FISHY STORY!

FISHY STORY!

This has been a bad week for people like me who get their medical news from USA Today. A few days ago I read about a scientist who claims pecans (my favorite) may not be as healthy to consume as previously believed. Just when I think I’m eating the right stuff, some nut comes along and ruins everything.

It was plenty confusing when coffee was reported to be bad for us, then good for us. Researchers were sure it caused heart attacks, but it prevented strokes—except for decaf, which not only caused strokes, but was related to diabetes. I’m sure I got that all wrong, but so what. It’s all going to change soon, anyway.

I was so baffled a few years ago about whether or not peanuts were good for me that it actually drove me to start drinking. That was a good thing because they said alcohol helped your heart, but it ended up as bad news because then they said it wasn’t the alcohol that was beneficial, but the grapes. And I had been drinking beer. 

A health alert this week took the cake. Cake, by the way, is not good for you, unless it’s chocolate, which has aphrodisiac qualities. But chocolate also has caffeine, which is bad for you (unless it’s the same amount of caffeine that was good for you if you were drinking coffee before August of 2007.)

It was this week I learned that some salmon contains way too much mercury. Ever since the first report several years ago that salmon had beneficial Omega fatty acids, I’ve been chowing down on anything that swims upstream to die: Coho, Chinook, King, Alaskan pink and sockeye. I have eaten smoked, fresh and canned salmon. If my heart wasn’t bright red before, it is now.

Then I saw this headline last week in USA Today:

FARMED SALMON MORE DANGEROUS TO EAT THAN WILD SALMON

Of course, statistics about what’s dangerous can be misleading. Maybe some of those people fishing for wild salmon were eaten by bears. That’s the kind of data that gets lost in those fancy university studies.

But no, farmed salmon is apparently worse for us. At least today. So I decided to adjust my diet accordingly. In the supermarket it’s hard to tell wild from farm-raised. They all look pretty dead to me.

My doctor said I could eliminate salmon from my diet altogether and opt instead for fish oil pills, which apparently aren’t made from fish at all, but are made from Docosapentaenoic Acid. Let’s see. Lox and bagels or Docosapentaenoic Acid and bagels? There are no easy choices in life.

By the way, I never believed the marketing claims that eating fish regularly was good for your memory. When I was in high school I ate fish sticks three days a week and tuna sandwiches on weekends. Then I went to college where I spent half my waking hours looking for my car, my spiral notebook or my wallet.

I also couldn’t find a date.

I’m getting hungry writing about all this food. I think I’ll have smoked salmon on a bagel and for dessert, a handful of chocolate-covered pecans. See you next week…if I live that long.

A COLUMN ABOUT NOTHING

Every night at dinner my wife and I ask each other, “What are you doing tomorrow?” I’m not sure why we do that. We never to listen to the answer. In the morning we repeat the question. Then later that night when we both arrive home, we ask again: “So…what did you do today?” We get the same response as before, but it’s always fun to hear it for the first time.

We are both retired from full-time work, yet my wife is still constantly busy. She always has something to do. I, on the other hand, sometimes have nothing to do. I mean NOTHING. Honestly, I look forward to that.  I try to run every errand the day before it’s scheduled, take care of any obligation related to my part-time work at WISH-TV, and make sure my column is written early. Then I can wake up in the morning and when Mary Ellen says, “Tell me again, what are you doing today?”  I can say: nothing. And when she gets home at 6:00 p.m. and asks, “What did you do today?” Once again, I can say: nothing, or better yet, absolutely nothing.

My friend Bob is retired. I often call him, but he’s seldom home. I figure he’s doing something. So, just this morning, when I successfully managed to have absolutely nothing to do, I called him.  “Hey, Bob. I can’t believe you’re home. What are you doing?”

“Nothing, what about you?”

“Hey, that’s exactly what I’m doing. And I thought I was the only one who was that lucky.”

“Dick, when I say nothing, I don’t literally mean nothing. I’m paying some bills, doing a couple loads of laundry, cleaning out the car. You know, nothing, really.”

“You call that nothing? That’s something. Don’t you know anything about nothing? Now, I am really doing nothing.”

“Look, are you bored, Dick? Do you want to do something?”

“No, Bob, that’s the whole point. I want to have nothing to do with you.”

“Well, you don’t have to get nasty about it.”

I had had enough of Bob. I called my wife. She always wants to know if I’m up to something. “Mary Ellen, it’s me. I wanted you to know I am home right now and I really have nothing to do.”

