Don’t Ask…

One of the more curious things I’ve noticed about growing old is that when you run into friends of a similar age and you ask how they are, they tell you.

In detail. In great detail, in fact, with multiple references to failing body parts, indescribable pain (though that won’t stop them from trying) and their most recently endured invasive procedures. All of that offered along with their mournful longings for the good health that has abandoned them. There are perplexing looks and plenty of head shaking to accompany the narrative.

And yet you don’t really mind because when they are done telling their sad stories of woe you get to tell them yours. It’s defined clinically as a “geriatric swap.” Seriously. Look it up.

I remember as if it were yesterday that very moment when my own parents stopped seeing themselves as active, vibrant people who liked to dress up in brightly colored clothing and take to the golf course. Almost overnight they became obsessed and tormented by the threat of gallbladder, thyroid or kidney problems and the possible onset of unknown yet seriously moribund diseases. They started taking afternoon naps. It was Thanksgiving Day, 1975. It was that day I promised myself that I would never participate in such unseemly behavior. It was also the day I assured them that I would not be the one to take away their driving privileges and would insist on their having private rooms in the nursing home.

My god, I thought, this is only going to get worse. It’s no wonder children don’t go to visit their parents at nursing homes. That, and the fact that those places tend to smell really bad.

“Do you know how boring this is?” I inquired of them as they settled into their matching La-Z-Boy recliners, new since my previous visit. They looked at me as if they were suddenly overcome by acute hearing losses.

Actually, that Thanksgiving Day was the day my father joined what had been my mother’s long-running conversation with anybody who wasn’t deft enough to escape. Prior to that day, Dad’s only noticeable complaint was expressed by his habitual finger-brushing of the slight indentation on his forehead left by a bullet that ringed under and around his combat helmet one day in France in 1944.

My mother had begun worrying about her demise years before I was even born. Actually, she never seemed worried about death as much she seemed oddly desirous of wanting to experience a wide variety of illnesses—both homespun and exotic. I always thought I could pay her great tribute by penning a book I would call 1,001 Minor Diseases to Get Before You Die.

She was a skilled and accomplished hypochondriac who kept several copies of the Physician’s Desk Reference scattered strategically around the house so she wouldn’t chance real injury if she had a sudden need to look up lateral epicondylitis—which she might have first heard about on an episode of “Marcus Welby, M.D.”—before discussing it at length with her bridge club.

“1 ♣,” South said, adding that she might have heard about that malady on “Dr. Kildare.”

“Pass,” says West.

“1 ♦,” says North, agreeing with South.

“I think Ben Casey had that covered,” says East. “Pass.”

One ♥ is bid by South. West passes. North ups the bidding to four ♥.

East passes, but not before asking if lateral epicondylitis isn’t commonly known as “tennis elbow.”

“I don’t play tennis and I am suffering from it,” South says. “Four no trump.”

West passes and North, before bidding 5 ♥, wonders if one can get tennis elbow from golf.

North moves the game to 6 ♥ and West opens with the queen of diamonds.

IT IS RARE THAT WE SHOULD GO TO BARS THESE DAYS. There is no shortage of them in the little town in which we live, but we don’t know many of the people who habituate them anymore. They’re young, more likely to be of my children’s generation than mine. And I just don’t care to have cocktails with people who don’t know who Fred Astaire was.

These days, when I venture out of the house in hopes of running into a friend or acquaintance, my best shot of success is to go the hospital. There I will find people I know at the registration desk waiting their turn in line for a clinic visit, lab appointment, CT scan or MRI. The waiting areas are another place to see old friends, especially outside the rehab center. Many of my friends have also begun having lunch at the hospital’s cafeteria. The food’s not particularly good but the proximity to emergency medical services can’t be beat. (One can ill-afford to not take certain precautions.)

On several occasions over the last five or six years, I have traveled 127 miles east to have tests, procedures and treatments that are beyond the scope of our hometown hospital. I always run into people I know there, each of them seeking advanced medical help. We ask each other how we are and we listen closely to the answers. Comparative values are implied, never offered.

Leaving the distant clinic one recent day I ran into a friend just entering. We spoke for a few minutes about ill health and he observed that “at our age, every conversation becomes an organ recital.”

You’ll have to excuse me now. It’s time for my nap.

Grilled romaine salad

This was one of the most requested salads I served at my restaurant, Adagio. I still get the occasional request from friends to make it.

Dressing
1 Tbs. minced shallots
1 Tbs. fresh lemon juice
5 teaspoons Champagne vinegar
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
salt

Combine ingredients in a lidded jar and shake well to mix.

Salad
3 heads romaine lettuce
1 bunch small radishes
2 hard-cooked eggs
1/4 cup fresh bread crumbs
olive oil
salt

Trim romaine and halve each head lengthwise, leaving enough base to hold the halved head intact. Slice the radishes as thinly as possible. Finely chop the eggs.

Combine the bread crumbs in a small saucepan with the olive oil. Stir to coat well, season with salt and place over medium-high heat. Cook, stirring constantly, until the crumbs have darkened and toasted, about 5 minutes. Remove from heat.

Grill the romaine on a stove-top grill pan over high heat, cooking just long enough to sear, 1 to 2 minutes to a side. (Char broiling is preferred.) The heat must intense so as to char the lettuce but not allow it to wilt too much.

Arrange lettuce on a platter, season lightly with salt and spoon a generous tablespoon or so of dressing over the top. Repeat until all the romaine has been cooked and added to the platter.

Distribute the thinly sliced radishes over the top. Scatter the chopped eggs. Spoon over more of the salad dressing, scatter the toasted bread crumbs and serve.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska