To hell in a handcart

When T and I went into hospital for the induction of the birth of B (12 days late and definitely in need of chemical eviction), I tried creamed cabbage. Oh My God it was lovely. Cabbagey creamy nutmeggy yumminess, and I wanted to share it with T as part of my attempts to be enthusiastic about his necessarily changed diet.

So Wednesday saw T going off to work as normal, and me staying at home with B.  We (I) had big plans for dinner involving the George,* some chicken, some roasted carrots and parsnips, and some of this creamed cabbage. Mmmmm.

In between running round and round after B (who can walk / sprint, but who is in constant danger of hurtling into / onto / through things that will hurt him), visiting the doctor myself, and receiving T's mum and step-dad for a flying visit (more on this later), I managed to par-cook the carrots and parsnips, and shred and cook the cabbage.

I thought that I could quite easily replicate the creamed cabbage I had by blending cabbage with yoghurt and a good grating of nutmeg. It took aaaages to blend, and when I finally tasted it, I found that I had replicated very well!

Unfortunately, what I had replicated was not the full and wholesome flavour of the creamed cabbage that I had eaten before, but the somewhat less wholesome flavour of bile. You know when you've been so sick that there is nothing left to come up and so evil tasting stomach juices are painfully hacked up your gullet instead? I managed to replicate that. Genius.

Mum had come to visit, so naturally, I offered for her to try it for herself.  I would have thought that seeing me spitting it out and heaving might have put her off, but dauntless gastrophile that she is, she was game and gave it a go.  Same reaction.

So I put some in a ramekin to save for T's dinner.

Now, about T's mum and step-father's visit.  I find it very hard to talk to T about his disease because I have read so much about it, and I don't know how much exactly he knows, or wants to know.  Ditto T's mum who seemed to be under the impression that Type 2 Diabetes isn't  serious as long as you don't eat sugar.  I told her some of what I'd learned and stressed that T is planning to be proactive in managing his condition. It's difficult because T himself doesn't have much information about how he has been affected already, and what to expect for the future.

Anyway. Dinner was abandoned at the point that I had a meltdown and seemingly dropped a bit of everything I tried to move.  I called our local curry house and got them to run through the menu with me to see what T could eat. And so, after B had gone to bed, we had Lamb Rogan, Tandoori Chicken, Chapatti, Bhindi Bhagee, and Pilau Rice. Since I thought that Bhindi Bhagee would be a bit like an onion bhagee, but made of whatever bhindi was, I ordered two of them.  It turns out that Bhindi Bhagee is okra (a green vegetable also known as Lady's fingers with a pretty, almost star-like cross-section) in a spicy sauce. Very yummy, but I think we should only have ordered one portion!

T had diet fizz with his, and I had water.  I hope that was an okay meal - who knows?!

In the evening, T broke the news to his dad, who he had been unable to reach by phone for a few days. Apparently (and unknown to him - otherwise he would have been to the doctors sooner), T's paternal grandmother and great grandmother were diabetics. T also told the younger of his two brothers (the only one with whom he speaks).  T said they took the news alright and were supportive.

I don't know, but I think that if it was me instead of T who had been diagnosed with Diabetes, I would feel embarrassed about it.  I don't think that there is anything to be embarrassed about, but I think it is one of those irrational feelings that would creep over me.

T's colleagues already know, and have been predictably merciless in their mockery - they refer to his food as being bird food, they've suggested that he will eventually chirp when answering the phone at work instead of speaking, and have been arguing over which of them will get to eat his share of office birthday cakes.

Perhaps I should make some creamed cabbage for him to take in to them.

*A George Foreman (spelling?) health grill, affectionately known as 'George', or 'the George', and from which (in our house) comes the verb 'to George' as in 'Let's George us some chicken!'