Archive: March 2008

If I had had a March Madness pool to enter, I would have taken UConn all the way to the end. It’s just how I do it — if the Huskies make it to the tournament, they simply must win every game. That is how we do basketball in Husky territory. In the off chance that the Huskies do not make it to the tournament, as in last year’s unspeakable season, I make my choices based on if I know someone who attended that school (and if I liked that person), if I recognize the school’s initials (e.g., UTEP is not a winner in my book), and if I like the school’s mascot and/or colors. It is a science, people.

This year, though, I had my hypothetical money on UConn. And then they had the nerve to get beaten by one point in the first round by a 13 seed! Where the heck did you come from, San Diego? I was disgusted at the end of that game. I still am!

In an effort to quell the righteous wrath that comes with a UConn loss — oy, I even hate to form the phrase — I present characteristics and mannerisms, some of which I have retained with stubborn determination, that confirm my Connecticut roots despite my Pennsylvanian surroundings.

• I call every large sandwich a “grinder,” because a “sub” is a naval submarine and “hoagie” is not a word I readily understand.
• I am still not accustomed to a scenic view that does not include the comforting, rounded tops of the Appalachians.
• I love clam chowder (although I do not pronounce it as “chowdah”), so I order it all the time. Then I am inevitably disappointed because what I receive is not clammy enough, too potato-y, too salty, too runny, or all of the above, and I smolder for the rest of the night in bitterness against the lack of authentic clam chowder.
• I pronounce “aunt” to rhyme with “font,” not like it is an insect that lives in a hill.
• I expect fall to come once school starts, not after Halloween.
• I don’t know where the Mason-Dixon line is, exactly, but I am pretty sure that relative to New England, Pennsylvania is “down south.”
• I am amazed at the amount of snow that will warrant a school closure.
• Despite my love for Peyton Manning and my better judgment, I root for the Patriots. I’m not proud of it.
• I don’t view the coastline as a place for swimming or even relaxing because shorelines are supposed to be rocky and the water will inevitably freeze your limbs off. Let’s just walk, or maybe climb up a lighthouse.

Don’t get me wrong — I love our town and our house. I love living in a place where neither JG or I grew up, so we’re both learning. It’s just that, sometimes, I feel displaced and not quite right in my environment. Whenever I go back to Connecticut, I just breathe a sigh and know that I feel better. I don’t know what it is. I haven’t been able to put my finger on it.

Of course, getting booted out of the basketball tournament doesn’t help much. Hmph.

#4

It’s easy for me to forget that I work at a hospital. Oh, sure, when people ask where I work, I have the answer, but the reality is that I do not work in the hospital. I park on Level 4 of my garage before I walk to my office on the top floor of the administration wing, which is the farthest point from the main care-providing areas. It takes me twenty minutes to walk to the cafeteria and back. We don’t hear any announcements over the public address system. If I don’t leave my desk during the day — which is often the case — I would not come into contact with patients at all. For all intents and purposes, I work at an office.

Today, a physician called about a submission to a scientific journal that uses an online interface, like many other publications. She was a little nervous about transferring files and reviewing proofs, so I went to her office to help. I went down the three flights of stairs to the bottom of my building, walked over to the connecting bridge, followed signs for the south elevators, took them up to the third floor, and made my way to the anesthesiology department. On the way, I greeted a mother and her son, a pre-teen boy almost my height who kept drifting over to the walls to trace out shapes with his finger — a “J” on a locker, an arrow on a sign, and a “1″ on an exam room door. We rode up on the elevators together, and they got out on the second floor.

I sat next to the physician for the next forty minutes and walked her through the submission process to make sure sure that all of the files were included, everything was labeled correctly, and she had saved a copy of the proof. About halfway through, there was a beep on the PA system:

“Attention. Attention, please. Code tag alert. Outpatient lobby. Code tag alert.”

