…No sooner than I had fallen into a calm, rhythmic-if-short-of-breath sleep, my transport aid arrived. She was lovely, a petite Hispanic woman, with the patient, compassionate demeanor of a second-grade teacher. I was so grateful for this as I climbed into the seat with more effort than I tried to reveal, and she helped Madge loaded my things onto the cart – a large, rear-steering, plastic contraption not unlike the racecar-model shopping carts at the grocery store. She made pleasant conversation on the long trip down the main corridor of the hospital, to the elevators and up to my room. The “CF floor” on my hospital is in the main, oldest building of the hospital – what used to be “the hospital”, period – and so has been through several rounds of renovations. Half of the floor has been renovated in the last 5 years or so, and they’re all on one side of the floor, i.e., “the good side”. They’re not spectacular, but they have nicer flooring, warm wall coloring, more modern “furniture”, etc. The others…it’s been a while. Lots of powder blue, and rather, erm, institutional? So I’m more relieved than I care to admit when I’m wheeled over faux-wooden floors into a warm taupe room… on the good side.

I’m wished well and return my thanks, and set about my check-in routine – namely, I gown up, glove up and get to scrubbin’. At my hospital, all admitted CF patients are placed on all of us are on contact precautions. This means that anyone coming into our room must wear gloves and a burka-like disposable yellow gown designed to attract and hold onto the nasty little microorganisms floating about through the air (like a Swiffer for airborne germs!). It also means that we are not allowed to leave our room except for medical tests and procedures, and to go on staff-supervised, 30 minute walks around the floor, an attempt to keep our muscles from shriveling up like stale raisins as we sit in bed 23 hours a day (unless, of course we’re overachieving badasses who get up and sit in a chair for a while, too). If and when we do leave, we have to don the yellow gown and gloves as well as a mask.

There are two reasons for this. Primarily, it is to protect us from the cesspool that is “hospital” when we venture out of our cells rooms for tests and procedures, but also from the transient, inevitable hangers-on that the staff pick up and carry from room to room.  It is disturbingly easy for CF patients to transmit pretty opportunistic pathogens, or as I call them, elitist bacteria, amongst and between ourselves. They want nothing to do with you healthy folk; I/we could all but cough in your face (assuming you are not also a CFer, immunosuppressed, or 94) and you wouldn’t even get a head cold. But most of them take root pretty quickly in our lungs, sinuses, or both, wreak havoc and refuse to let go, a la Ben Stiller in Meet The Parents, and all it takes is one errant swinging stethoscope; gloveless, unwashed hand (shudder); or gownless ass on my bedcovers (then my hands on the covers, then on my face) to accidentally create a pretty nasty situation.

Me: Sir, it’s nothing personal, I just really need you to go ahead and go with the antibiotics and get out of my body and-

Elistist Bacteria: The only way that I would ever let go of my bag this carcass would be if you came over here they sliced you open right now, bathed your organs in antibiotic wash… and tried to pry it from my dead, lifeless fingers me from the welcome mat of rubber cement mucus you and yours roll out for us. Okay? If you can get it from escape my kung fu grip, then you can have it. Okay? Otherwise, step off, bitch.¹

The other reason is that while most of our “bugs” are of the elitist variety, due to a series of unintended and unanticipated consequences in infection control policy and general hospital “ecosystem” design, there are a few that are fairly “popular” among our little population that actually can be harmful to normal people, though usually not as severely, and also to the other patients with whom we share the rest of the hospital,  its staff, and its equipment – most of whom are obviously not in their personal best health at the time.

And so, since this floor, heretofore referenced as “my floor”, is populated by roughly 60% CFer’s on a light day, and Housekeeping gets a whopping 20 minutes to clean each room between patients, I don’t touch a damned thing until I’ve sanitized it with my hospital-grade sanitizer wipes. Remote? check. Phone? check. Bedrails? check. Doorknobs, faucet, drawer liners? check, check, check.

