***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.

And the saga continues… Or begins, really. A mere three hours after departing the homestead, I arrive at Le Hospitale fairly late in the evening, belly considerably less full of biscuit than it was 100 miles ago. Despite sleeping a good bit of the trip, I was exhausted; apparently even sleep takes a lot of energy when your organs are starting to see mirages of oxygen molecules. Nevertheless, I was still in the weirdly calm, slightly stoic, almost professional “let’s do this” mode to which I tend to default when I sense things are about to – or already have – hit the fan a bit. But I felt – and looked – like shit.

See? I told you. LIKE SHIT. Now, I *don’t do* sick pictures. To each his own, but if anything, I really only take pictures of my provisions, surroundings and such as inspired; I’m just not into the emo-patient “look how sick I am thiiiissss timmmmee, guyyyss” thing – makes me feel punier than I already do. But I knew I just kind of had to look like shit this time; not like when you walk in to your coffee table and are *certain* that your tibia has just been cracked clean in half, but upon inspection (and even days later, when you’re still hindered by a slight twinging limp), you barely have a bruise to show for it.

So much so, in fact, that I knew it was as good a time as ever to ask my mom to take a picture – a “before” picture, if you will, complete with gloomy and listless disposition. I didn’t, but I did want to be able to look back objectively at what I look like “sick” once I was better – because no matter how sick you really are, when it creeps up on you slowly (vs. the insta-misery, hot on Wednesday, *not*on Thursday variety), especially when your “normal” includes a certain calibrated white noise of general malaise, you just look in the mirror and see “I need to do something about those roots”, or “OK, just get ready and go run your errands, but tonight it’s tweezer time”. I mean maybe a “hmm… these (genetically-always-there-even-when-healthy) dark circles are taking craploads more concealer just to tone down”, or a “do I normally have to use this much blush? Am I going to look like a Groupon clown when I step into natural light?” but that’s about it – no stepping out of the shower and gazing into the mirror all wistful and Lifetime-like, or recoiling in horror and fatalism.

Not to stretch the before-and-after thing too far, but it’s kind of like when you take twenty years to gain 100 lbs instead of two – it’s a few pounds here, a few more there, and all along, you just see you, until you’ve got a flattened, 2D pixel cluster staring back at you confirming that the plane seats haven’t gotten smaller, or that your cosmetic routine has left you aesthetically tilting at windmills – pale, sallow, sunken and parched…just with really, really pink and slightly shimmering cheeks.

Point being, that’s the only reason there’s any photographic evidence of my shitty-looking-ness this go round – but also, that I’m really not usually trying to be all “fake it ‘til you make it!” (gag) and “I feel PRETTY!” when I respond to concerned comments and questions about the aforementioned pronounced shadows and marked pallor with befuddlement; I’m sincerely caught off guard and confused because all I remember being concerned about when I left the house was the oops-not-quite-dry-but-no-time-to-fix-it nick in my nail polish.

So – I Charlie Brown Shuffle into admitting, catch my breath and go through the motions. Yes, sorry, here’s my hospital card.  Phone number same, Address same, haha, yes, I couldn’t pronounce the street name until I moved there either. Yep – Insurance the same, Emergency Contacts all the same.  Get the raised eyebrow upon confirming that yes, I have a clearly-from-here, bless-your-heart, honey-dripping southern accent, but no, seriously, I don’t want to be on the clergy list; and no, I don’t want to be on the master patient list and yes, seriously, I would like a password for anyone who calls for information. Get a familiar yet acutely uncomfortable crinkled forehead and puppy-dog eyes of gaurded pity upon confirming that yes, I’m 26 and have a notarized Healthcare Power of Attorney, Living Will, and DNR with caveats and here are copies for your files.

Slow half-smile and nod as I’m told it’s a shame I’ve had to think about these things, and give my canned (but honest) response that we’ve all got our crap, my life’s pretty great otherwise, it’s the way the cookie crumbles. Hear Charlie Brown Teacher telling me how wonderful and brave I am. Check fatigue-induced hypersensitivity when wanting to scream “pllleeeeasssee just give me my papers, I’m not a freaking hero, I didn’t willingly sign on for this, and my options are literally ‘do all – or even just some of – the things’ or ‘off oneself’, so which would you choose and do not actually answer that”.

Continue smiling and nodding, receive paperwork, receive barcoded inmate patient ID wristband. Return to lobby to await transportation (I’m booked now, so I’m a liability now, so I can’t just go to my room lest I slip on a rubber glove and crack my skull. I am infinitely grateful for this policy as it allows me to receive needed help without having to ask for it and accept said help without admitting said need.) Drift in and out of sleep; check phone – nope, no breaking news, on NPR or facebook, since last checking 4 minutes earlier. Hahaha, another grumpy cat, oohh, when will I ever get sick of that thing, probably never. Try not to think about what may or may not await me when I get upstairs; focus instead on…

Oh forget it – self, once you get there, you’ve got at least another 5 hours until lights (kind of) out. Just faceplant in your pillow, queue up Cooper and pretty deserts in your mental View-Master, and turn on your brain static. Not that you should care, but strangers won’t judge you. Sure, you always feel bad when you’re here, but you actually look like shit this time, too.

So, when we last left off, I was just beginning to pack up for my impending trip to the hospital, after spending a good couple of days debating if I had a quick-and-dirty virus, or perhaps might in fact, be dying instead.* In fact, I’m pretty sure the “kidding!-(not-really)-maybe?” aspect of the later option had something to do with why it took me an extra day or two to cop to what was likely going on.