“You’re at home where the lawn needs to be mown, the back deck needs to be washed, and the garage needs to be cleaned… and you say you have nothing to do? I’d like you to get all that done before I get home tonight. Now go do something.”

Mary Ellen kind of put a damper on the whole darn day. Now, all of a sudden, I have like nine things to do. I guess I better get started on my chores.

I might as well. After all, I have nothing else to do.

HABITUAL BEHAVIOR

Mary Ellen and I have been happy together for so long that we sometimes forget how much we annoy each other, so on the trip back home from our recent vacation, it was time catch up on our bad habits.

For example, I told Mary Ellen that she is a relentless pointer. She points at everything. “See that pretty house,” she’ll say, and then she points at it; or, look at that sunset (she points, like I don’t know where the sun is); “Your turn signal is on,” and then  she directs her finger at the blinker. Really, is that necessary?

 “Dick, I thought you liked it on a vacation when I pointed things out.”

”I do like it when you point things out, I just don’t want you to point at them.”

Then I told her that it drove me nuts that everything we saw, she called “pretty.”  Pretty sunsets, pretty mountains, pretty houses, pretty lakes, pretty much everything. Then she gave me a look that pretty much ended that conversation. Except now it was her turn…

 “I never really told you this, Dick, but it drives me crazy when we go somewhere to eat, as soon as we sit down, you pretend you have to go to the restroom. What you are really doing is walking around the restaurant inspecting other people’s food.  Other than the Board of Health, who does something so weird?”

“Okay, I admit it. When I see it on another person’s plate, I get a better idea whether I should order it. 

"I don’t think that is so odd.”

“That’s not the odd part. It’s asking for a taste that’s a little peculiar.  And, here’s another thing you do. You are so impatient that after we order you keep looking around to be sure that no one who came in after us is served first.”

“Wait a second. I remember a few years we were somewhere and even you were complaining that we were supposed to be next.”

“Dick, you do realize the difference between the emergency room and Applebee’s, right?”

“Anything else, Dear?”

 “Yes. When you order, you make a dozen substitutions. The other day we went to a pub and you ordered their signature baked ham sandwich. But instead of ham you wanted corned beef, and instead of mustard you wanted thousand island dressing. Then you substituted sauerkraut for the cole slaw. 

Why didn’t you just order a Reuben?”

“I don’t like Reubens.”

“And, finally, as soon as we are served, the first thing you do is ask if you can taste my dinner.”

“Now wait a second, that isn’t so unusual.”

“It is when we’ve ordered the same thing.”

As we made our way back home through Michigan, Mary Ellen and I placed a little wager on who could go the longest without lapsing into one of our annoying habits. When we exited the highway toward a quaint little town, Mary Ellen abruptly sat on her hands and said, “Oh Dick look at that pret…pret…CUTE  little café on your right. Let’s eat there.”

Mary Ellen thought the lunch was fabulous, but I couldn’t say. You see, I really wanted to win that bet,  so I stayed in the car.

BLIND TEST

As I mentioned in a previous column, my wife was away for a week recently and I knew I would have some problems in the kitchen. I had no clue how to operate the microwave or turn on our new dishwasher. One night, I kept answering my cell phone until I realized it was the fridge making a ringing noise because the door was left open.

I had occasion to drive my wife’s Toyota Prius while she was gone and I had no idea how to use all the high-tech controls on the dashboard. I wanted to listen to my favorite radio station, so I turned to what I thought was 90.1. The station did not come on, but it sure got hot in the car.

When Mary Ellen returned from her trip, she asked if I had kept to my diet. I admitted that I had gone to two all-you-can-eat buffets and I consumed too much because everything looked so good.  That was the wrong thing to say. Apparently Mary Ellen read an article on the plane that one way to lose weight is to eat your meals while blindfolded.  In several experiments, people who had their eyes covered ingested 22 percent fewer calories. That number was actually much higher, but researchers decided not to count all the food that fell on the floor or dribbled down people’s shirts.

The theory behind this is simple. When you can’t see what’s on your plate, scientists say you’re “more apt to listen to your stomach.”  I am someone who does listen to my stomach, and so does the entire congregation at the Heartland Church on Sunday mornings.

When subjects were taken to an actual restaurant (rather than dining in the lab) and then blindfolded, they finished about half of what was on their plate—unless they peeked and saw they were in Chipotle. Then they consumed 100% less.

