This year marks my fourth year of pursuing New Year’s resolutions that are, at once, both big and little.

When I started out, I shared my first goal (not buying anything except food and to fix things, aka “No, Thank You”) with a few close friends and family members. Sharing your goals publicly usually increases your chance for success. For the second year, I straight up wrote a column in the newspaper. Honestly, that felt more like raising the stakes than getting a leg up, but it worked (“Yes, Please” to new experiences and long-held aspirations). This January, I quit Facebook in order to make 2019 the year of being more open and connected.

Over the past 12 months, I found myself being even more deliberate with treasured relationships, traveling a surprising amount in pursuit of that goal. Just like the years of “Yes, Please” and “No, Thank You,” a Facebook-free life can totally be “More Open and Connected” when it’s more deliberate.

This year’s goal is “Wear An Apron.” My son, Michael, and I talked it over on a recent Sunday together. He wanted to know what the big idea was behind the little idea.

I have two kitchen aprons. One I picked up at the farmer’s market in Sacramento because it says “California Grown” on it. The other my mother made for me out of fabric she picked up in Hawaii. They are both awesome and spark joy for me. But I nearly always forget to put them on until after I have already spilled something on myself.

My T-shirt drawer is full of shirts marked by my forgetfulness. I tell myself that they are just T-shirts, but the truth is, I am capable of better.

And that’s the thing about aprons. Some amazing person solved a common problem by inventing the apron. And other smart people figured out designs with pockets and loops and other features to help your apron serve you, whether you are in the wood shop or the kitchen or the printing press.

I told Michael when you think about the apron that way, it reminds you that most problems you experience have been solved by someone already. That wisdom, both small and large, is out there and ready to make life easier or better. It’s something your grandfather discovered long ago or is in a book or on YouTube or just one question away in a conversation with a friend.

Even when Sam was little and it seemed like no one knew anything, the wisdom was out there. I’ll forever be grateful to Kitty O. for showing me how to read articles in scientific journals. New wisdom. Right there.

All you need to do is put on that apron.

 

 

Over the years we have made a true commitment to our family’s health by doing a lot of cooking and baking. Tonight, I’m making another batch of yogurt and Sam is making kolaches.

I had enough variety of leftover beans from a bunch of winter cooking to make a mixed-bean soup, too.

Over conversation about tablet computers, e-reader apps, and area equestrian Special Olympics (they moved it up to today instead of tomorrow … awesome flexibility demonstrated by area stables in order to avoid predicted storms), I put this old family favorite together, substituting in lamb stock for water at the end.

Bountiful Bean Soup

2 cups mixed beans

1 quart water

4 slices of bacon, diced

1 large carrot, sliced

1 clove garlic

1 bay leaf

6 cups water

Salt and pepper to taste

Bring beans and first quart of water to a boil. Cover and let stand for an hour. Drain and rinse a little. (This helps reduce your need for Bean-o)

Fry bacon in a dutch oven and discard all but 2 t. of the rendered fat. (Or, leave out the bacon and heat 2 T. of olive oil.)

Add the carrot and garlic and saute for a few minutes to carmelize, then add beans and water and bay leaf.  Bring to a boil and then reduce to a simmer, cooking for 90 minutes or so until the beans are tender.

Remove bay leaf, taste and add salt and pepper to taste.

 

I wish that the amount of awareness and research into autism and the gut was part of our lives when Sam was a baby.

I can’t help but think things would be different. I touched on some of the problems that emerged when he was a toddler in See Sam Run. But there was never, ever any kind of meaningful conversation with his pediatrician until he reached his teens.

By then, Sam’s food preferences could just as easily fall into the category of an eating disorder as be seen for what they likely were — an adaptation to what gave him bellyaches on a scale that I don’t think the rest of us could tolerate.

But Mark and I were ready to take out a second mortgage on the house so that Sam and I could spend the summer at an in-patient treatment program at Ohio State when Sam was 14 or 15 years old. Sam had shot up at that point, but he wasn’t eating meat. He looked every bit as undernourished as he was, especially his skinny little quads and calves. The program helped get kids with autism to expand their eating choices. Another parent on the autism journey whom I really trust had recommended it.

