It’s summertime, and the living is…utter freaking chaos. I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say the failure of drains to work properly has established itself as a cliffs-notes-obvious theme. 

The most obvious failure of actual, literal drains to … drain, during the moderated Carolina monsoons of late, left me calling management (i.e. Dad) to come help me figure out what to do about the (comparatively minor) flooding I found upon arriving home ready to head off to bed. On my birthday. Instead, I took pictures and packed up essentials while he mopped carpet, and have been living and working out of my parents’ guest room-slash-mom’s-craft-room ever since. Good news, I’m getting new floors! They’re pretty. I’ll show you when they’re here. And I’m living on them. (I’m not yet. I’m living in my parents’ guest-room-slash-craft-room right now. Oh, I mentioned that?)

Sorry for assuming you somehow knocked over your water bowl, Coop. I know there’s no way your bowl would ever hold that much water, but given my karma lately, I kind of couldn’t figure out how this latest mini-drama couldn’t be my fault somehow, and that was all I could think of that had to do with water. I hate the loudness of running water to have left a tap on.

All the while, my attempts at a measured and reasonable purging of all the things (some call it overbuying, I call it patriotism) were thwarted early on by the shroom-like growth of not one but two kidney stones, and have been continuously stunted by my body’s “drains’” failure to cooperate with modern technology and allow the bajillion lasers focused on my back for half an hour -designed to blast the stones to sand – to do anything more than split the biggn’ in three. We’re on week six now, and my neatly parsed closets and file drawers and kitchen cabinets are merely the stuff of the freaky dreams I’m having thanks to the painkillers I’m taking.

Oh! and speaking of blasts.  The impending, permanent arrival of a new resident in this here wee, unincorporated zip code, a blast from (I thought, mostly) my past who happens to be just about *the* last person I with whom I would wish to share a post office and lone supercenter, has cast a pall of anxiety over my psyche (and digestive system, previously steady hands, and child-like circadian rhythm…) relentless enough to render me 20 pounds lighter, but so cheesecake-thick and constant that I forget it’s not normal until I slip out from under it for a few hours of deep sleep, creative focus, or good eats.

So…excuses, excuses, I know, but when you sit shaking, hiccup-y and raccoon-eyed across from your doctor, insisting that “I know it doesn’t look like it right now, but all things considered, I’m doing great!” – and she not only agrees, she emphatically says “You’re doing fantastic – you are one resilient young lady!” – you actually get a gold star for putting your vomit-all-the-thoughts-and-feelings (to be saved by the govmint ‘n google for posterity) place on the back burner until you can collect them into something a little less dramatic than “I MUST PACK ALL MY THINGS AND RUN AWAY NOW! I HAVE FRIENDS ON THE WEST COAST!”.

And believe me. The “Look what I wore today!” and “Isn’t my dog cute?” and “Hey! Pasta is delicious!” posts I wrote in the meantime were so terrible on their own merit (I mean, I went directly to my “recycle bin” and made sure they were irrecoverably GONE gone, not just “windows gone”), and also burnout-tee transparently “I’M DROWNING AND ALL I KNOW HOW TO DO IS COOK AND WEAR PRETTY THINGS AND SLEEP A LOT!” that you either would have never come back, called the police to come check on me, or both.

But you would have been able to do so while eating some mighty delicious, summer quinoa, and for delaying that, I apologize.

But not enough to keep you from waiting one more day for it.

Tuesday, May 28th was Cooper’s 7th birthday. Well, kind of.

See, I adopted him in June of 2007, at which point I knew only that he was “about 13 months old.” My beloved, living-caricature-of-a-Nanny-dog, oversized Sheltie from childhood – Lucky – was born on April 28th; that we know for sure. And since my birthday is June 28th, and we don’t really know Cooper’s actual birthdate, and I’m really crappy at remembering these things as it is, when asked at his first vet appointment for his birthdate, I just sort of went with MAY 28th. Easy to remember, honors he-to-whom-I-owe-my-love-of-all-things-canine,  in the right ballpark…works for me.