I wanted to test the theory of not viewing the food I ate for lunch the next day while my wife was out shopping. When she arrived home, I told her that I had been doing a little experiment on to see if this calorie-reduction plan was legit. Mary Ellen looked at the ketchup all over my face and  shirt and said: “Okay, now tomorrow see what happens when you eat blindfolded.”

Researchers also claimed that cutting off any one of your senses enhances the taste of food, which leads to less consumption of unneeded calories.  I wondered what effect it would have to wear earplugs.

 “

This is crazy,” said my wife. “Covering your ears will not make you eat less.”

“It’s worth a try, Mary Ellen. What are we having tonight?”

“Well, I’m making your favorite: oven-fried coconut chicken, twice-baked potatoes and creamed spinach.”

“I wish you had waited until I put in my earplugs to tell me that.”

“Why?”

“Because that sounded really good.”

The bottom line is that I have tried covering my ears, my nose and my eyes and I have not really lost any weight. Next week, I’m going to try something I should have thought of before: I’m going to try covering my mouth.

AUTO NEUROTIC

I purchased a new car last week, the first in almost 10 years.  It comes with a 250-page instruction book, plus three additional manuals to guide you through the high-tech accessories, but there is no key. I always liked the idea of having a key. “Hey, Dad, can I have the fob to the car tonight?” Sorry, that doesn’t have the same charm.

The car also comes with Bruce, the sales guy at Hyundai, who said he will “always be by my side.”  He didn’t literally mean that, but he did give me his cell number in case I had any problems. Unless, of course, the problem includes using the Bluetooth cell phone technology, in which case I could drive back to the dealership. That is, if I remember how to start the car.

Bruce was very patient with me.  He told me that “before you bring this baby home, you need to know how to take care of her and understand exactly how she operates.” This is pretty much what Mary Ellen’s father said to me the night before our wedding. 

My new steering wheel has 12 buttons on it. That’s more than a corset from the Elizabethan era, and probably just as difficult for an inexperienced guy like me to manage. There are also four buttons on the rearview mirror, including a garage door opener, which Bruce told me I would have to sync with my old garage door opener. Or was it my computer? No, maybe it was my smart phone. No matter.  When he said sync, I knew I was sunk.

One of the apps I can purchase for my smart phone allows me to disable my car if someone steals it. But why not just call the guy?  After all, he has all this new Bluetooth stuff in the car now.  Let’s see if he can figure it out. There are lots of ways to thwart a crook.

“Hello?”

“This is Dick Wolfsie. Who is this?

“Oh, hi, Dick! I’m Joe. How are you?

“Why did you steal my car?”

“Sorry, I didn’t know it was your car.”

“This sounds like a Seinfeld episode.  Now, I’m going to tap this little app and disable the vehicle. Then I have another app that tells me exactly where the car is.”

“Okay, but this is a pretty bad neighborhood. You won’t have any wheels on this vehicle when you do find it. By the way, this is a great car, but why didn’t you opt for the on-screen GPS? It’s hard to avoid the police without it. Anyway, I’m outta here. Thanks for the ride…and all that loose change.

Hyundai also provides assistance if you have a crash and your air bag inflates. The brochure says that within minutes “help will be on the way.” I don’t know what kind of help an automobile manufacturer can provide in a situation like this,  but I’m hoping they send a paramedic or a neurosurgeon, not some  guy from body and fender repair.

I’m so dense I never know whether something is really broken or if I’m just stupid.  Last night I stayed up until 4:00 a.m. reading about the camera that is mounted on the back of the new Hyundai. I memorized every word so that in the morning I’d remember how to adjust the lens angle, and fiddle with the contrast and brightness.  

I did forget one thing: I hadn’t ordered that accessory.

DRESSING FOR SUCCESS

I’m always disappointed with salad dressing. It’s either too thin or too thick. Some are too vinegary, some are too oily. I must have 25 opened bottles in the fridge. And another 20 unopened in the pantry. In restaurants, I always ask for the dressing on the side, and I request two or three different kinds. Maybe if I combine the lite honey mustard with the raspberry vinaigrette?  How about half French and half Thousand Island? Yuck. Nothing works.

My sister, Linda, who lives in New York, is an awesome cook. Whenever we visit and she prepares a meal, the salad is tossed with the most delicious dressing imaginable. And maybe it’s my imagination, but for 35 years she has avoided telling me how she makes it.  I’ll say during dinner, “Linda, you really have to give me the recipe…”

“Sure, remind me before you leave,” Linda says.

