Chicken Pox

Reading this morning about my niece, J, and her family fighting H1N1 made me think back on the month when my family had chicken pox.

So, in 1972 at Thankisgiving, my aunt and uncle, Helen and Bruce, had invited my family to dinner. That was really a wonderful invitation for us, because given the size of us (at that time we had 7 in our family--two parents and five children--and didn't get invited out for dinner. It was kind of like incurring debt to serve us a meal! We had been getting ready to go and I noticed Eric was moping around a little--not acting badly, but just sitting on the couch doing nothing. He had gotten dressed and was just sitting there.

Well, I'm sure every parent knows that this is cause for suspicion. I asked him if he was okay and his answer was, "mmmphf" or something like that (he would have been 5 at the time.) For a reason I can't explain I asked him to lift up his t-shirt. It was a request I don't believe I had ever made before, and wouldn't have ever thought of, but that's what I did. So, he lifted it up, and there were the telltale dots all around his middle--little pus-filled red spots.

The thing is, I don't believe I had ever actualy seen chicken pox, yet I knew instantly what those cruel little marks were. Well, I called my aunt and told her we wouldn't be able to come to Thanksgiving dinner after all. I don't remember what we ate that day, but it wasn't the Thanksgiving dinner anyone ever dreamed of.
Actually, I think Helen brought us some food. It was a true CARE package. The other children were disappointed, Eric was lethargic, Dad disappeared into the bedroom reading for the rest of the afternoon, and for a reason I cannot say, I changed the beds and did laundry.

It wasn't what I had planned to do, but fortunately, we were living in BYU married student housing--Wymount Terrace--in Provo, and had laundry facilities on site.

Well, Eric was sick for a few days and stayed home from school for about a week or so. I thought it was a fairly light case. Two weeks after Thanksgiving, I got up in the morning to find Amy (7 1/2), Jennie (4) and Scott (2) sitting on the couch looking forlorn--they were all awake when I walked into the living room, and I knew immediately what was happening. Each one was wrapped up in a quilt, was sporting a truly miserable countenance, a fever, and the dreaded spots.

There ensued a marathon week of juice, water, sleeplessness, crying, itching, endless bathing in soothing substances, brushing the girls' hair, applying Caladryl lotion, reading stories, mountains (even more than usual) of laundry, trying to hold Scott and restraining him from scratching, and listlessness and dejection all around. 
We had only just returned to something resembling normalcy and life beginning to look up when I awoke on Christmas Day to Wendy crying pitifully. Now, Wendy seldom woke up that way--she was generally a cheerful little soul. Before I got to her (she was 9 months old at the time) and lifted her out of her crib, I knew what was going on. She was feverish, covered in red, itchy and angry lesions, and did not understand why she was feeling so bad.

The Chicken Pox hit her hard. I was told countless times that the more children in a family who have the disease, the worse it gets. That always sounded like an old wives' tale to me, but there you have it.
She cried for about a week, scratched--or rather rubbed--her itchy spots (I had the foresight to clip her fingernails immediately.) Her fever was high and she was not to be comforted for at least a week or more.
This time it was I who sat on the couch holding (read wrangling) her.

By New Year's Day, she was covered in scabbed over lesions, the fever had gone, and she was mostly listless. I hated the listlessness more than the fretfulness. I knew how to help them through the fretfulness, but there is no cure for pox lethargy. But she was healing. I knew at the time that we had all survived something extraordinary and also that I would never forget. I was right. I hope they have mostly forgotten the ordeal.

Countrified!

Ok, so I guess I'm an Okie now--or at least almost.

I worked for a long time to find a recipe for cornbread that Bobby (the true Okie) loves--and he does love cornbread! I mean it couldn't be sweet--then it's cornbread cake--and it had to have a good corn taste. So, I worked for a long time and tried many recipes--some were ok, others were not. I came across a recipe for simple (unadulterated) cornbread by Paula Deen. Well, why not? It might be just the thing.

About that time, I also got some corn (popcorn) and put it through my grain mill and made my own cornmeal. (One thing about this "new" cornmeal is that it is deep golden, unlike most pale yellow cornmeals I have bought before.) Bobby had mentioned that he loves the corner pieces because of the crusty edges on them.

Recently, Bobby found a really nice baking pan for brownies (it's a Wilton)--it has 12 squares--kind of like cupcake pan for square cupcakes. All the pieces have four corners! It's really heavy and I love this pan. Well, I put Paula's recipe together with some ideas of my own (I added some chopped chilis, creamed corn and shredded cheddar cheese) and put it in the oven. So after he had tried the cornbread he announced that I had done it, and it was the best cornbread he had ever eaten. Really.

After we had finished eating our beans and cornbread, he announced that the only way it could have been better would have been to have fried potatoes with it. If he hadn't said that I would never have thought of it, because, you just don't have potatoes and beans in the same meal--super high carbohydrates--it just isn't done--at least not by me. So, tonight, I made his cornbread (this time I left out the creamed corn because I thought the corners would be a little crustier and it worked!), cooked a pot of beans and fried up some potatoes and onions.

Here's the thing: as I was cutting up the onion, I had a flashback to when we were little and Mother and Daddy hadn't been married very long. Daddy fixed us beans and fried potatoes! And we loved it! Remember, Grammy wasn't much of a cook--hated cooking--and as it turned out, Daddy was pretty good. So, I guess beans and fried potatoes with cornbread isn't necessarily an Okie thing but maybe a country thing, because Grampy was raised in a rural environment.

Look at me, I'm countrified!