Bread and Plumbing: Part Three

 

Steamed

Even in a big town, there are only a handful of well-known appliance dealers. The one we just crossed off our list was one of the biggest and most respected, which made the sting of warranty rejection all the worse. What do you do when you have no recourse? No remedy?

You turn around, shove your hands in your pockets, hunch your shoulders and shuffle off, enrobed in bitterness, kicking rocks as you mutter sour grapes.

There was absolutely no way we were buying at the big box place, nor at Sears (which even ten years ago was only a shell of its former self).

Luckily we were able to find a local mom and pop appliance showroom in a neighboring town, so one Saturday morning my wife and I took an excursion to go check it out. The store was neither huge nor glamorous in any way, but it was friendly and boasted rave reviews.

We were greeted by the owner, a seasoned-looking but genial guy who could be your uncle Dave. He asked what brought us in, and I said we were looking for a new range (though I fought off the urge to say “our minivan out there”).

The manager brightened and began gesturing toward various models with a sweep of his hand, and we began to walk through the rows of appliances. He touted the pluses and minuses of the typical offerings from Samsung, LG and Fridgidaire; nothing we hadn’t seen before. Then he happened to call attention to another brand we were familiar with for their superior vacuum cleaners: Miele. And as he gave us its story, we began to realize that it seemed to be a complete stand-out, boasting a ton of very smart features: front-side controls, high thermal output burners, a convection oven and a wifi connection.

Then he said the words “Baguette Mode”.

Say what now?

Yes, its true. This Miele range had a mode that was specifically for creating baguettes.

This is where I wanted to stop him and say “Shut up and take my money.”

That’s all I needed to see. No price was too high! Baguettes! No doubt it would do a perfect job making them, because how else could you tout a mode just for this type of bread?

I tuned back into his spiel as he mentioned where the water line attaches.

The what?

Yes, a water line. Into the range. It uses water. To make steam. Because baguettes need steam, as I mentioned earlier.

I pursed my lips thoughtfully, stroking my chin as I squinted at the ceiling, thinking hard about how it could be accomplished, given our fairly recent kitchen remodel. The range would have to drop into the custom range slot we had already created very specifically for the dud currently occupying that position, but fortunately the width of the new range was exactly right. And then it would need a water supply line and valve in the wall behind it. I recalled that before the remodel we had kept the refrigerator in the place where the range sits now, and there was a water line in the wall at that time. I figured it couldn’t be too hard to get that all hooked back up. After all, the pipes should be there already.

We said we were sold on it, plunked down the cash up front and purchased it right then. Delivery schedule depended upon manufacturing and shipping times, which put us out about two months in the future. That should give me plenty of time to work out how to get the water service re-established in that wall.

Later that weekend I sat down and scanned through some old videos I had taken during the remodel process, paying particular attention to the scene in which I scanned the walls where the refrigerator and cabinets had been. In the bare studs it was easy to see the electrical service that was roughed in, the gas line and the conduit for the range hood. But the one thing that was missing made my heart sink: they completely removed the old refrigerator water line. I had video evidence that showed conclusively that any plumbing that had existed for the refrigerator had been completely and aggressively removed, with prejudice. Like razing the village and salting the ground. No more refrigerators here, by jiminy!

So that complicates things a bit but doesn’t ruin it completely. Any plumber worth his coveralls can install a water line. And the job should be simplified by the fact that we can exactly point out where the previous pass-throughs and hangers for the old pipes are.

All I needed to do was find a plumber worth his coveralls. How hard could that be?

Bread and Plumbing: Part Two

A Slow Failure

So our range started failing.

It wasn’t that old, but it was apparently not the highest quality despite it’s well-known brand name.

It was one of those dual fuel things: a gas cooktop sitting on top of an electric oven. We had chosen that specifically because we had become convinced that gas was superior for cooking in terms of efficiency and heat output. So, after our previous electric cooktop ran its course, we opted to replace it for the dual fuel variety.

The gas burners were amazing: instant heat and a lot less costly to run, if not the easiest to clean. And for much of its life, the range’s oven was suitable for roasting, making casseroles, broiling garlic toast, baking pizza and doing just about everything else. It usually ran about 15 degrees cooler than what it promised but otherwise performed adequately.

Until it didn’t.

At first, there was the random failure of unknown error. This happened if the oven control touch screen was ever splattered with spaghetti sauce or splotched by simmering stir-fry. It would simply beep and display the ominous warning: “Call for service”. This happened frequently as this touch screen was inlaid on the top of the front panel, in close proximity to whatever might be boiling or sizzling on one of the front burners. Fortunately it didn’t take much more than a quick wipe down of the touch screen to clear this error.