Thanks to my new employee orientation, I remembered that a tag alert meant that a patient was crossing a certain boundary without permission. Usually, it’s a child who is being discharged, but the staff forgot to remove their alert wristband, and it’s no big deal. Sometimes, however, the child is being moved unsafely, without consent, so this alert can be very serious. The safety representative at my orientation made it clear that if we were ever near the location of a tag alert, we should get out of the way, and fast, to make room for security people. I took a deep breath at this announcement. I was glad to be out of the way, but I hoped everything was okay for that patient.

During the walk back to my office, I heard the “all clear” for the tag alert. Good. The relatively short time span meant that the alert was a false alarm, so no one was being abducted or hurt.

Relieved, I sat down at my desk. My next project was to lay out a research poster, and I was startled to read its content: a congenital skin disorder that newborn babies don’t survive for more than a day. I am ashamed to admit that I couldn’t bear to look at some of the images of the disease, but after the initial shock wore off, the reality set in that the pictures showed someone’s baby who couldn’t even be held because of severe pain. It was a stark reinforcement that health care exists because people are not always healthy, even to the point of heartbreaking conditions.

I think working in the medical field is always challenging, but it’s different, somehow, with children. I should be more mindful that my daily tasks of submitting research papers, editing manuscripts, and laying out posters all goes to the improvement of care for these kids. I need remember that I really do work in a hospital.

JG and I were invited to our friends’ house for Easter dinner with an open call for desserts. [Sidenote: why is it called Easter dinner even if it's eaten at lunchtime?] Once again, the America’s Test Kitchen cookbook came to my aid in my search for a new, non-chocolate dessert. I feel that it’s my duty, as someone who is indifferent toward chocolate, to provide at least one dessert that does not contain that ingredient. You know, in case someone is allergic. And so that I am guaranteed to have some leftovers to bring home.

Anyway!

These raspberry bars are simple in assembly, and it’s nice that all of the ingredients are readily available and fairly inexpensive. Be sure to budget in at least 2 hours of cooling time, because warm, gooey squares do not yield clean cuts.

A note about our good friend, the foil sling, as seen in our peanut butter brownie escapade: it is a must for these squares, since cleaning a jam-encrusted pan is no one’s idea of a good time. However, unlike brownies, the jam layer may entrap bits of foil, which are not good eats, to put it mildly. A quick trim along the edges took care of rogue pieces of foil and prettied up the raspberry squares. I usually use this tactic with brownies and snack on the trimmings, but these scraps tasted more of burnt sugar than anything else. It was with much trepidation that I packed up the squares for Easter dinner.

Despite all of my fretting, the majority of my raspberry squares disappeared the next day. I was a little nervous that I had overbaked the top layer, but the squares seemed to mellow out overnight, and they were pleasantly chewy. I had a hard time guessing at the two-thirds crust ratio, so I may overshoot that in the future, so as to get more of a speckled top. I would definitely make these squares again, but with apricot jam next time. When the pickings are slim for fresh fruit, this recipe is a great way to cheat.

(Recipe after the jump)

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Why do people interrupt me when I’m answering a question they’ve asked me?

Why am I mobbed by employees when there are many other customers in a shop, but if I’m the only one, it is all I can do to find someone to help me?

Why do grocery store patrons shun the cashier lanes and attempt to ring up overflowing shopping carts of groceries at the scan-it-yourself stations?

Why does my boss feel the need to volunteer every gory detail of her son’s talent show, despite my complete lack of interest in rollerskating third graders or dancing chipmunks?

Why, despite my utter lack of spending money, am I able to come up with countless items I’d like to buy?

Why am I completely nonchalant about the fact that I am now two issues behind in my three-week-old subscription of The New Yorker, and I have no hope of keeping up?

Why do co-workers assume that their lack of planning constitutes an emergency for me?

Why does the idea of sitting on the lap of a giant rabbit (with equally giant teeth) appeal to small children, but it sends me running for the hills?

Why do I always overestimate how many holiday stamps we need and then have an outrageous surplus whenever postage rates rise?

Why are phones set to ring at maximum volume when they’re in pockets or on desks, not down the hall?

Why does seeing pictures of my college roommates’ fun and exciting trip to San Francisco make me feel mundane and settled?

Why can’t I keep my penmanship consistent?

Sunday Scribblings #103: “I just don’t get it…”