Unsurprisingly, it takes much longer than usual, as all the standing and the bending and the back and forth wiping proved pretty exerting. Once I’m satisfied that I’ve done my due diligence in avoiding the cystic-plague, I alternate between scuttling around, busying myself with really-not-so pressing tasks such as unpacking my clothes and toiletries; and taking all-too-frequent and unsettlingly long breaks, propped against the bed, catching my breath and calming my heart. When there’s nothing left to unpack or organize, I resign myself to an unknown period of an elasticized, braless existence and change into my hospital uniform of leggings, a tank top long enough to cover most of my better side and thick enough to keep me from silently announcing when I get cold, and a specific brand and style of a super soft, super thin, raglan, long-sleeved t-shirt. And slippers, because everyone knows that hospital floors are made of lava. Duh.

I climb into bed, and I wait. This time, it’s not long before my nurse is able to come by and go through all of the regular check-in business. It doesn’t take long when you’ve only been gone about 8 weeks. We quickly run through the handful of changes in my daily medicine routine since last time; I hand over the the non-formulary meds I brought from home for pharmacist inspection, and she leaves to drop them off and returns shortly thereafter with the supplies to access my port-a-cath. While she’s gone, I go ahead and remove the numbing cream that’s been hanging out under an oversized Band-Aid since sometime between my biscuit and my nap. Hearing her gowning up to come in, I  strip down from the waist up, and assume the position – flat on my back in the bed, shoulder blades rounded together beneath me, doing all I can – practically and superstitiously – to make my port as easy to anchor and access as possible.

It takes three tries and another nurse, but we finally get accessed – with a great flush, but no blood return. For people like me who have to have IV infusions and blood draws fairly regularly, a port is a godsend; its an implanted IV access that sits just below the skin, can (usually) be accessed with one quick, blind poke, and that one stick lasts me the next full week’s worth of pokes, digs, blown veins and infiltrated IV’s. With each access, it’s crucial to ensure two things: a good flush (being able to push fluids in easily) and a good blood return (being able to draw back blood easily as well). For a while now, I’ve had a hard time getting a good blood return on the first access when it has been a while since the last one; apparently my immune system is Johnny-On-The-Spot with the whole “scabbing” thing, and since my port is a foreign body, and my cells aren’t smart enough to distinguish a catheter from a splinter, it’s no exception, and often ends up with a light sheath covering the end. Inconvenient as all get out, but easily resolved with a declotting medicine injected and left to hang out a little while. Unfortunately, since improper or over-use of this medicine can cause people to bleed like cartoon zombies, there are a ridiculous understandable number of hoops to jump through before obtaining it, so by the time we finally do get it and are able to inject it to let it start “sitting” in the line, it’s been about three hours since I first rolled up on my home floor.

In the meantime:

• the Nursing Assistant (NA) brought the portable scale;
• The lab techs come by to draw all the blood that has to be from a stick (rather than my port, if and when it decides to behave);
• I order my “late night” dinner tray;
• I spit in a cup;
• I pee in a cup – Whew! NOT PREGNANT! (*sarcasm*);
• I receive my dinner tray;
• I meet and greet with my MD de jour;
• go through his round of questions;
• I’m prescribed and get started on oxygen, a first for me;
• and we discuss and verify pain management plans for once my port is useable again.

Having spent the previous five days with my shoulders roughly 7 millimeters from my ears, despite my best efforts to catch myself and resist the natural Quasimodo-esque inclination, I’m left with an unrelenting, throbbing tightness in my right shoulder and upper back – and it had become markedly worse in the hours since I left the house. Additionally, I have two distinct areas on my trunk that are quite painful as well; one a more intense and constant version of the cramps you can get from running to fast and hard outside on a cold day, except in my chest instead of my abdomen; another on my left side between two ribs that felt pretty similarly to how I would imagine a stab wound would, on the inside, minus the sliced skin part. By the time the declotting med is finally available, I’m fighting back heaves.

However, it has to sit in the line for at least 30 minutes before attempting to draw a blood return again, and *must* be drawn back out (rather than flushed through like most others), lest your blood thin to the consistency of koolaid. Therefore, once it’s in, your port is closed for business until the whole blood return shebang is taken care of; and once it’s been ordered (regardless of how long it takes to arrive), your port cannot be used for anything else, whether a quick milligram of much-needed pain medicine or simply running fluids for dehydration. It makes sense, as doing so could very well push an actual clot into your bloodstream, which never really ends well; however, when everybody knows it’s just one of these overachieving sheath things, it can be a little frustrating. Fortunately, it very rarely takes longer than the first 30 minute round to do it’s job in my case.

