This may appear to be a rambling par excellence, but it proceeds to a logical conclusion. I can’t resist including one more funny food wars story that was sent by Paula Nicewanger, one of the publishers of the Weekly View. “Loved your Food Wars story — I have so many memories related to food. My daughter used to throw her peas down the basement stairs (table was near the open door where the cat came and went. ) Found the dried up things at the bottom of the stairs. I used to just roll them off my plate and hide them under the rim. Got in trouble when Mom cleared the table.”
I’ve had a delightful time writing about my own and readers’ experiences with food, and would be glad to have more stories. Food, glorious food! — or sometimes not so glorious, depending on one’s taste — has become one of our society’s main preoccupations.
Television chefs are superstars who command high prices at appearances. People eat out more frequently than when I was young, and their taste runs from gobbling heaped-up plates of food at all-you-can-eat buffets to gourmet nibbling on nouvelle cuisine. One can buy delicacies and herbs that my mother never heard of at supermarkets. When I was a girl the only olive oil in stores was a few dusty bottles of Pompeian Olive Oil. Bill recently bought a case of extra-virgin olive oil, sent direct from a Tuscan farm. Oh, yum! I like to drizzle it on toast.
However, experiences during the past few years have made me made me think more seriously about food. Here’s the story:
One Sunday afternoon three years ago I was heading for my bathroom to take a shower before hosting an open house at the home of Irvington real estate clients. Bill met me in the hall and said, “Stay with me a minute.” Uh-oh . . .
I’ve never seen anything like it: He was absolutely drenched with cold sweat. I had him lie down on the chaise lounge in our library. He said, “I thought I was having a bad reaction to the paint I was using, but I wonder if I could be having a heart attack.”
Bingo! “I think so,” I said. “You can drive me to the hospital.” (We live only five minutes from Community East.) Duh! “I’m not about to do that! You’d have a heart attack for sure! Sit here while I get the telephone.” I came back with the phone. I was very calm. “What’s that number we’re supposed to call?” “Nine-one-one!” he said, pronouncing every word very distinctly.
I knew the symptoms of an impending heart attack — pressure in the chest, pain in the arms, shortness of breath, but I hadn’t known that intense sweating is a symptom.
The EMT’s pronounced that he was indeed having a heart attack and carted him off. I quickly dressed and went over to Community. One of our former clients was on duty, recognized Bill’s name and brought me coffee and consolation in the waiting room. The cardiologist, came out and said, “We stopped a heart attack in progress and are inserting stents.”
After his release the Community rehab people developed an exercise program for Bill. Then he joined a gym and religiously did three miles, five days a week on a treadmill with an incline. He achieved and maintained what he weighed as a young man. We cut down on salt and beef. However, heredity plays a role in the development of plaque in the arteries.
Following more stent work last summer, they warned Bill that the next time would mean bypass surgery. Gradually, his energy levels declined. A stress test was followed by a heart cath. Three weeks ago bypasses were performed at the Community Heart Hospital. He is doing extremely well and will come home on Monday following a couple of weeks at a rehabilitation center. More to come. wclarke@comcast.net