A cooking spree

Since being widowed, my cooking standards have deteriorated significantly. Even that is not the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but, etc. I used to be a really good cook,  but after the end of my first marriage, the rot set in. Cooking for one person cramps the style.

And when I remarried, the standard and the achievement fell well below what it had been. My first husband was by no means love's young dream, but at least he appreciated the food. And in the years between divorce and remarriage, my standards declined. Cooking for oneself leads to decline of standards. It hardly seemed worthwhile to cook up a storm for oneself.

When Dr P appeared on the  scene, it quickly became apparent that he was no gourmet. Accustomed to fending for himself, he was a ham cheese and eggs man, interspersed by occasional Chinese meals - usually an omelette, or sometimes a curry. Not vegetables, though.  He was an extremely fussy eater, but was happy to fend for himself, and did not expect meals to be provided.
Once we moved in together, I had this wifely urge to do the cooking. It was neither expected or demanded, but eventually we worked out how to eat  together. But my cooking standard declined, and  now I am no longer the cook I was. Which is a pity.

Now, four years after Dr P's death, my standards have not risen very much. I have adopted easy solutions. Besides which, I worry about setting off the smoke alarms, which frighten me  fearfully. Yes, I am a real sook. And my social life is minimal.

A couple of days ago, friends came for lunch, and I cooked up a storm. And thoroughly enjoyed it. And managed it efficiently. Nor did I burn or ruin anything. Lunch was good. and there were leftovers. Very nice too.

Perhaps all is not lost. I may yet recover both my competence and enthusiasm.

Get fitter

My doctor recently advised me to get fitter. How much walking did I do, she asked. Well, I said, I walk to the bus, and here and there, and from the city to the art gallery. And sometimes I do go for a walk.

Do more, she advised. And so I did, the other day, and the result is not pretty. I tripped and fell, and grazed my face, hands and banged my knees, and my equilibrium and temper are also damaged. Bother, and words to that effect. Not a soul was around to help me to my feet, and so I staggered home to look at the damage.

The right lens on my spectacles was quite badly scratched, and so I betook myself to the optometrist to organise a new lens. While we were at it, he did another eye examination, and the left eye has deteriorated even more, and also has a cataract on it. So I should get it removed. And I will.

My eyes do not focus together, and as far as I know never did. As a child I had glasses, and when I was about 7 or 8 had surgery, to fix, or more probably, to straighten the wandering eye. As a child I never knew that the way I see differed from normal vision.

I think the surgery gave me a great horror and fear of having things done to my eyes, and the mere thought of having surgery while conscious fills me with dread. Not to mention having an anaesthetic injected into the eye. I think it will make me want to scream and faint. Fainting seems a very good idea, actually.

Recently while travelling on the bus I fell into conversation with a woman, through admiring her grandchild's lovely red hair. The woman had had a cataract operation, and she told me that you are doped with enormous quantities of painkillers and tranquillisers. I hope she is correct.

I have made an appointment with my doctor to check out the procedure.

There is always something to look forward to in life, and cataract surgery surely is one such something.
In the meantime I feel battered and bruised, and not just physically.

In the meantime, once my knees are less sore, I will try walking again. My daughter - always able to describe my defects and peculiarities (in a loving and caring way, of course)  says my upper body leans forward when I walk. I must straighten myself up. And out.

Oh well, nobody is perfect.