I was then asked what I wanted to do about my pain. I had been prescribed an IV pain medication, which literally begins working in seconds and is finished in minutes; and while I also had an oral medicine available, they take close to an hour to begin fully working. Moreover, the pain had worsened such that I wasn’t confident the oral dose would help much, anyway, since it was what I had been taking at home earlier that day with little relief. Since it was an either/or situation – if I opted for the oral and it didn’t work, I was… *poop* out of luck until the next dose of anything was available (four hours later) -  I decided to wait until after the declotting process and take the IV option; even if I had to wait 45 minutes, I’d be getting relief faster than with the pill, and if I had to wait the full 60, I’d break even. And yes, I really do get to make these sorts of weighted, pro/con calculations when my brain feels like it’s straight out of a 90’s frying-pan drug PSA. Thankfully, per usual, it does only take the first 30 minutes, and we’re good to go.

Except we’re not. What the doctor said he would prescribe, and what he did prescribe, were two different things. What he said he would prescribe was an IV pain medicine available at X dose at Y interval. What was available was a one-time dose half of what we discussed (at this point two more hours of grin-and-bear it after we discussed it), then followed at the same interval by a different dose of a different oral medicine, the same one I had been taking at home that had stopped working any better than a tic-tac 48 hours ago. I’m exhausted. I’m fighting back tears and dry heaves – both unsuccessfully – I’m in so much pain. When I’m lovingly told to just “go ahead and cry” (which only makes it harder not to, on account of the kindness), I squeak back that “it’s not worth it because it only makes it hurt worse.” I take what’s available, get a light-but-something’s-better-than-nothing reprieve, and my nurse scurries off to track down my doctor and take care of business while I summon all the zen/happy place meditative skills I’ve got, bracing myself for a much-longer-than-anticipated night and an all to familiar, but exhausting and degrading fight.

In a grand stroke of cosmic mercy, my doctor was totally understanding and apologetic when my nurse got in touch with him, prescribed a “stat” order of what I actually needed so that pharmacy would send it up faster; wrote a second order so it would be available later as we had discussed, and explained that in his haste to enter my orders ASAP earlier, so they’d be available as soon as I could take them, he had gotten my orders confused with another patient’s when entering them (emphatically clarifying that he didn’t transpose them and give the other patient too much, just that he had done them quickly off the top of his head rather than waiting until he was finished rounding like he had everyone else’s). I was incredibly grateful not only that I was able to get what I needed without having to play “advocate” at such a late hour and on such fumes of energy, but also that  it had been a simple mistake rather than a bigger issue, since he would be my doctor for the next several nights as well.

Minutes later, I was finally given what I needed, and got the relief I so desperately needed. Nothing was 100% better, mind you – the various accompanying aches and pains rarely ever go away completely anymore, and I’m used to it; it’s a white noise you ignore and forget about until someone points it out or asks you to pay attention to it. But I feel my body sink into the sheets and truly relax for the first time in almost two weeks, and I’m caught off guard by the wave of tears that comes over me; a mix of exhaustion, relief, and a surprising note of unusual tenderness and self-compassion, as what I’ve been going through – arguably putting myself through – for the last long while comes into involuntary focus. In that moment, it all melted together into an odd and unfamiliar apprehensive gratitude, for lack of a better phrase – appreciation of the various people and circumstances that render my journey with this disease comparatively easy, even when it’s not; an anxious, acute awareness of how reliant I am on both and how little control I have over either; and weary terror at the prospect of what lies ahead and my assessment of my own abilities and reserves to rise against it.

I’m quickly running out of fuel, and it’s not a matter of whether I want to keep going or not. I feel like I’m in the middle of nowhere with my “low fuel” light on, unsure if I’ll make it to the next station – or if there’s even one close enough to hope. As I drift off to sleep, I silently repeat to myself my stoic doctor’s uncharacteristically candid words  from two years prior, having written them down after he left the room knowing I’d need them later: “every time the going really gets tough, you’ve been able to dig deep and keep going; in what I’ve seen, some people are able to do that and some aren’t, and I’ve never seen you fail to rise to the occasion, and I have no reason to think that you ever will.”