While I’ve already written about how disproportionately I love this little guy here, I’ve never shared the story of quite how he came to be MY “little man”/ “squirrel pants”/ “crazy sprout”, and it’s a good one. Quick, bubblebursting sidebar: None of these, or any other of his nicknames have any root in logic or story, even “little man”, as he both looks and prances about like a prissy girl dog. He even pees like a girl dog (which I’m totally cool with). As with most nicknames, they came, they were uttered, and they stuck. I pretty much only call him “Cooper” when I’m mad at or embarrassed by him. Madge generally even sticks with just “Coop”, if not her preferred, sneering, swears-she’s-kidding-but-I-only-think-kind-of, “NASty little dawg”.

So. May, 2007. …

I’m in the process of moving out of my 3rd floor apartment, with 10 days’ notice and ownership of essentially everything in the apartment that wasn’t my roommate’s bedroom furniture, makeup, clothes, or limited kitchenwares. I’m wrapping up my sophomore year of college, and just so happen to have all of my finals within the only 5 of the 14 available testing days that also overlap the 10-day get-yer-shit-‘n-get-out period. Unremarkably, I’m feeling rather unwell, as was my usual MO by the end of the semester, but spending my free time maniacally packing boxes rather than resting and doing extra treatments as I normally would and should have been was NOT helping the situation. (The high doses of steroids I was taking, however, were a definite mania-boosting asset.)

In subsequent events that surprised exactly no one, I became incredibly sick, incredibly quickly over the weekend after the big move, but with one final left to go. I normally would have tried to strong arm my doctors into allowing me to just start IV antibiotics and the like at home, and trek up to le hospitale after my exam, but when the buckets of green coming forth from your nose and chest morph into fonts of red, even the most stubborn of us (usually) cry uncle. So finals-be-damned, my dad and I pack the car and head upstate, trying to act like this is a totally normal way to wrap up a college semester. Hey, we’re in the car with luggage, right?

I get there, get checked in, all the normal questions are asked, including the ever-ambiguous “are you having any pain?” Normally, I kind of stress out for about 30 seconds before deciding what, if any, of the white-noise-that-just-IS “pain” I even should bother to mention, but this time, I’m almost giddy someone asks. You know how you can have that headache or that rash or that fever for several days, finally cave and go to the doctor…and you’re fine? I had been having the same thing happening off and on since I was a junior in high school, only that headache was that sucker punch to the kidney that must have occurred in my sleep. But today, on whence I find myself in the purview of a medical professional specifically inquiring about such maladies, I’m actually having the thing instead of just having to say sometimes, there’s this thing, but just not right now. So I bolt up, and say, “Yes, actually! There’s this spot on my side that’s been really bothering me off and on…” other questions are asked, including the rest of the standard intake, and I’m left to my jammies and my teevee.

In the meantime, my mom had been able to finish with her meeting and arrive to take over the in-house Jessie-sitting duties. My dad left for a couple days to finish out his workweek, then turned around and came back, swapping cots again so my mom could get home and wrap up a months-in-the-works closing. When she leaves, everything is still on “boring in the best way possible autopilot”. No sooner than she’s out of cell range, the transport service arrives to take me downstairs for a CT scan. My dad and I share confused glances, then my nurse explains they wanted to get a CT of my abdomen, per my complaints earlier. I’m shocked they’ve been remembered and followed through given their paltry status on the “why I’m here” list, but I’m grateful, and almost giddy to start getting to the bottom of this.

A quick shimmy back and forth through the CT machine, and I’m back up in my room, browsing puppies available for adoption online. I’ve been doing this ad nauseum – emphasis on the nauseum – for months, especially around my parents. Lucky, the aforementioned overgrown sheltie who could do no wrong, was aging at an alarmingly accelerating rate; I was not prepared for life without lint rollers. Besides, after having spent the previous several months with my roommate’s cute little wiener dog running around, and just recently suffered the indignity of moving BACK in with my parents, zomg – I wanted a symbolic external validation of the legitimacy of my adulthood puppy of my own. I probably should have started with a plant, but since they can’t come and jump on you when they need watering, and you can’t dress up or cuddle with a succulent, the motivation and likelihood of my maintaining a furless piece of greenery was zero-to-none. I didn’t need more failure. I needed cuteness. Furry cuteness.

