge for another 15 minutes or so. Maybe half an hour. Whatever. Remove from fridge, adjust salt & pepper if necessary, and serve in the chilled dishes. Makes three or four servings. Homemade bread sticks make a nice foil to the acidity of this dish, but that’s another post.
Of course, management assumes no responsibility for illness that might result from raw or undercooked fish consumed after following this recipe. Enjoy at your own risk.
* Mrs. Blocletters and I were in Paris a few summers back. A man seated next to us at a cafe ordered beef tartare. Ew, we winced. But he dug in with gusto.
Never, ever leave stuff in plain view in a car in Detroit. Mrs. Blocletters has made this point to me numerous times. I had to learn the hard way.
Yesterday, I waited in the repair shop with Baby Blocletters, who was about as patient as a 6-month-old can be in a waiting room. (I tried to impress on her the “inside voice” lesson, but she replied with increasing loud and jovial “Ya, ya, yaaAAAAHHHs,” much to the amusement of the women behind the counter and other people waiting.) A waste of sperm and eggs had smashed the back passenger-side window of my new Toyota on Saturday, and taken our overnight bags. We were ready to head out of town for Sunday’s Trail Marathon*, and I had thrown our bags in the back seat before heading downtown for an errand.
Dumb move.
I parked on Griswold downtown, a block from the Penobscot. Did I mention it was 3:30 in the afternoon? And that we were away from the vehicle a grand total of 32 minutes? Neither of those facts can substitute for shouldaknownbetter.
The repair shop made the truck whole. Mrs. Blocletters made a point after the race of taking me to Running Fit to get a new water belt for long runs, which makes me feel a bit better. I wish I could bring back the sentimental things my wife lost. I wish I could shake that fist-to-the-gut feeling of violation. I miss my good luck charm, and I’ll reach for my Leatherman for a honey-do sometime soon and whimper a little. Hard lessons suck.
And, to the person who did this: Karma will shine on you, but I don’t think you’ll like it when it does. Hard lessons suck.
* I finished 121 out of 165 entrants in a chip time of 5:22:32. Definitely not the finish I’d hoped for, but I took a bad tumble at mile 11 and hobbled through the remaining 15.2 miles with singing pain in both knees. Regardless, I finished, and I’m proud. Next race: Detroit, where I’ll make sure to stash my running kit out of site when I park.