I get the deepest, most restful four hours of sleep I’ve had in weeks.

Hey there, fellow users-of-the-internet! Remember plagiarism? That thing from college (and hopefully though not reliably before) that instructors threatened your life and limb (and immediate irrevocable failure of the course) for even trying to pull off? That thing that everybody thought of as bootlegging purchasing a whole paper off of the internet and forgetting to delete all the little imbedded markers that tip off your professor that you bought your paper on the internet?

But that also included an innocently-intended and properly punctuated quotation of someone else’s work, but that  still counted because you were writing at 0300 hour the day a paper was due and forgot to go back and add a citation, any citation, as to where one may follow your lead and find said quotation if they so chose? Or my favorite, ripping whole articles off of a website for a short paper or response, embedding them in their entirety in your paper, then “responding” with a line or three, essentially amounting to “you should read this”?

Guess what? It’s still a thing. Unlike the stylishness of Uggs with skirts, shameless public consumption of cup ‘o noodles, the ability to function at full speed and cognition on zero sleep in 48 hours, and a 10-15% discount at certain national clothiers with a valid student ID, it didn’t cease to exist just because you no longer organize your calendar by semesters. In fact, just like that day-drinking habit you picked up, it actually requires a bit more attention than it might have back then.

Believe it or not, people who write things and publish them consider their end results to be valuable, on some level or another. It doesn’t matter whether, or how much, you consider it to be valuable as well.  It also doesn’t matter whether it’s published in a book or on the internet – be it wee little blogs like this one, big blogs with huge followings, online versions of print magazines and newspapers or the same such in online-only versions – all of those words came from somewhere, or more specifically, someone. They put time, energy, effort and thought into their work. Even if they love it, it is work.

Regardless of whether it’s paid content, or a labor of love, it is work. And it is intellectual property. And it is stealing to take it, and share it – even in part, such as a quote – without proper citation. And taking the whole thing, copying it, and republishing it? Especially without adding any of your own thoughts? In what other forum of your life would you be proud to do that? Or if in case you have no scruples, in what other forum of your life could you get away with that? It doesn’t matter that it came from “some big news conglomerate” or if you got it from an aggregating source. Those big news conglomerates still have hardworking people, not news-gnomes, that research and write those articles, however badly you may think they do so. And the aggregate/feed source excuse? Double poop. Because a) see above re: news conglomerates/actual human beings, replacing “write and research” with “read, assess, and curate”; and b) that’s not even a source, dude; it’s like listing the radio station on which you first heard a song as its artist.

No, philosoraptor, no. No it is not. Just like stealing that bloodied pre-mammal carcass isn’t a “compliment of your hunting abilities.”

And while we’re on the topic of “passing off someone else’s brainpoop as your own”? Yes, anymore, in a world where one hacked tweet can cause 130 point fluctuations in the Dow in a matter of minutes? Your – and everyone else’s – tweets, Facebook posts, and other social media musings count.  Like to share a portion of your daily devotional or meditation guide because you want to encourage your friends? Awesome. Just add the title of the book, the chapter/section/day or other “where in these 400 pages might I find this” reference point, and for the love of karma, at the absolute very last least, the AUTHOR. Have a friend on twitter who’s constantly finding and sharing really interesting (properly attributed) articles? Spare a solid 2% of your character count and throw in a little “h/t” (short for “hattip”, to be followed by their twitter handle (name) –in short, a quick, easy way to give someone kudos for their curating efforts, and also to avoid being called out as an asshat by someone who follows you both and knows damn well you didn’t find that on your own). Now that the “share” button is available on nearly every post on Facebook? copying someone’s witty little status or esoteric quote posting word-for-word and reposting it, with nary an indication that it came from anywhere but your own cranial ball of noodles, is a lot more obviously deliberate and ridiculous than it used to be -  and while admittedly small, and unlikely to result in a civil suit outside “The People’s Court”, it’s still just lame.