I continued to click-and-“aww!” my way through the internet, swiveling my laptop back and forth like a serving tray to show my dad each new little face that he just couldn’t turn dow- except yep, he just did. I eventually gave up, about half an hour or so after he stopped even looking up before sighing, “No, Jessica, you’re not getting a dog.” It’s been hours. He’s exhausted, I’m torn between feeling bratty and pissed off that I feel bratty, and scared and sad that he might be right, and that I’m doing good to keep up with my schoolwork and stay upright and groomed myself, and that I don’t need the responsibility of another creature right now. He includes a fish in that list and laughs, and now I’m just pissed. So I do the obvious, natural thing and move on to retail therapy. 

It’s late in the evening, and I’ve built up quite the impressive just-looking (probably, maybe, it depends so I’ll save it just in case) shopping carts on American Eagle, J. Crew, Sperry Top-Sider and Vera Bradley’s websites, respectively. (Forgive me, classic handbags, for I have sinned). I’m picking over my tray when a team of white coats, none of whom I recognize, waltz in to my room. I glance at my dad, confused (because he’s DAD, dammit so he’s just supposed to KNOW who they are and why they’re here. DUH.). They introduce themselves as NEF-RAL-LO-GISTS, and explain that that means KID-NEY DOCTORS. I suspend my indignation at their condescension, remind myself they have no idea that I’m a frequent flying VIP who knows they spell their specialty with a silent “P”, and forget I was annoyed altogether when I see the quiet one in the back futzing with a clipboard. Clipboards only mean one thing in the hospital – you need to sign something. And once you’re already in a room, with an ID band, you only have to sign more things on clipboards if something is about to cut, zap, or probe you.

The nice lady nefralogist explains that while my referring doctor expected to see some kidney stones due to the duration and location of my “flank pain” (which I still cannot say without thinking of cheap fajita steak), they were expecting something more like several small ones creating a lot of “noise”, and no one quite expected to see one as large as mine. *Pauses for dramatic effect* (*I wish I was kidding*) “It’s about a cubic inch, or roughly the size of a golf ball.”

Because I’m a freak, I’m 95% totally freaked out, wondering and worrying how in the name of calcification they’re going to get this thing out of me, if the aforementioned clipboard would be referencing probes or cuts, and which would honestly be worse. 5% of me is totally impressed with my circus freak organs that they were capable of … growing? hosting? creating? such a freakishly large foreign body and just schlepping along, all keepin’ on keepin’ on, cleanin’ my blood and makin’ my pee, with only the occasional ping-pong knock-knock against my sides to alert me to it’s possible existence.

I’m not left to shame-gloat very long before being informed that first thing in the morning, they’ll be placing a stent in my “Urthethrer Tube” (as Madea would say). This little tube – essentially a Chinese finger trap party favor, only sterile, made of surgical mesh instead of splintery cheapness, and much (but kind of not feeling so much) smaller. Which reminds me, I forgot another clipboard verb – ramming. So no cuts or probes, but this little mesh thing would be rammed placed as necessary to allow my body to prepare for one of two super exciting options: either, as soon as they feel I’m “ready”, and an appointment can be scheduled, I’ll get to lay on a table and have lasers zap my insides from the outsides, as a sort of “sonic blast” to break my golf ball in to more “manageable”, gravel-sized chunks’; after which I’ll be sent home to collect all my tinkle in a bright red bucket…until. Until, I’ve been “able” to “pass” all the gravel-remnants on my own. Judging from tone of presentation, this is clearly supposed to be the preferred option? I’m about to piss myself and render it all moot at the thought of what “Plan B” might entail. Then I find out that with Plan B, I’ll pee through a party favor for a week or three, be forced through a minor growth spurt (with analgesic support along the way); then get blissfully knocked out for a few hours, during which a surgeon will use the lasers with a bit more specificity, then take a teeny surgical equivalent of a big box store, everyone’s-a-winner, stuffed-animal-game-machine claw and pull out the spoils of his work. The party favor will be left in place to make sure any teeeeeeeenytiny remnants are able to pass freely, I wake up, prove I actually can pee, go home, and 4 days later, party favor’s removed in seconds in the office.