The range would also frequently warn of “low fan speed” as the oven’s convection fan began to fail. I learned that we could get around this error by just not using the oven in convection mode. But it wasn’t too much later that even this solid strategy failed to keep the errors and warnings at bay.

The range was just plain giving out. After fewer than five years of use.

Because we had smartly purchased (that is, we were talked into) an extended warranty from our trusted local dealer, I called them to request service. Since I had all the documents with me, I knew that the warranty was still very much active for our purchase, and I expected them to say something along the lines of “Oh, yes sir! We’ll have a technician out immediately with the proper parts and we’ll get your range back in tip-top condition.”

But after an eternity of looking up our purchase and the exact terms of our warranty, the gal on the other end of the phone merrily chirped that they were unable to cover this as a warranty service. Apparently, the extended warranty did not include the parts involved. Seems like a rather convenient omission. What else would need to be covered? It’s made of parts. Parts that wear out.

She went on to offer us a very minute discount on a brand new range if purchased from their store within the next three months.

I said, in words that I could not proudly broadcast here, “heck no,” and hung up.

We decided that we wouldn’t be patronizing this particular dealer any longer, and instead would be visiting some of the other appliance shops in the area. 

Bread and Plumbing: Part One

A New Hobby

Not long ago, during a certain global "situation", like most good folks who were concerned about the thought of our modern comfortable lifestyle being slowly eroded as we were forced to embrace a paleolithic existence of trapping squirrels for meat and hunkering down to quench our thirst at mud puddles while growling at encroaching neighbors, I decided to occupy my newfound abundance of free time and take up a hobby that I thought would be profitable and delicious.

I started making bread.

It’s a simple thing, really, blending flour, yeast, water and salt to produce what many have referred to throughout history as “the staff of life”. Bread is miracle in its own right.

And as I learned more about bread baking, I discovered the noble art of crafting baguettes.

Now, despite their appearance, baguettes are not a simple thing to produce. To the casual observer, this long, narrow loaf of bread looks as though it is simply constructed of a piece of dough rolled long like a snake and baked in a moderately hot oven.

Not so. As it turns out, they are so much more. Baguettes are a culinary engineering marvel, carefully constructed in such a way as to produce conflicting structural tensions that result in a singularly wonderful crusty exterior while simultaneously maintaining a soft, airy interior. It must do both very well, or be considered nothing more than a mistake.

The ingredients, the incorporation, the proofing, the kneading, the rise times, the shaping and the final cuts from the lame (pronounced ‘lamb’) are critical. As is the timing of the application of steam to produce that perfect crust.

The only practical way to achieve the requisite blast of steam in a conventional oven is to toss a cup of hot water into an already heated pan in the oven simultaneous with sliding the baguettes onto the rack. Poof, steam! Shut the oven door immediately to trap it, and let the magic happen. The crust forms as the exterior structure tightens, the interior expands and the crust strains. It is a delicious battle of proteins and chemical reactions, and the only winner is the one who pulls the completed crusty loaf from the oven and slathers that fresh-cut, still warm slice with butter.

Fresh baguettes are sublime and there is nothing like it for comfort food. Along with a pasta dish or a bowl of chicken noodle soup, it's the perfect companion for a lunch or a dinner at home.

Thus began my manic plunge into bi-weekly baking binges, producing loaf after loaf while perfecting my artistic skill.

Unfortunately, one unintended side effect of all of this baking was the steady deterioration of our range.

Higher Education

This morning was different.

In an enormously significant way.

Today, I did not drive Michael somewhere. He went on his own.

For the first time in his life, our son has driven himself to a destination for the purpose of learning, without our direct supervision or control.

It was just this year that Michael graduated high school, got his driver's license, got a car, took a friend to a movie, and started in the summer program at the local community college.

For his entire life, he had been struggling to find his interest, his occupational passion. But the last two years of high school offered him the chance to get into Materials and Manufacturing, which included working with metal - something he's always been interested in, to some degree. He discovered that he was very interested in welding. We discovered that when people around us heard he was interested in welding, they became interested in providing suggestions about how to get into welding programs, unions and career paths.

One random guy at a welding supply store overheard us while we were buying welding gear for Michael,  and offered to guide Michael into the local pipefitters union, because he himself was extremely short staffed. "We lose a lot of welders to other states; around here, very few new welders join up so if your son got into the supply, he'd have all the work he could handle." 