I get that a lot of this is just not thinking about it – I know it’s largely not malicious, and especially in blogging, it’s often just laziness and pressure/desire to just publish something. I also get that the rules seem to change as fast as the technology. But it’s really pretty easy, folks. GOLDEN FRICKIN’ RULE. What would you want someone to do with that thar collection of werds (or them purty pitchers!) if you were the one who conjured, arranged, and published them? And if that leaves you in a gray area, one bit of technology that’s pretty universal is Google. You can literally type “How do I give credit to a quote from the internet?” into the search bar and get some half-decent answers. And people are usually reasonable about this kind of thing if they see you’ve given it 90 seconds of due diligence and effort (usually no more than the time it took you to consume and enjoy, or become enraged by, the hypothetical quote at hand, no?) Bloggers, especially, totally get that sharing our content is a fabulous way to spread the word that we exist. But only if in sharing our content, you actually let people know we exist. A link to the post is ideal, to our homepage is second best, but if nothing else at all, our/blog’s name? Something googleable if someone were so inclined?

Bottom line, just because it’s the internet – “it” being where you found the thing, where you share the thing, or both – doesn’t mean those stodgy old “citation” rules don’t still apply. This time, though, it’s not just your grade on the line. It’s your digital reputation, and as more people participate in social media and content sharing, the lines between your online reputation and your 3D, living, breathing one are becoming increasingly blurry. And as with that not so carefully selected sequence of swirls you had emblazoned across your lumbar region in Cabo, Myrtle, or the Jersey Shore, erasing such mistakes is a lengthy and often expensive process (neither of which you want to gamble with on a Groupon). Much easier just to step back, do a little research, and make the right call in the first place.

***NOTE: Pictures to come ASAPCC (As Soon As PC Cooperates), but I wanted to make sure the recipe was at least available in time for the after-church/while-everyone-else-is-in-church Masters Sunday grocery runs, lest you need to make one. That’s all.***

Never fear – I’ll be resuming and wrapping up the “I Went to the Beach and All I Got Was Sepsis” Series over the next several days. But a navel-gazing recap of my most recent pseduocripple adventures isn’t particularly time-sensitive (beyond some people waiting with baited breath for the next installment, and others waiting for the &!#$ thing to be over already)… Masters’ Weekend, however, is basically the best excuse ever to make and consume more pimento cheese than is probably in anyone’s best interest (for those of you more into putt-putt or disc golf than the PGA, that’s this weekend).

Do not be misled. I do not, in fact, care about sports. Any of them. At all. The closest I do come to caring is for a few days in March (one does not grow up in North Carolina without choosing an ACC allegiance at a young age, and holding fast to it regardless of subsequent life events) and golf. I like that it’s (relatively) classy. I like that it’s (comparatively) mental. I like that it is (generally) quiet. I like that it is played alone. I like the clothes. And I like that one can watch while napping.

Beyond that, I don’t care. I do, however, enjoy attending sporting events, but only for the atmosphere and the rare chance to scream in public…and also the food. True “sports people” associate a given sport, or team, with…I dunno, it’s players? or various stats and records? For me? San Francisco Giants – GARLIC FRIES! Superbowl – DELICIOUS FATTY THINGS! Charlotte Hornets – FROZEN LEMONADE AND BBQ SANDWICHES! Masters/Augusta – PIMENTO FREAKIN’ CHEESE SANDWICHES!

So I had to take advantage of the opportunity to whip some up, but everybody and their 13 browser tabs has a recipe for classic pimento cheese – and seriously, otherwise reserved little old church ladies will throw down over what to or not to include, and that is not a ring I’ll be throwing my bonnet in any time soon. So I started thinking about how to change it up a bit, got a little manic, and came up with the following variation that would make you slap your Grammy, if you weren’t running from her as she chases you down with a wooden spoon for the unforgivable sin of bastardizing her heirloom recipe with godforsaken yuppie additives like Gouda.

You’re Welcome.

Three Quick Notes:

1) On The Peppers: “Pimento” is in quotes because I use fire-roasted red peppers instead. (I also use them in my regular pimento cheese). Red peppers and Pimentos are not synonymous, y’all. Pimentos are legitimately a different breed of peppers, smaller and sweeter than red bell pepper, and usually with a little more heat (fun fact: pimento is the pepper used to make paprika). If I’m using fresh peppers, I don’t really have a super strong preference.

