Rum Shrimp and Butternut Squash Ravioli Alfredo

Mom and dad invited the missionaries over for dinner tonight, so I offered to quickly throw something together for mom. It would be best if we don't tell the missionaries that the dishes was cooked with rum.

I present to you butternut squash ravioli drizzled lightly with Alfredo sauce and topped with rum sautéed shrimp seasoned with garlic, nutmeg, cinnamon, and allspice, accompanied by butter herb asparagus, crisp snow peas, and fresh tomatoes  finishing off the dish.

Romanticism of Death

I had a friend once say there is “something romantic about Death”, yet very wisely understood that it is only one's own death that is romantisied -for the remainer of us the bitterness of the one's death is cruel. My parents have long romanticised over their own death, as many people do who come to that stage in their aged life. To the uncomfort of his children, dad has for years been discussing the inheritance that each child will receive. Ironically, I realize that the paintings I have given my parents will one day return to me. Although mom doesn't often bring up the subject, she too has recently broached her own burial. My parents long ago purchased burial plots in St. George, the place that I identify as home, but now mom has recently expressed the desire to be buried in a small farming town with the roots of my family, in Goshen Idaho. I realize that I do not have many years remaining with my parent and what little is left must be cherished. 

Today I have been studying human development across the life span. As I read, I cannot help but to romantise upon my own death -when and how it might take place, and what will come of my memory. In my romaticised view, in the day that I die, I would like the vestage left behind to be burned to ashes. I would not have those ashes reside in an urn on a dusty book shelf, but rather mixed into the earth of my secrete garden with a young seedling planted above. As the colourful maple's roots penatrate deep into the soil, the reminants of my existance will give life and beauty to the world around. 

Image taken from lightcapturephoto.com

Work of My Hands

Dancing upon the taste buds, a chef's work delights the most refined of palates. Yet a less refined palate would have no less of an appreciation for the delicacy of a French pastry.

Meticulously ground into cold pressed linseed oil the purest of pigments shimmer vibrantly along the corridors of an architectural wonder. It is a work of art contained within a work of art. A child's crayon scribbles are of no less value than Monet's oils.

Metaphorically written pros have been known to move the nations. Wars have been fought and nations have been born under the allspice of a feather quill. Did not God himself write upon the stone with his finger? The world moves by words.

What then, I ask, is the work of my hands? I like to think of myself as an artist and a poet, and I certainly enjoy food, but the works of my hands in these has yet to prove itself. I put paint on a canvas and call it art, but a child's crayon probably would sell for more. And how I wish I could write to move people, but I misplace the words. I certainly can't write upon stone.

I ask again, what is the work of my hands?

Paix Bouche = Peace Mouth

Fighting crime at nigh, fighting micro-organisms by day.

It will probably be the only time in our careers that we are allowed to practice medicine in flip flops and tee-shirts. We take full advantage of it. 

My health education activity went well.

My co-clinic coordinator and myself after a successful clinic. 

Returning from the clinic with the afternoon shift. (I wasn't able to get a group photo of the morning shift.)

This is the work of my hands. My work is that of the children. They are the stone tablet that I write upon, the canvas of crayon, the delicacy of life. My work may not be visible to the world, but the future of the world is held in my hands.

The Freeway Effect

In order to improve my scores I've been trying something different this past month. I stopped attending lecture and have rather been watching the recorded lectures online. There are advantages and disadvantages to each system. 'Mediasiting' a lecture allows me to go at my own pace. I can stop and pause to take notes, or I can speed it up. Many students choose to watch the lectures at double speed. I don't do it often, but I have been guilty of double-speeding lectures when I'm behind. It's interesting to note that after a few minutes have passed you forget that you are watching the lecture at an accelerated rate. Once in awhile the webpage has need to reset itself, and when that happens the lecture restarts from the cue where it left off but at normal speed. It takes a moment to realize what has happened, but before realization hits you ask your self "Why are they speaking so s-l-o-w-l-y?" I call it the Freeway Effect. Inertia is propelling forward at a pace that has not equilibrated with present.

I've always walked a little slower than most, yet my life is racing by at an uncomfortably dangerous pace. I try to take moments to enjoy the sunset, but I'm on a freeway without rest stops or lookouts. Am I to become accustom to the day disappearing into the night, or will I forever long for the slower paced life?

5K

One of the clubs that I'm involved with held a fundraising event today -a 5k race. I volunteered to help with the race and was delighted to be given the task of photographing the race at a certain location. Many of my shots of the runners were pitted against this lovely rainbow. 

Where I Stand

"Why fit in when you were born to stand out?" -Dr. Seuss

Caring Hand

A random thought that I had during lecture today.

Doctors of old were part of the family -they came when called upon, often being able to do very little but offer sympathy, and wait while their patient died under their caring hand. The physician was valued. Today medicine is industrialized. By yesterday's standards doctors perform miraculous on a daily basis. Despite their greater ability in healing, physicians are valued less than they once were. Is it because the physicians of today no longer heal the soul in treating the aliments of the flesh? or is there something else at work?