Fortunately for us, the treatment director recommended that we rule out Celiac disease before we got there, since that was something they typically did before they started treatment anyways. Sam couldn’t eat any gluten for a week before the blood draw, and he got really hungry.

He decided he could eat meat after all. He like sausage the best. He also figured out ways to taste and try new things to decide for himself whether he liked them. We decided that was enough of a breakthrough not to hock the house.

Even though they were able to rule out Celiac, the test results hinted at trouble. We talked about it, but there really was nothing more to be done, the doctor said.

When it was time for him to transition from his pediatrician to the family physician, she asked me if I had any concerns for him. Again, I tried to open the door to talk about his digestive troubles. She said she didn’t know anything about it and that was the end of that.

The issue has re-emerged for him and this time we are going after it a lot more informed. When he was a preschooler and would only eat cereal morning, noon and night, we fortified his milk with l. acidolphilus. I’d always made yogurt over the years, although Sam wasn’t always a big fan. We had some inkling of what needed to be done to help his digestive system, but we didn’t know to what degree.

My first hint, honestly, that there was a much, much bigger world of beneficial bacteria out there was when my daughter, Paige, started making us kimchi and told me it was a health food.

Light bulb.

So, now we are all about the fermenting here at the Wolfe House. I started with Creole cream cheese. I tried not to channel my home economics teacher as I sat that milk out on the counter for a day and half. But it was wonderful. I made crepes and filled them with the cheese topped them with warm strawberry jam. Sam likes cheesecake so I thought it wouldn’t be too much of a reach, but it was. Oh, well, more for Michael and me.

Plus, I had a whole bunch of the kind of whey the author of Mastering Fermentation likes to use in her recipes. Next up was probiotic ketchup (a hit) and hummus (good, but a miss for Sam.)

When we make our salad dressings now — Sam is a huge salad fan — we use vinegar with the mother. (Just Google it. The point is to eat food that’s alive.)

Judy Thurston over at Hidden Valley Dairy suggested keifer (another hit) and I just ordered supplies I need to make soy sauce and regular cream cheese. 

I want to get good at making cheese so that I can make the one he loves: Parmesan.

UntitledI’m still working on getting supplies for what I’m sure will be a big hit when I get it done: salami.

No kidding, it’s fermented. Is that why sausage was the breakthrough for him 10 years ago?

Well, back to the kitchen. Got more potions work to do.

Researchers have come out with a protocol for emergency room personnel who find themselves caring for a person with autism. I’m glad to see this.

In January 2009, I took Sam to the emergency room in the middle of the night.

He got a bladder infection. He came home from the first day of competition at Chisholm Challenge and was passing blood, which alarmed him. I told him we’d skip the second day of competition and see a doctor in first thing in the morning. But, he woke me up at 2 a.m., shaking uncontrollably and a little panicked.

Even though he’d just turned 21, the pediatrician was still his primary care doctor. So I phoned the nurse on call. Because he was exhibiting signs of shock, she told me to take him in. By the time we got there, he had stopped shuddering, but his urine sample was brown.

We’d gone to Baylor-Grapevine, which was a fairly new hospital at the time. He was already familiar with it because an occupational therapist working out of the rehab center there helped teach him to drive. (Big shout out to Cathy.)

I remained concerned. Would it be filled with people? Would the sounds of arriving ambulances distress him? I was worried most about the staff. Would they be brusk and stand-offish? Would he be hustled around? I didn’t have time to prep them the way I had prepped the many other doctors, dentists and health care givers in his life.

With the first interaction, I saw the lightbulb go off in the ER nurse’s head. She immediately adapted. And everyone who followed after her knew to take their time, be calm and explain each step.

We were lucky, too, that it was a quiet night. The visit wasn’t much different from one at a doctor’s office, except for reams more paperwork and the occasional paramedic tromping down the hallway.

Here’s what the research recommends and what I noticed the folks at Baylor-Grapevine already knew to do:

·       Usher patients to a quiet, more dimly-lit room with less equipment

·       Avoid multistep questions and stick to questions that require only a “yes” or “no” answer

·       Communicate with the care giver or family member, if one accompanies the patient, to get an effective medical history

·       Keep voice calm and minimize words and touch

·       Let patients see and touch the instruments and materials that will be placed on their bodies

·       Use a warm blanket to calm a patient down and administer mild doses of medication rather than physical restraints to quiet a patient

 

Some people like to claim their gray hair comes from things their kids did. I see my scars and remember.