However, on your grocery shelves, the pimentos are chopped super, super fine, and are packed in a more vinegary brine, which only strengthens their more bitter edge. They’re also kind of slimy. Roasted Red Peppers, however, are usually packed in just a basic brine (maybe some added citric acid as a preservative), and are jarred whole – ideally still with a good bit of char on them. They’re sweeter, firmer, and have a smoky richness that the little pickled microcubes just don’t, in my opinion. Some people totally prefer the more biting, sour note the pimentos add – good on them. I could eat roasted red peppers straight from the jar so I definitely prefer them in my “normal” pimento cheese; but even if you’re a pimento-loyalist, I encourage you to give the RRP’s a shot here; the smoky edge from the roasting adds a pretty great complementary layer to the bacon and gouda.

But I won’t chase you down with a cooking implement if you go with the little jar instead.

2) The Goopy Part: I kind of hate mayo,  yes even Duke’s mayo, and I always have. The weird, gloppy, farty noises it makes when you stir it;  the gooey, gelatinous texture; the *heave* shelf-stable egg product. I have always loved pimento cheese, but could never make it myself – or even watch it being made – because then I saw the mayo, and then I couldn’t not taste the mayo. And I could tell by looking at the store-bought kind whether I’d like it or literally gag on it, because I could see how much mayo it had. So I’d buy the “just enough to hold it together kind”, then curse it and throw flatware as I (unsuccessfully) tried to spread the equivalent of dried fondant on a slice of sandwich bread, or broke my 17th chip in a row in a (failed) attempt to just eat the damn stuff at all.

How to combine the mayo-averse sensibilities of my palate with the spreadable creaminess it provides?

Homemade Mayo. Yep, it sounds crazy – both crazy as in, “what, are you going to make your own cheese, now, too?” needless overcomplication, and crazy as in, “so the random sum of ingredients is over half of your mayophobia, so you’re going to slowly and intentionally combine them yourself?”  Yep.

Fortunately, in recent years I’ve found that I generally can tolerate, and sometimes even like, aiolis. I know – they’re just fancy mayonnaise. But they’re generally runnier, more sparsely used, and almost always overpoweringly flavored with something other than fatty nothinginess. They’re also almost all entirely homemade, and therefore do not taste in the least of ingredients of which the sole purpose is to keep emulsified eggs shelf-stable. Take that other crap out, add the ability to DIY on the texture side of things (i.e., not pudding), and you’ve basically got yourself a cheeseless Caesar dressing.

That you are about to use to bind massive amounts of cheese. And that can be made in the time it takes to get the jarred kind opened the first time, anyway.

What’s not to love?

3) Come closer, I’m saving you some kcals, kid. I know, I know – some of you think it’s sacrilege to put cream cheese in your pimento cheese; mayo only, and Duke’s all the way. Hip Hip Who Cares. Others of you are now completely confused as to what I’m talking about and why it matters. Understood. But my recipe, my rules, and we’ve already jacked it up with “roasted peppers” and “homemade mayo” so what’s one more broken rule?

Instead of cream cheese, which I agree, when combined with mayo (jarred or homemade) can leave one with the “one french fry too many” film of fat and nausea on the roof of one’s mouth, we’re going to use Neufchatel. A lot of people think Neufchatel is bargain/cheapo cream cheese. Or worse, bargain/cheapo low-fat cream cheese. They are wrong. ish.

Neufchatel is your new best creamy cheesy friend. It’s not reduced fat cream cheese, which is literally normal cream cheese with milkfat taken out and everything else left in equal proportion with some water added. Blugh. It’s a different cheese altogether, made with milk and cream instead of just cream. So for those of you who remember analogies from your standardized testing days, Neufchatel: Cream Cheese :: Gelato : Ice Cream. It also has just a slightly higher moisture content, so in cakes and such, it just makes things a little fluffier. And yes, it’s cheaper, but that’s because it’s less expensive to make, because milk is cheaper than cream – not because it’s the dented-can of cream cheeses.

It’s actually preferable nutritionally, too, as it naturally has less fat (less cream), but actually has more protein (still milk-based v. water added, and milk>cream on protein), and all the same flavor and richness of it’s Fatty McFatterson, Foilwrap Squarepants buddy from West Philadelphia.