Before I can even ask, “I’m sorry, what part of ‘pissing gravel for a month with some tylenol and good luck stickers’ sounds ‘preferable’ to you people?!”,  I’m reminded that the clipboard has nothing to do with either of said options, and only tomorrow’s bright-‘n-early favor ramming procedure. Which thank god, included the signature line for light anesthesia as well, but no sooner was I relieved that I wouldn’t actually have to be awake for this than I remembered that, um, I’m a twenty-something girl who’s been in the hospital for several days now? At the beginning of summer? Certain cultural/self-imposed grooming expectations have been somewhat, neglected, shall we say? And just as I turn to weep in panic at the idea of it all I remember that OH GOD, this is My DAD – I can’t talk to my DAD about THIS! But eventually the not-so-silent “meeps!” forced me to cop to why I was FREAKING THE EFF OUT about something that normally, believe it or not, would not really FREAK ME THE EFF OUT.

Between a few very awkward but now very warmly remembered conversations, and a frank confirmation from the nurses who’d be downstairs with me in the morning (literally and figuratively) – I was reassured that at my worst, I was in no way the worst that any of them had, or would ever, see. Not even on the left side of the curve. Under 350 lbs? check. Under 70? check. Bathed in the last 2 weeks? freaking seriouusslly? Yes, SERIOUSLY. Holy crap, um, YES. CHECK.

OK then. You really have NO reason to worry.

Gulp. My gratitude again for that which you voluntarily endure, compassionate and respectful medical pros.

Not long after the whitecoats leave, the phone rings. It’s my mom, just calling to check in, see how things are going… My dad fills her in, and she flips a little, in the way that only hippie dippie woo woo moms who believe their presence has some sort of power to prevent negative and painful things from crossing their children’s paths can do. Kind of whimpers a bit about how this is just really uncool and unfair for her little baby to be spending yet another college summer dealing with stupid health stuff instead of being young and carefree and all that other country-song stuff, then feeling guilty that she’s not there, as if just having my mom instead of my dad would make it any less mortifying to have to have a procedure on my woowoo. (Ok, it kind of would have helped earlier, but at this point in the day, I’m good). Dad kind of agrees,  reassures her we’re both fine, gets a little blue, I think – at least, to the extent that stoic people ever “get” any visible emotion – and we go on about our evening.

So, I’ve calmed down and gotten all zen, “it-is-what-it-is” about the whole voluntary violation in the morning, and gotten to work painting my toes an obnoxious, glittery pink I wouldn’t normally wear “on the outside”; my unspoken cue that I am a girl-person, a very girly-girl-person, who under normal circumstances, takes very good care of herself thank-you-very-much. Then the whole, Pick-A-Plan situation starts to creep back in to my head. Oh. Mah. Gahd. I’m totally sold on Plan B, and really don’t understand why there’s any question, besides that silly little “spinal anesthesia can totally render you a noodle from the needle down” thing, but um, if I pass out and die trying to push a camel through the eye of a needle, or whatever it is the Good Book says, then even that’s kind of a wash, is it not?

Thankfully for me (and Cooper), my dad did not immediately grasp the gravity of the contrast between these two options. As in, to a dude, they both sounded TERRIBLE. He’s not saying any of this, of course, but I hear him tap-tap-tapping on his laptop and assume he’s doing research on the various pros and cons of each. (Apple, tree. It’s what we do.) So there I sit, totally-in-the-moment-with-my-glittery-toes-because-oh-my-god-NO-BRAINING-RIGHT-NOW!, when he turns his laptop around, asking, “what do you think about him?” I’m assuming it’ll be some nephrologist, or urologist, or effitallogist that has some hybrid, best-of-both-worlds option I should check in to, and I’m appreciative, but I’m tired…and glitter…and then “OH MY GOD. Dad, DO NOT mess with me right now.”

“I’m not, Jess. Seriously. What do you think of this little guy?”

Along with a first-person, “why you should adopt me” narrative, this little face is staring back at me:

Not only was that one of the sweetest faces, and most endearingly giant ears, I had seen in my entire rescue-puppy search, but he was potty trained! He was crate trained! (Lucky-the-infallable wasn’t even crate trained!) He was leash trained! Just barely a year old!

“Dad, seriously, do NOT mess with me on this.”

“Jess! I’m not. Are you interested or not?”

(Blank stare of FREAKING DUH YES, DUDE).

Then the hook: “Ok, I’m going to go ahead and email her. But prepare yourself, if mom says no, then it’s a no.”

