Chemo-ically treated hair

Saturday, I saw my sister-in-law's family. The occasion was their son's fifth birthday.

We exchanged pleasantries with my in-laws. My brother-in-law commented to me, "I didn't know you had curly hair." I gave my standard reply, "It was the drugs they gave me."

It is common knowledge that chemotherapy usually makes one's hair fall out. Its later effects seem to be less commonly known: when hair comes back, it is often a different color and texture.

Pre-chemotherapy, I had dark brown, almost completely straight hair. Now, I have medium brown hair with a pronounced wave.

Having people comment on my new hair texture bothers me. Not that I have any problem with how my hair looks (I actually think I look rather cute with it). But I feel like I'm marked: the chemotherapy changed me in ways that I had no control over. The hair changes seem benign, but what else did the drugs do to my body?

I will try not to dwell on it. I think I will be pretty successful. At least, until the next time someone notices my hair.

They're like potato chips

One week ago, my partner and I met with a woman who lives nearby. She breeds birds, mostly parrots. We were interested in a hand-fed budgerigar (parakeet) she had for sale.

She gave us the pitch for the local bird club, told us about the need for foster homes for large parrots, and gave us a brief tour of the birds she owns. We handled the bird we were interested in. Before we put him in our carrier, she made sure his wings were safely clipped (we don't want any escapee parrots!) and trimmed his nails.

There was a moment when we were all staring at the bird's little feet kicking in the air near the nail clippers. She looks at us and says, "You know that birds are like potato chips." I must have looked pretty blank. She went on, "You can't stop with just one."

I laughed. This purchase brought our parrots to four; we will always remember two others that have passed away. It is a joy to interact with them, and to watch them interact with each other. I was especially grateful for their presence when I was fighting cancer.

No, I thought, I could not imagine having stopped with just one.

Holy nickname

Last spring, my bible study group read the Song of the Sea - what the Israelites sang after crossing the parted sea while fleeing the Egyptians. One thing that caught my attention was the nickname "Yah" used in the song. It is, the commentary explained, an abbreviation of the YHWH formal name of God.

It made something click for me in the worship services: Halleluyah. Learning it growing up in a Protestant church, and seeing it used in novels, I had always thought of it as just a word of praise. The past six years of attending worship services that include Hebrew let me realize that Hallelu is a Hebrew word: Let us praise. And "yah" is a nickname for God.

The name YHWH used to be pronounced by the High Priest inside the Temple during the High Holy Day services. Two thousand years ago, the Temple was destroyed and the office of High Priest was discontinued. The prohibition on saying the name outside that specific circumstance is such that the vowels and pronunciation have been lost. The Bible records an instance of the death penalty being imposed for inappropriately speaking the name YHWH (Leviticus 24:10-23).

And yet, there is this nickname. A nickname so pervasive that it is part of the most common praise for the Lord. Halleluyah. Holy nickname.

Cook hopes

I just ordered three cookbooks from Amazon.

I am in the process of researching slow-cookers. Two of the cookbooks are for the slow-cooker. I hope the information in them will help me decide on a size and give me an idea of which features are most useful.

I am afraid this is overambitious. The past few months, I have only cooked one or two meals a week. (The partner and I eat a lot of frozen meals, and eat out a lot.) While my hours at work have improved from this spring, the stress from work is worse. I often feel so mind-numbed that all I can muster up the motivation for or enjoyment of is flash games on the internet.

I hope things are improving, and planning to spend more time cooking is an expression of that hope. I also hope that a slow-cooker meal, where I could do the prep the night before, would work better with my schedule.

Planning and working toward a better future. That feels good to do.

Making my bed

Children often argue with their parents about chores. I was no exception. Making my bed was a particular sticking issue. My father kept telling me I would be more comfortable sleeping in a freshly made bed. My own experience proved otherwise - I was perfectly content sleeping in a bed with mussed covers. There had to be more to this bad-making thing. Turns out, most people appreciate the aesthetics of a made bed. It's good for socializing to have visible parts of your house look nice - making the bed is for the community, not the individual.

I've been thinking about that while attending services for Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement. The idea behind the holiday is for people to reflect on how they can be better, and lay out an ethical plan for the year. Sounds nice.

But... it doesn't seem to work. People who attend Yom Kippur services (or comparable practices in other religions, such as Catholic confession) don't seem to have any higher standards than people who are religiously apathetic. I don't see any different behavior in myself now compared to my religious-service-free college days.

So, if the purported effect of making us better people doesn't pan out, why do we come to these services? My theory: the same reason we go to weekly services. Not for ourselves, but for the community. Those who pray together stay together and all that.

I like the community at my synagogue. It provides me with study opportunities, opportunities to give back to my local community, and social interaction with a wide cross-section of people. I'm glad we have events such as Yom Kippur that keep us together as a group.

Happy New Year

I grew up in a town with a much higher Jewish population than my current city. On major Jewish holidays, there were generally multiple people absent from my school classes. Everyone was kinda aware of the holiday season.

Yesterday at work, three coworkers learned for the first time that I am a synagogue member. They kind of stumbled into it asking how my day off was: no clue that Thursday was the start of the Jewish New Year celebration.

At least I didn't go my husband's route, telling them that we all dress up in a giant dragon costume and set off fireworks indoors.

Lack of taste

Tuesday, I was eating grape tomatoes, picked off my own tomato plant. It is really rewarding to have a successful vegetable after so many disappointing years. And they taste good, too... just as good as the store-bought ones.

I remembered all I'd read about home-grown tomatoes. About the extra flavor that vine-ripening gives, how the more delicate varieties for home gardens taste better than the bred-for-storage-and-mass-transportation commercial brands. People are driven to write songs about this wonderful flavor experienced by the successful tomato gardener. I'm not seeing it in my tomatoes.

Perhaps the brand I chose is the culprit. Or perhaps my gardening: my plant had a rough start and took about 80 days to produce its first fruit: much longer than the rated 60 days. It may not be getting all the sun and fertilizer it needs to reach its full flavor potential.

Then again... the people who rave about homegrown tomatoes also rave against refrigerating tomatoes. Not just the homegrown ones, but any tomato. The cold can break down important flavor compounds. They say. But not for me: I have done experiments, and cannot detect any taste difference between refrigerated and non-refrigerated tomatoes. Maybe it's me.

Last summer, my sister came to visit. Our conversation drifted to her college classes. She talked about her food science class, and shared how it had improved her appreciation of flavor. Not as much as her classmates, though: some of the things they could smell, she could not detect. This struck a chord with me. I cannot count the number of times friends, family, and coworkers have complained of a smell I cannot detect. "It must be genetic," I told her. Our sense of smell is sub-par.

Perhaps my poor sense of smell comes with a poor sense of taste. I think this calls for further research. Today, I'm going to a tomato tasting festival. Will they all taste alike to me? Or will I discover what I've been missing? Let the experiment begin!

Update: OK, so the partner's not up to a 3 hour roadtrip this morning. Maybe next year?