Which is a good thing, because we’re making up for it a little with bacon.

Bacon-Gouda “Pimento” Cheese

• 4 oz Gouda Cheese
• 2 oz Cheddar Cheese (Medium or Sharp)
• 2-3 whole Fire Roasted Red Peppers
• 3-4 TBSP crumbled bacon
• 1 oz Neufchatel cheese
• 2 oz Homemade Mayo (recipe follows)
• 3-4 TBSP whole-grain mustard
• 1 TBSP Dijon mustard
• splash Worcestershire sauce
• Salt, Pepper, and Garlic Powder to taste

1. Finely shred both hard cheeses. Lightly mix in large mixing bowl; set aside.
2. Remove the seeds and whiteish, spongy parts from peppers. Cut remaining flesh into strips, then finely chop. Sneak a few pieces, enjoy with eyes closed. Set aside.
3. If using store-bought bacon crumbles, microwave for a hot 20 seconds. (Pun). Sneak a few of these, too. Carpe bacon and such. Set aside.
4. In a small bowl, mash/smear Neufchatel cheese into smaller bits with a spoon (until “mixable”). Add mayo, grainy mustard, Worcestershire and Dijon Mustard, and mix well. Add chopped red peppers and bacon and fold until well mixed.
5. Add about 2/3 of the mayo/pepper mix to the larger bowl of shredded cheese. Combine until well-mixed. Continue adding mayo/pepper mixture until desired consistency is achieved, for taste and/or profanity-free sandwich spreadability. I think of it like dressing a salad – just enough to coat it and hold err’body together. I also prefer my finished product to pass the DQ Blizzard test – I should be able to hold it upside down for a sec and it stay put, or else fall out in one giant, messy, sob-inducing glob; not slide, not drip, and for the love of curds not run.
6. Add a light splash of Worcestershire and dash or two of garlic powder (totally optional). Mix again just until well distributed. Taste, and continue seasoning with Worcestershire, garlic powder, salt and/or pepper until satisfied. Keep refrigerated.

As with most Southern foods and people, this is best if you give it a little time to sit; ideally overnight. Serve with cornbread crackers, tortilla chips, and/or celery and carrots, or spread on a sandwich and toast, then add lettuce and/or tomato as desired.

Homemade Mayo

• 1 TBSP vinegar of choice (I used apple cider)
• 1-2 TBSP lemon juice
• 1-2 tsp salt
• 2 tsp Dijon mustard
• 2 tsp Worcestershire sauce
• 2 egg yolks*
• 1-2 cups canola oil

Whisk together vinegar, lemon juice, salt, mustard, and Worcestershire sauce. Whisk in egg yolks, one at a time, until well-mixed. Verrrrry, verrrry slowly, (as in a few drops at a time to start), add the oil while whisking briskly; if you’re a grownup, you can use a normal wire whisk. If, like me, you have the upper body strength of a praying mantis, and have a hand mixer/powered whisk, now would be an excellent time to break it out.

Continue whisking-and-adding until all oil is added. Continue whisking until your arm falls off, then switch to the other one (or if you’re using a machine, continue whistling and whisking for another 5ish minutes). The final mixture should be the consistency of a thick commercial salad dressing, and holds only the lightest of peaks; but continue whisking (and perhaps adding another egg yolk) if you prefer the more jarred/pudding-like texture.

*obligatory CYA disclaimer that you really, really shouldn’t be eating raw egg yolks that aren’t pasteurized, lest you contract salmonella or a myriad of other disgusting and potentially deadly bacteria – especially if you’re old, sick, or have a lazy/overtaxed immune system.

You can use pasteurized eggs and know you’re home free; or hedge your bets, assume you’re more likely to get food poisoning from the takeout joint with the $5.00 lunch (including tea!) that you frequent at least twice a week, or the cookie dough you eat raw that also has your kids’ germy kid-hand-germs all up in it, and live dangerously with the eggs you’ve got hanging out in your fridge.

If you have no clue what I’m talking about, regarding the eggs/pasteurization/salmonella thing, please google it; and if you’re in the old/sick/etc, camp, just skip this altogether and man up with the Duke’s.