See, I’ve never been one to have had problems with my O2 saturation (the amount of oxygen actually making it to your blood where it belongs, and the thing being measured by the little clip with a red light on the index finger of people in hospitals/on medical teevee programs, expressed as a percentage) – even in situations where otherwise healthy people tend to do so, like waking up from surgery. Nevertheless, I began to suspect that a problems with my oxygen intake, exchange, or both were somehow related to whatever was going on, for a bunch of lifetime-of-patient-role-spidey-senses reasons I won’t go in to here. After deciding to be a grown up and face likely facts, rather than continue to live in blissful self-imposed ignorance (“Me? need oxygen? Nay, I’m simply a panicked hypochondriac running out of hypotheses!”) I caved and bought a pulse oximeter (the little red light on the index finger thing that measures aforementioned O2 saturation).

And then I nearly crapped myself.

“Normal” ranges are generally anything 94% or above; 93-92 can be acceptable for a short time if you’re particularly sick or have underlying health issues. The highest reading I could get was in the mid-80’s, and more than once it was hovering in the high 70’s if I had been sleeping for a while. So holy craptarts, relief and confusion and fear OH MY! Relief, in that OK, I at least know, writ large, what’s wrong, and why I feel like I’m suffocating (I kind of am). Confusion and fear because lack of information scares me, period, and I had no idea why this was happening at all ever, but particularly so quickly and severely and now. My resting heart rate was also hanging out between 140-160, with occasional forays into the 180’s if I got all frisky and like, coughed, or walked across the room, or awwwshhnap bent over to pick something up. For the sake of context, the target is 80, but at least less than 100 for someone my age and size.

To recap, I went from be-bopping along at the outlet malls feeling a-little-more-under-the-weather-than-I-let-on, but debatably “sick-sick” by even my healthier standards, to clearly requiring some form of supplemental oxygen for the first time in my life – including that awesome Fall Break of ‘04 where I weighed 94 lbs, my skin was grey, and my mom had to bribe me in to staying awake and making myself finishing a “meal” of 3 whole chicken nuggets after assisting me in the frighteningly disproportionately exhausting trek down the hall and out of my dorm. So crazy or not,  I needed a good day or so to kind of research, process and ruminate over what I might be in for upon darkening the hospital’s revolving doors. That’s how I work.

Sidebar: As long as I’m given honest, fairly reasonable expectations of what will be, or might be, happening to me; honest, balanced explanations of why it’s necessary, or maybe not even necessary, but prudent and preferable; and honest, fairly reasonable estimations of how painful, scary, disorienting, or humiliating it’s going to be, I can generally dig deep and find a way to deal and get through it, in the moment at least. (I’m not a droid, so I still sometimes lose my marbles later, but that’s definitely preferable to screeching nasal obscenities at an ENT resident when underprepared for just how strong that suction thingamabobber is going to be.)

So, let’s see. Worst case, what should I plan to deal with when I get there…OK, definitely oxygen. From a sheer discomfort/what-can-I-actually-dig-deep-and-handle-without-going-batshit perspective, no problem. But what about other tests? That blood gas thing where they stab you in the wrist and very strong people with high pain tolerances cry like teething babies? Oh my god what if they make me start out in the ICU instead of my normal floor? Will anyone still get to stay with me overnight? OH GOD will I have to pee in that swing-out toilet thing? Why is this even happening in the first place? Is one of my lungs collapsing? Has it been collapsed and I’m just too stupid to differentiate ‘”you’ve got a whole lung stuck together like fly paper” from “severe muscle spasm from coughing all the damn time for days on end”?

Once I was sufficiently convinced that I would neither be left to writhe in pain needlessly, gasp for air, or pee in a not-really toilet sufficiently uncomfortable and scared about the state of my being, I collected the necessary documents and technological paraphernalia for a who-knows-how-long variety stay, finished packing, and summoned my last frayed sparks of quasi-energy for my littlestitious “last” shower. Despite knowing I had just gotten the last good shower I’d be getting for at least a good week, I used no hair products. No lotion. And I only shaved up to my knees. THAT is how awful I was feeling, you guys. No hair products. Nay, not even a single hair appliance usage. Just a quick blow dry and a fuckitall sunglasses-sweep, with a cross eye at my emerging reverse-roots. That’s puny, y’all.

But then I got dressed, minimally accessorized (I’m not dead, after all), and I did that thing – or rather, that thing happened to me – where I got all zen, and totally focused, and on point, and “what will be will be and I will rise to meet it” – and settled in the passenger seat for the long trek towards the hospital, hope, and healing. I had three hours in the car ahead of me, in the beginning of which I enjoyed the spoils of a Bojangles’ detour and a welcome distraction in the form of the latest from around the nation on NPR. But later, as I drifted off into a self-imposed nap (anticipating the long night ahead), I couldn’t help but sort of rest in this odd certainty – a peace, even – that things were about to change in a pretty major way. I didn’t know what, I didn’t know how.

All I knew was that after almost a year of better, then worse, then better the same, then worse the same, we fixed it, we didn’t, and no answers, I had an increasing sense of just treading water, doing more of the same, waiting for another shoe to drop and give us the next clue; all the while feeling like I was on a dessert road trip where it didn’t matter how badly I wanted to get where I was going, it didn’t change the fact that I was running on fumes with no pit stops for miles. In an odd way I can’t quite explain, there was a weariness relieved, and an almost desperate hope that whatever was causing this problem with my oxygen would give us some insight into what had been wrong all these weeks and months. I wasn’t sure if it was for better, or if I was finally starting to chart my way towards irreversible “worse” – but I felt it in my bones, I was in for some serious “different”. And at that point, anything other than more of the same was good enough for me. I had a belly full of biscuit, a heated seat on a cold night, and a driver-slash-advocate-slash-mom by my side for whatever may come, and insurance to cover it all – in other words, all I needed and more.

To be further continued…

*only slightly exaggerating.