I have a long skinny scar that runs from knuckle to knuckle on my ring finger that came while digging in the garden with Michael. He felt so badly when he saw that his little shovel missed its mark and drew blood.

I was surprised how strong he was.

I’ve got a knot on my forehead from trying to help build a fence for the cashmere goats, a 4H project that lived here for 5-6 years. I got clubbed so hard by a round of woven fence wire that was hung up on a t-pole — almost spring-loaded, like a giant mousetrap — that it should’ve killed me. But the kids were all standing there, so I told myself to take the hit and keep on ticking.

Today I went to work with an odd-looking burn on my chin, like a permanent dribble of hot chocolate. I thought for sure at least Bj would say something, but no one asked.

Last night, Sam was determined to learn how to cook fish tacos. He dropped in the first battered fish strip from such a height, the frying oil splashed. Sam got a few splashes on his arm and I took one on the chin. But by the third strip, he was dropping it in perfectly.

Like Jason Robards character said in Parenthood, parenting is “like your Aunt Edna’s ass. It goes on forever and it’s just as frightening” and is unlike football, since there’s no end zone where you get to spike the ball and do your little dance.

Except he missed the part where parenting is a contact sport.

 

Up north, we just bought cough syrup. It works well enough. Then I came to Texas and my college roommate and BFF introduced me to country cough syrup. It works and, like chicken noodle soup, does a whole lot more for your quality of life when you’re feeling bad.

In case you don’t know the recipe, here it is, and offered up for all the people around here still sick with the flu, or fighting a lingering cough (as in about 1/3 of the newsroom):

Brew one cup of black tea. (I like Earl Grey for this one). Add a squirt of lemon juice, a heaping teaspoon of honey (local is best), and a shot of Wild Turkey, or your favorite bourbon.

Drink slowly so the vapors can do their work, too, and then go to bed.

Recently, I heard from a reader who thought one of the take-away messages from See Sam Run was that I believed vaccinations caused Sam’s autism.

I don’t believe that. I believe Sam’s autism began during pregnancy and he showed signs of it as a newborn — so much so that my father picked up on it in Sam’s first week of life. I doubt our family will ever know what caused the autism. But I am glad that researchers are looking both at genetics and environmental triggers. Chances are, we are going to learn that it isn’t the “dose that makes the poison,” but that some women and their babies are more susceptible to endocrine disruption. 
Although, a concept in Florence Williams’ new book, “Breasts: A Natural and Unnatural History,” gave me pause. She outlined research that has shown women bodies will unload their chemical burden on their first babies. It’s awful to think that is possible, but I know what I was exposed to as a teenager, and in my 20s, and neither were ideal baby-making environments.
For parents who have read a lot on the vaccine topic, I recommend weighing all that online “research” against the summary of research in Paul Offit’s “Autism’s False Prophets.”
And, to put your mind at ease about vaccines for your baby, you can ask your pediatrician space them out and that they be given without thimerosal, that mercury preservative.
All our children were vaccinated with everything. I wouldn’t dare take a chance. I’m so sad that people aren’t vaccinating — either for fear of autism or because they are too poor for good preventive health care. Babies are dying of whooping cough. That’s just so preventable.
Really.


Random thoughts from today’s half-marathon (a first for me, for Dallas and for the guy in front of us at the porta-potties).

Following the crowd can be a good strategy, unless you are looking for a parking place. After running 13.1 miles, it’s wicked difficult to get out of your truck and walk up your drive. Just because the main architectural feature of a Highland Park house is rustication, it doesn’t mean the occupants don’t have a sense of humor. Some of the Katy Trail bounces. Volunteers give out water and Powerade. Angels pass out strawberries. The best freebie wasn’t the finisher’s medal with the 13.1 time turner (needed that really badly about Mile 10), the Oreos (which I’m chewing in this picture), the mini-muffin, the orange, the water, the Powerade or the pretzels. It was the pre-moistened, Texas-size, super fresh, moist towel. There are still places in the city where you can sit on your steps on a Saturday morning, in your robe, drink your coffee and watch your granddaughter watch the world go by.