Then, as we are leaving, she often conveniently brings up things like pressing health issues in the family, stuff I really don’t want to talk about. The whole thing is very suspicious. Maybe the recipe is a family secret.  Wait a second: it’s my family, too. 

Recently my wife asked me for the 1,000^th time, “Aren’t you going to eat your salad?” That was it.  I called my sister and told her I wanted to know what was in her special creation and I wanted to know NOW.

“Look, Dick. The reason I never gave you the recipe is that I really have no idea what the exact proportion of ingredients is.”

“How could that be, Linda?  It has tasted exactly the same every year since 1976 when I first tasted it at your wedding reception.”

“I know. It really keeps.  I probably made way too much.”

“Seriously, Linda, nothing lasts 35 years.”

“It actually lasted 25.”

“I’m not talking about your marriage. I’m talking about the salad dressing.”

I pressed her again for details. Finally, after further cajoling, I received this email:

LINDA’S SALAD DRESSING

2 T sugar (NOT artificial sweetener)

2 T ketchup (NOT chili sauce)

1 T Durkee Famous Sauce (Do NOT substitute)

3 T apple cider vinegar (NOT red wine vinegar)

1/2 cup of vegetable or canola oil (NOT olive oil)

Put in blender (Do NOT whisk)

Well, first of all, this was the most hostile recipe I had ever seen, and I think an entire cookbook like this would be very intimidating for people who wanted to just have some creative fun in the kitchen. I prepared the dressing exactly as Linda instructed, and I even called her to be sure I had the blender on the right speed. All Linda said was, “NOT puree.” By the way, growing up, she had a very positive attitude.

I am very proud of my finished product. I have drizzled it on my salad every night for the past week. I decided to ask Linda for the recipe for her fabulous Chicken Marsala. She told me she really didn’t have the specifics for that one, either, but she said that when Mary Ellen and I come to New York next month, she’ll serve it to us. I said “No thanks.” I seem to remember that’s also what we had at her wedding.

BLIND TEST

My wife was away for a week recently and I knew I would have some problems in the kitchen. I had no clue how to operate the microwave or turn on our new dishwasher. One night, I kept answering my cell phone until I realized it was the fridge making a ringing noise because the door was left open.

I had occasion to drive my wife’s Toyota Prius while she was gone and I had no idea how to use all the high-tech controls on the dashboard. I wanted to listen to my favorite radio station, so I turned to what I thought was 90.1. The station did not come on, but it sure got hot in the car.

When Mary Ellen returned from her trip, she asked if I had kept to my diet. I admitted that I had gone to two all-you-can-eat buffets and I consumed too much because everything looked so good.  That was the wrong thing to say. Apparently Mary Ellen read an article on the plane that one way to lose weight is to eat your meals while blindfolded.  In several experiments, people who had their eyes covered ingested 22 percent fewer calories. That number was actually much higher, but researchers decided not to count all the food that fell on the floor or dribbled down people’s shirts.

The theory behind this is simple. When you can’t see what’s on your plate, scientists say you’re “more apt to listen to your stomach.”  I am someone who does listen to my stomach, and so does the entire congregation at the Heartland Church on Sunday mornings.

When subjects were taken to an actual restaurant (rather than dining in the lab) and then blindfolded, they finished about half of what was on their plate—unless they peeked and saw they were in Chipotle. Then they consumed 100 percent less.

I wanted to test the theory of not viewing the food I ate for lunch the next day while my wife was out shopping. When she arrived home, I told her I had been doing a little experiment to see if this calorie-reduction plan was legit. Mary Ellen looked at the ketchup all over my face and shirt and said: “Okay, now tomorrow see what happens when you eat blindfolded.”

Researchers also claimed that cutting off any one of your senses enhances the taste of food, which leads to less consumption of unneeded calories.  I wondered what effect it would have to wear earplugs.

“This is crazy,” said my wife. “Covering your ears will not make you eat less.”

“It’s worth a try, Mary Ellen. What are we having tonight?”

“I’m making your favorite: oven-fried coconut chicken, twice-baked potatoes and creamed spinach.”

“I wish you had waited until I put in my earplugs to tell me that.”

“Why?”

“

Because that sounded really good.”

The bottom line is that I have tried covering my ears, my nose and my eyes and I have not really lost any weight. Next week, I’m going to try something I should have thought of before: I’m going to try covering my mouth.