And in one of the oddest but heartwarming coincidences, it turns out the instructor of Michael's community college welding 101 course is none other than the husband of the lady who ran one of Michael's preschools (earlier stories here mentioned "the book"). He asked Michael if they'd met, and then described his mom and me, and explained who he was and how they were connected. So Michael has a familiar friend now at the conclusion of his school career, someone who had been there at the start of it.   

Last week, we had been driving him to school and dropping him off. 

Yesterday his mom helped him navigate the incredibly frustrating campus web site to buy a parking pass.

And today, when I asked his mom if I was driving him, he piped up "I'm driving myself." 

This is huge for him. A monumental step in his evolution as a person, as an adult, as a man. He's taking his first wobbly steps into real adult life. He has a goal, a path and a good start.

And just maybe, I can start actually planning on what his mom and I will do when it's just the two of us. 

Cats and Evidence

Michael has reached the ripe old age of 18, which is incredible to me. It seems like it was only a few years ago that he was running around the house pouring perfume on his head, cheating at Hungry Hungry Hippos or cutting up placemats.

He's in his senior year of high school, has a bank account, and he's learning to drive. 

But, being a kid on the spectrum means he's got some extra challenges.

Some of them are easily blended into the typical teenage boy behavior gamut, such as lack of attention to anything that doesn't appear on a screen, being constantly hungry, and "forgetting" to do his regular chores. Every parent battles those problems.

But he also adds in a healthy dose of obsessive compulsive disorder.

His current obsession is our cats, and their "safety". By this I mean whether they are inside or outside of our house.

Before I delve into this too far, let me make it clear: our intention was never to have outdoor cats, but during our home remodel project, which lasted eight weeks, there were walls and doorways missing for extended periods of time. There was simply no way to reliably keep them inside and still go about our daily business. Once they got a taste of the big wide world out there, it was useless to try to contain them. Fortunately they know where their meals come from, and they stick close to home.

However, in spite of their habits of roaming during the cool hours of the morning and returning each night before supper, Michael insists he has to keep track of them, and becomes incredibly worried to the point of near panic if one or the other goes missing for what he feels is an extended period. Like, two minutes.

It does no good to talk to him about it. Reassurances fall on deaf ears. Repeatedly pointing out the evidence that the cats return to us EVERY SINGLE NIGHT is useless. 

Each morning, either his mom or I will let the cats out. They're practically clawing through the sliding glass doors at this point, and shoot out of the door like rockets once the crack is wide enough to admit a slightly chunky cat body. 

Following directly on their heels will be Michael. He needs to be right with them at all times to know where they're going and what they're doing. And if one or the other climbs a fence to visit a neighbor's yard, Michael will be plastered to our side of the fence making kissy noises hoping to lure it back.

Every day this summer, you can find Michael outside - either in front or back - walking around stalking the cats. Some neighbors have been suspicious of the apparently aimless teenager walking back and forth along the sidewalks, and he has been confronted on occasion by a neighbor wondering who he was and what he's doing. 

I've reminded him that at 18, he's now responsible for his own actions, and if for some reason a neighbor gets concerned and calls the police on him, he's going to have to talk his way out of it himself. 

But again - all of my warnings, advice, reassurances and admonishments are unheeded. 

He insists that the only way to keep the cats safe during the day is to follow them and monitor their activity. 

He can only relax and return to his normal, cheerful, talkative self once the sun starts going down and we bring the cats in for their evening meal. With the cats in and their doors locked, he calms down.

This is what OCD does to a person. An otherwise reasonable, rational person will throw logic, facts and evidence - despite the depth and repeatability - out the window if that person has determined in their mind that the feeling is more reliable. 

By this point the groove is cut very deep. He is entrenched in his routine. His habits and rituals are strong and he shows absolutely no desire to break free.

Our task is to try to break the ritual and thus disrupt the habit. One way is to vary the time each morning the cats go out. One of his OCD ritualistic behaviors centers around being exact with time. If the cats don't go out at exactly the same time each day, this confuses the OCD process.

Another way to break the ritual is through distraction or removal. We get him involved in something else (an extra chore or helping a parent with something) to distract him from his self-appointed duties. This shows the OCD that it is not in control.

School will be starting up soon, and he'll be forced to be away from the roaming cats for hours each day during the week. I know he won't like that; it's bound to cause anxiety. This can be therapeutic, though, for the same reasons as above: it breaks the ritual.

