The temperature dropped. The humidity dropped. It is still reaching 30C mid-day, BUT with the lower humidity, it feels close to 30C! And it is a bit cooler than it has been at night too, so that sitting out on the porch of a morning is just that much pleasanter.
I had an odd experience today. About the middle of June I was hoeing in the garden. A few days later a hard lump appeared on one of my fingers. I didn’t think much about it, thought perhaps it was bug bite of some kind, or that it was a Ganglion. But it didn’t go away, and it didn’t stay the same, it began to spread, my finger looked a bit swollen and red. So I made an appointment to talk to the Nurse Practitioner over the phone, and she arranged to have an ultrasound on the finger. The clinic where the appointment was made for me called me last week and we setup an appointment.
The appointment was today. Masked, I waited my turn in line to speak with the receptionist at the ultrasound clinic. Other clients were masked, keeping their distance, and the staff was masked and sitting behind plastic shields. When it was my turn in line, I gave my name and the time of my appointment. She took a long time looking at the computer, asked me my name twice, asked me my telephone number several times, asked how to spell my name, and finally told me there was no record of my appointment on the computer. By this time I was beginning to feel uncomfortable, I hadn’t been looking forward to this visit, and it was turning out worse than I had hoped. I insisted I had an appointment. The other people in the waiting room were all watching the exchange with interest.
She asked me, condescendingly, if I was sure I had the right clinic. I assured her that I wrote down the address when THEY CALLED ME. She asked me if I was sure I had the right day, I assured her I did have the right day. She asked me if I was sure I had the right time, I assured her I did have the right time. She asked to see my health card a second time, and spent some time looking at the picture on it, then suspiciously looking at me, this took a few minutes. She repeated, the appointment is not on the computer. I repeated, you called me and arranged the appointment for this time, at this place.
She finally consulted a pile of papers on her desk, pulled one out and said, it wasn’t on the computer, here is a print out.
“Oh yes,” I thought, “and how did that printed sheet get printed if the information was not on the computer? Do you have a manual typewriter here somewhere?”
It would have been counterproductive at this point to have mentioned this obvious slip in her story, so I remained silent. It didn’t matter to me if she knew, that I knew, that she was being less than straightforward.
I found a seat the required distance from other clients, waited a short time, and was called in for the ultrasound.
The ultrasound technician wore gloves, a mask, and a face shield. I liked that a lot. But she spoke to me in a heavy accent, and a very low voice. I could not hear what she was saying, so I just kind of followed a few of her hand gestures to figure out what she wanted. Eventually, when we were both getting a bit frustrated, I told a lie of my own… I told her I was a bit deaf (not true) and was accustomed to reading lips, which I do from time to time, and that I could not understand anything she was saying to me, which was true. Things went more smoothly after that.
Then it was all over and out I went. The results go to my Nurse Practitioner next week. I don’t know what is going on with my finger, and I hope it is nothing serious. I remember that Bob Marley went in to see why his toe was sore, and it ended up being something that killed him, so I always check these things out if they don’t go away, and I can’t easily diagnose them myself.
My fingers hurts. It hadn’t hurt at all before the ultrasound, but it hurts now.
So back home again, the canning jars, canner, and mandolin came out of the cupboards and it was time to can pickles! Seven pounds of English and Pickling Cucumbers from the garden needed my attention. Hours later, a dozen jars of Dill Slice Pickles sat cooling on the counter. The mandolin is doing a great job slicing the Cucumbers the exact thickness, every slice the same. The cut-resistant gloves were a great idea, as it turns out I could have had a few nasty cuts today, but didn’t. The pickles look great.
The only drawback to my pickles is that they are not crisp. I refuse to purchase products like Pickle Crisp. I know I can use grape leaves, but we haven’t any here, and we haven’t been out to the Camp in forever, there are Wild Grape Leaves there. The next time we go the Camp I will pick a few dozen leaves and bring them home for the freezer, to keep on hand for pickling during the canning season.
The canning jars are filling up fast, 29 jars of pickles already on the shelf, and the garden is just starting to produce! Of course, these Dill Slice Pickles are so good that three jars have already been finished off, three empty jars.
Cheese & Pickle sandwiches are my current favourite! If I want a Cheese and Pickle sandwich I am going to have to bake bread. Flour must be milled, bread must be baked, the last loaf of bread from the freezer will be enough for Attila’s lunch tomorrow.
Yesterday the canner was busy as well. Three pounds of Zucchini had been picked in the garden, and I needed to preserve them. So I found a recipe from the 60s called Zucchini-Pineapple, and gave that a go. There was a just a little bit left after the last jar was filled, so I sampled it, not bad. Five jars of this “fruit” will make lovely squares over the winter months. Another three pounds of our garden Zucchini will be waiting for me tomorrow, more Zucchini-Pineapple.
Date: 7:00 PM EDT Wednesday 29 July 2020
Condition: Mostly Cloudy
Pressure: 101.0 kPa
Dew point: 19.5°C
Wind: WSW 11 km/h
Visibility: 24 km
“Trust one who has gone through it.”
70 BC – 19 BC