My mom still laughs with a twinge of resentment recounting her version, saying, “oh, what, now I’M supposed to tell my sick, scared kid no? When I’m not even there?”

That was a really, really fun phone call to get to eavesdrop on. No seriously, it was. My dad sounded like a little kid who had broken something, but-I-swear-it’s-all-fixed-now-please-don’t-ground-me! and my mom was clearly amused, and clearly very not, all at the same time.

The next day, shortly after my woowoo party favor placement (which was also as much of a non-event as I was convinced it wouldn’t be), my mom arrived, with the much-coveted, latest issue of Vanity Fair, featuring my celbredork of the moment, Anderson Cooper.

See where this is going? 

Emails were exchanged, and a “home visit” was scheduled for shortly after my anticipated release. To inspect US. I did more research on pet-dangerous houseplants that week than I ever have before or since, even though my dad was right, “They don’t really care about any of that, Jess, they just want to make sure we’re normal people and they aren’t handing him off from one bad situation to another.” My mom and I spent the week debating and discussing names for the new little guy, since his current “Buddy” non-name was not. going. to. work. As I’m sure you’ve guessed, “Cooper” was chosen, but honestly, truly, not in homage to my then-favorite journalist; simply because my then-favorite journalist happened to have a name that also seemed to fit the sweet-but-mischievous, let-me-please-bestow-some-semblance-of-class-or-preppyhood-on-this-scraggly-creature goals I had in the naming process.

Upon revealing our decision, my dad made only one request, which then became an insistance. An ultimatium, really, as in, “it’s at least gotta be his MIDDLE name, or no dog.”

And so.

Happy Birthday, Sir Cooper Stone.

You make me happier, and crazier, and have taught me more about unconditional love than I thought a scraggley-coated, hyper-allergic, separation-anxious, not-so-potty-leash-or-crate-trained little critter ever could.

Also, he is dressed as a banana. Not a klansman. Just to clarify.

Because “croquettes” sounds so much fancier than “patties”, does it not?

And as someone who is constantly searching for ways to add more protein to her diet that don’t make her feel like a bloated caveman, and was also raised to believe that the glass in which a beverage is served matters as much as the beverage itself, faux-fancy matters.

As does shelf life. And unfortunately, fresh slabs of meat or giant filets of fish simply don’t hang out in the back of the fridge until you decide they sound good for dinner, and tiny ones usually aren’t worth the cost, prep effort, or both. So even if you do go ahead and follow through on whatever grand plans you had for your sale-flyer animal muscles, it doesn’t much matter if you are a leftover fiend, like me. If you live alone, or with people who don’t eat things that might have once shared shelf space with an errant carbohydrate, you’re still left with a lot of leftover whatever, and it can easily become a race between the clock and your gag reflex to see which gives out first and makes you toss the rest of your masterpiece in the trash.

Here’s where quality canned and preserved meats come in. Hear me out – I’m not trying to talk you into yet another chicken-that-smells-like-fish casserole. Things have changed, and happily for us culinary loners, for the better. Especially when it comes to salmon. Canned/Packaged salmon is not – or at least, doesn’t have to be – what it once was. Wild Alaskan pink salmon, skinless and deboned but still in large, yummy chunks instead of suspiciously shredded threads, is now hanging out next to the Bumble Bee and Deviled Ham, instead of the fancy-pants-fish (looking at you, $17 tiny tin of smoked trout) where it probably was 10 years ago (or maybe 2 or 3, if you live in a freaky little map-dot like I do). It’s relocation has also been accompanied by a price drop – it’s still not generic-canned-sausages cheap, but the comparative health benefits and flavor still make it a bargain, in my book.

The other ingredients are either also inexpensive, or can and should be used up readily (i.e. quinoa – is it as cheap as say, minute rice? no. Is it a tasty way to eat a bowlful of carby-tasting things while still getting mad protein compared to that minute rice? yes. Do I have another recipe to help you use up all this extra quinoa? Yes, and I’ll share it soon. Do I care if you use minute rice instead in this recipe? No, but I don’t make any promises as to how it will turn out, and you should really call them “patties” instead.)

So yes, compared to Ma’s classic mayo-breadcrumb-pinkfishymeat patties with a little extra mayo on the side – maybe with some tarragon if she was feelin’ sassy? – they’re a little steeper and little more involved. With a slightly “weirder” ingredient list, I admit (though if you know how I feel about mayo, you know why I call a draw).