He's crafted a strong and harsh prison for himself, but he holds the key. He's the only one who does. The walls and bars are impenetrable from the outside.

My prayer is that he will soon decide he's had enough of it.

Dreams and Visions

Do you ever have intensely vivid dreams? Dreams so real that it almost hurts to leave it; to re-enter the real world seems somehow foreign and obtuse?

Recently I had been reading and old journal entry from years ago about a dream I'd had. My recollection of the experience of this dream flooded my memory like it had happened just the night before.

The dream began with a simple family outing in our minivan. "I'm going to show you where I used to live," I said as I spontaneously took a freeway exit to drive through my old neighborhood. As we slowly drove the desolate streets, I regaled them with tales of this wonderful place; the shops and businesses, the amenities and local scene. I parked the minivan and we got out to stand in front of the largest of the remaining buildings, a three-story shopping and apartment building. I began describing in detail each shop and facility, where I lived and how we all worked and lived together here happily.

Then suddenly the dream changed from a narration to a flashback: I was at once whisked away to a brighter, happier time when the place was bustling with activity and merriment. Here now people lived, worked, laughed, loved, planned, built and prospered in a close-knit community under sunny skies. And then the dream changed into a news report with a montage of  images of shops being closed and families moving out of town, while the voiceover narration described the tragedy in sequence. Soon all that was left were darkened buildings, closed doors and empty streets. 

As I came out of the flashback and my own narration trailed off, I looked up at the desolate cinderblock edifice which stood on a wild, overgrown field while the cool wind and harsh sun pressed hard on it to yield back to the soil. The kids ran through the grass oblivious to the depth of significance the memories held for me. My wife stayed at my side and held my hand, listening and smiling kindly.

When I woke, the meaning of the dream hit me immediately. 

Just a week before, our company announced major budget cuts and devastating restructuring. Our group was one of many that would be impacted, meaning we would be focusing on new projects and new methods. It would also see the exodus of a vast majority of the team I'd hired on with. The "old team" was no more, and all that remained was a crumbling ruin of what we'd had, and bittersweet memories for those of us who decided to remain.

I think the dream is a lesson. Life is a journey, an adventure down a highway. There are stops along the way, but nothing permanent. Our experiences stay with us as memories, and they can be sweet, but it's important to not dwell where life used to be.  

A Callus Affair

We are currently enjoying week 6 of our adventure in skeletal fractures, with the rib pain becoming more of a footnote (with the exception of the pain they deliver when I'm riding in the passenger seat when my wife is driving and she makes one of her famous sharp left turns), and the humerus shaft now firmly joined by what the experts label the "Hard Callus" - a pre-mineralized cartilage profused with blood vessels and bone-building cells.

Rather than use a cast, the doctor decided in my case the best option was to immobilize my upper arm using something called a Sarmiento brace. This is a hard plastic clamshell sort of thing that secures with Velcro. It provides a Stormtrooper-esque level of protection: not enough to stop blaster fire penetration but plenty to keep the bones from shifting or getting bumped around.

My most recent X-ray was two weeks ago, and though my untrained eye would argue that the bones are still entirely separated, I was assured that there was callus formation going on. The fact that my arm aches nearly all the time is a good indicator that there's a lot happening; more than can be seen via X-ray.

Also, my arm doesn't wobble or crunch any more when I shift it. That is a huge relief. I had imagined a few years of living with an arm bone that would never actually join together and solidify, just forever flap around like a gooseneck filled with gravel. Every time I'd bump my arm it would send me through the roof in agony. There was one time I walked right into a door frame with my right arm, and the pain nearly made me pass out. And of course I will always remember when Michael decided to plop himself next to me while I was sitting on the couch, and landed his butt directly on my forearm. I swear I saw actual stars that time. His explanation? He had "forgotten" that I had a broken arm.

Each incident like this, and there were a lot of them (most entirely my fault), led me to believe that I'd never be able to heal naturally, that I would forever be re-setting the process back to square one, and that I'd need surgery like pins or a rod or an external fixator.

But no, despite everything, the healing process has gone very well, and I'm right where I should be by this point.

Physical Therapy is my new dread. To be fair, the fact that I'm at this stage now and I'm able to do the work is very encouraging.

But it hurts!

I cannot bend my arm down to my side due to tendon shortening, so that is an area of focus. I cannot squeeze my hand to grip things, so that is an area of focus. It hurts to turn my hand over, bend my wrist or touch fingers together. I cannot write or lift my hand to my mouth. All of these simple things will need weeks of work to re-establish.

It's a long road ahead.