An Invalid in the House

Yeah, well, who said going to the gym was good for you? My left foot, twice its normal, delicate size, is swaddled in an ice pack, my right wrist is sweating inside an ugly blue support guard thingey, and my bum hurts. 
7.30am Friday morning. A session with my personal trainer. Half asleep. Short warm-up followed by some stepping exercises … you know, onto a platform and off it. No dumb-bells today, he said, I want you to go faster to get your heart-rate up. I’ve always been a bit uncoordinated, last person picked for sports teams at school, the jester of the ballet class. Around me, elegant things in lycra working on quads, biceps, pecs. And what do I do? Mid-sentence, I mis-step. As in, I missed the step, for one heart-stopping nano-second was suspended in mid-air, then crashed backwards – ankle, wrist and bum taking the fall. Awful pain and a panic-attack-like response to the shock which was even worse.

“… the first and indispensable step, in every case of sprain, is perfect quietude of the part; a single bend of the joint will retard what nature has been hours in mending,” my decrepit copy of the American Housewife Cookbook (by Miss T.S. Shute, published by George T. Lewis and Menzies Company Philadelphia, 1880) tells me. “It is in this way that persons with sprained ankles are many months in getting well. In cases of sprain then, children who cannot be kept still, should be kept in bed, and so with many grown persons. The ‘swelling’ can be got rid of in several ways: by bandages, which in all cases of sprain should be applied by a skilful physician, otherwise mortification and loss of limb may result.”

A Good Poultice

At this point, I set aside Miss Shute’s work and turned instead for more reasonable invalid advice to the fascinating Antipodean Cookery Book and Kitchen Companion by Mrs Lance Rawson (George Robertson and Company, Melbourne, Sydney, Adelaide, Brisbane and London 1897). Wilhelmina (Mina) Rawson, who lived on cattle stations (ie, ranches) in northern Queensland and in the town of Rockhampton, was enlightened beyond belief  and I was sidetracked for a bit. Under “Food Value of the Bush”, for example, she writes:

“I am beholden to the blacks for nearly all my knowledge of the different edible ground game … Many people are disgusted at the mere idea of eating the white wood grub which the blacks are so fond of. As a matter of fact, there is nothing nasty or disgusting in these soft white morsels, any more than there is in an oyster. It is all a matter of taste. Both are swallowed alike; for my own part, I prefer the grubs parched before eating … I have never tried them in a curry, but feel sure they would be excellent.”

I moved on, through recipes for hop beer, rabbit croquettes, polishing paste, past marrow toast, jugged wallaby, old maid’s pudding and “Killing Day on a Station”, and on to “A Good Poultice”.

“Many a time the lonely Bushman suffers a matyrdom of pain rom neuralgia, cold earache, etc, etc, because he has nothing by him to alleviate it ... Yet while there are gum leaves to be got he can have nothing better. Let him cut the young leaves up very fine with his tobacco knife, mix them with some fat, if he has it, water if not, and boil them for a few minutes, then pour into a handkerchief or a clean woollen sock; put this into the place where the pain is, and in a minute or two it will give relief.”

But I have neither gum leaves, tobacco knife nor clean woollen sock to hand, so I kept searching. Mrs Rawson didn’t let me down. She recommends a “Good Stimulant for an Invalid”, the ingredients being “1 pint of new milk, 1 cup cream, yolks of 2 eggs, ½ ounce Swinborne’s isinglass sugar (a type of gelatin, I believe), 2 wine-glasses of good brandy.” Mrs Rawson adds: “This is excellent in cases of great debility, and with consumptive patients, if  given before rising in the morning, will often stave off a fit of coughing while dressing.”
With all due respect to Mrs Rawson and her considerable expertise, I don’t think mine is a case of great debility. I’ve followed the RICE advice – Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevate – and hobbled a bit here and there, and expect that by Monday, I’ll be back in the office. And, as for my invalid cookery, I’ve kept things simple – divine scrambled eggs with sauteed mushrooms and ham, reheated casseroles pulled from the freezer, toasted sandwiches – as cooking on one foot isn’t much fun. And tonight I might reprise this unpretentious, satisfying, light and simple combination.

Marinated Lamb Cutlets with Zucchini Mash*

(serves 1)

3 lamb cutlets
juice of one lemon
1 clove garlic, crushed
1 tbsp olive oil
2 medium zuchinni
1 tbsp olive oil
salt and freshly ground pepper
70g Bulgarian feta
big pinch of allspice (or two allspice berries, ground in a mortar and pestle)
juice of ½ lemon

Combine the lemon juice, garlic and olive oil in a shallow dish that will hold the cutlets. Make sure the cutlets are saturated with the marinade, cover with cling film, and return to the fridge for at least half an hour.
Grate the zuchinni on the largest hole of a metal grater. Heat a non-stick pan with a little olive oil and add half the zucchini. Cook gently without colouring for 2-3 minutes, and season with salt and pepper. Remove the cooked zucchini and repeat with remaining half.
Return all the zuchinni to the pan and heat through. Crumble in fetta, add the allspice and toss in the pan until the fetta is almost melting but still in small pieces. Drizzle with lemon juice and season to taste.
Heat a griddle or non-stick frying pan and cook cutlets on one side, for about two minutes, until they are brown. Turn and cook on the other side for another two minutes.
* I found the inspiration for the zuchinni mash component of this dish in an Australian newspaper’s recent weekend magazine. But I’m buggered if I can remember which one. Does anyone remember where it was?

Comments

[jules]

love lamb with zucchini & feta. looks lovely

[Lucy]

Why don't people listen when I tell them exercise is BAD for you!!!
I think Mrs Rawson's got the right idea with her Good Stimulant...all that brandy would set you up nicely for the day!
Hope the ankle gets better soon!

[Jane]

Damn Steph, oh no - poor sausage - is your foot too swollen to slide into those fabulous Preston Zly mules? That is hell incarnate!! (I know and worship the joy of beautifully crafted shoes) Thank God for the restful long weekend. Keep that leg elevated, and I hope your pain eases soon.

[Carolyn]

is it written in the female DNA that women should be fascinated by shoes? I know of a couple of 5 year old girls who nurture an abiding passion for shoes. It strikes me as the same genetic predisposition that makes most women love jewellry as well. My daughters have the shoes/jewellry genetic inscriptions for sure. But somehow they seemed to have jumped straight from my mother to my daughters. I thought only people with beautiful feet loved shoes, but that ain't necessarily so is it? Even as a kid I'd have rather looked in a sports shop or a book shop than a jewellry shop. Bits of shiny rock and metal are far more than the sum of their parts aren't they? For most chicks, that is. I certainly like some jewellry and shoes, but I'd get far more excited by a good cafe or produce store, a good book shop, a market and some glorious white nectaries, or the papery smell of a new book I'm itching to get stuck into. People who like smelling books... I don't think that's a gender based obsession...

[Jane]

Carolyn, as they say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

A beautiful artisanal object whether an item of attire or decoration is as beautiful as an organic hand baked sour dough loaf, a magnificent piece of prose, book binding, an item of sporting equipment or even a sprawling mass of lemon thyme creeping along a rockery. They are all an expression of, or by product of someone's passion, manifesting in a particular skill to be enjoyed and savoured by others.

As for an appreciation for shoes and sparkling jewellery, it appears not to be a fascination enjoyed merely by women and girls. My cats too have a fascination for both. There are times where they longingly bury their heads in an expensive shoe or attempt to accessorise themselves with sparkles. I wonder if they secretly wish they were people, while I in turn, envy their languid lifestyle?