But don’t be scared off. These are quick and easy enough to throw together for a random weeknight dinner (or if you simply make them smaller, to use as a last minute appetizer), but impressive enough to make for situations that call for “serving” rather than merely “feeding”.

Especially if you call them “croquettes”.

Curried Quinoa Salmon Croquettes

• 1 can or 2 pouches of wild salmon, or pre-cooked wild salmon (15-16oz total)
• 2 large eggs
• 2-3 cloves of garlic, minced
• a good knuckle’s worth of finely grated fresh ginger (or about 2 tsp if you’re using the squeezy kind)
• 1 1/3 tsp curry powder
• 2/3 tsp garam masala
• 1/2-2/3 cup cooked quinoa (I used black because it’s what I had on hand, I like the stronger, nuttier flavor it provided, and to add a little visual interest. Use what you have, or if you’re buying it, what you know you’ll eat later.)
• 1 smallish or 1/2 of a large sweet potato, cooked (feel free to use the canned/frozen stuff here too; but if you’re using a fresh one, just pok
• 6 green onions, chopped to tiny smithereens
• salt and pepper to taste
• splash of light oil for frying (canola, peanut, whatever you fancy – just not olive)

1. Crack both eggs into a large mixing bowl and whisk well. Add the garlic, ginger, curry, garam masala, and sniff. That’s right, I said sniff. Use your nose (since you can’t just taste it) to determine if your “base” smells like something you’d find tempting if it wafted by on a server’s arm. If not, adjust until it does – ask yourself what you think is missing, add a little more. Or if it’s more obvious that one thing is too strong, add a little more of everything else. If so, continue. And for the love of pete, if you hate something all-together (like you anti-garlic people, whom I respect but will *never* understand), don’t add it in the first place!
2. Cook your sweet potato. Either poke a bunch of holes in it with a fork, set it on a plate, and nuke it until it’s soft enough to scoop out of the skin with relative ease (start with 5 minutes, and keep going in 2 minute intervals as needed), or boil it if you’re without a microwave. (If you’re using frozen sweet potatoes for this, follow the package instructions).
3. Scoop your ‘tater out of its skin and into a separate, smaller bowl, then mash it up until it’s pretty smooth and puree-like.
4. Once you’ve got everything all whisked and mashed, add the salmon, quinoa, mashed sweet potato, and green onions. Stir together until well-mixed and all ingredients are fairly evenly distributed (to avoid disappointment of cutting into a curried quinoa scallion cake, instead).
5. Heat your oil in a large skillet or frying pan over medium-high heat Use just enough to get a very thin “glaze” along the bottom of the pan once heated and swirled around, to keep the croquettes from sticking.
6. Once the oil is hot, take a small spoonful – as in, cereal-spoonful, not mixing-spoonful – of your mixture and drop it in the center of the pan. Give it just a few minutes to brown on the bottom, then turn, and brown on the other side. Remove and set on a plate lined with paper towel (the paper towel part is optional, but I’m both averse to grease and to foods sticking to my pan, so while I thankfully didn’t need the paper towel, I’d rather have it – and a crispy, greaseless fried thing – than not, and have my fried thing needlessly soak up extra oil while waiting on its fellow things to be hazed fried). Let cool slightly, and TASTE IT. This is your test cake. Do you like it? If so, continue. If not, see step 1 for directions on flavor modification, and modify, mix, fry, and repeat until you’ve got something you’re proud to eat or serve. Also, make a note or three as to what, if anything, you changed, so that next time you can skip this step altogether and go straight to the big dollops.
7. Once you’re satisfied, either form into patties, OR, be a big fat lazypants efficient like me, and drop a large, mixing-spoonful into the pan and immediately smush into patty-shape with a large, wide turning spatula. Fry on the first side for 5-7 minutes (or until browned to your likeness), then turn and fry another 3-5 minutes (until likewise). *If making as an appetizer, use the test cake/cereal-spoon size, and only cook for 2-3 minutes per side, if that.
8. That’s it! Serve immediately (nobody likes tepid croquettes), with or without a little squeeze of citrus, and a little inner heel click that you’re eating something fried, crispy, AND healthy.