August became September, or at least started to identify as September, as the Pennsylvania leaves started to turn and my gardening forays eased off. In the last few weeks of August, knowing I’d soon be returning to the land of Celsius (and less of it), I dug in to my work outside. Bare beds were planted with shrubs and perrenials, shored up with under-used garden furniture for the time being to keep them from being bounced into submission before they’d had a chance to establish. Rose of Sharon, which I discovered was actually a real plant and not just a pregnant character from the Grapes of Wrath (… oops, spoiler!) took centre stage. The hydrangeas, potted in the spring, moved not quite from Oklahoma to California, but from pampered porch pots to centre stage of the vacant lot in the yard. Wysteria filled a gap, agapanthus another, and heather found a home. My spade arm and leg may have paid the price but the resulting display was worthwhile as long as it could withstand the canine onslaught to come. A cursory attempt to brighten up the rockery at the other end of the garden didn’t help with the aches and pains, but it was a start. And it felt like some sort of foundation for a future with more investment in our Pennsylvania place together.
Of course, Jackson and the Shepherds supervised from up close, not exactly helping the process of dislodging rocks, or lifting previously installed matting designed to prevent invasive plants rooting. The Dane decided it was more fun stretching out on said matting, as if a Dane needs to stretch to take up space. So it was a slow process of transformation. Jackson, of course, needed entertainment, so probably protected me from further strain by reminding me to stand up and chuck a tennis ball for him a few times and take a swig from my steadily warming water bottle.
With the garden finished, and a dumpster filled with rugs, furniture and detritus from the basement, well past their use-by date and long overdue for disposal, it was time to get a first introduction to Arizona with Becky. This would be the first time, since our relationship had blossomed, that we’d be flying within the US together without a transatlantic flight being part of the package. A conference in Scottsdale offerred the opportunity to visit an upscale resort off-season, and experience another of the 50 states. A brilliant broiler of a resort (97F/37C in the shade) it turned out to be, abundant with wildlife, flowers, cactus – side by side with the guests, hummingbirds were largely undeterred from poking about in the flowers. Jackrabbits and cotton tails hopped about, and pairs of roadrunners beep-beeped silently as they raced after each other on toasty tarmac. Frankly if I’d had bare-feet in their place, I’d have been running and loudly ‘beep-beeping’ as my toes caught fire. Jackson wouldn’t have survived. Unlike my I-pad and phone he has no built-in shut down that’s not fatal in the heat, and he does love a good sunbathe. So he had to stay at home yet again. A road trip couldn’t come soon enough for him, but it would have to wait. We could chase hummingbirds together back in Pennsylvania.
Another attraction of visiting Arizona was to catch up with a friend in Phoenix, a guy called Jason I’d met on tour and almost instantly connected with. We’d meet him and his fiancee in Scottsdale on the evening after the last day of the conference where Becky was presenting. We hadn’t quite counted on the morning of the conference being as eventful, though. At breakfast we pushed the boat out to take advantage of the full cooked offerring: cereal, pastries, pancakes, bacon, blueberries, crunchy French toast. French toast as light as a feather and crunchified with almonds, Becky’s nemesis as she has a severe tree nut allergy and has been hospitalised so many times after giving in to a tempting but macchiavellian mouthful. This looked like being just such an occasion as the crust crunched, the question was asked and the nuts revealed, all in the wrong place and time.
Spitting out the remainder into an applejack cereal packet, she had still swallowed a morsel of the the toast but, tiny as it was, the morsel became the centre of our attention for the next several hours. Minutes passed, and the immediate threat seemed to subside, aided with first stage medication, but the next battalion was readied and the ultimate option of epi-pen within easy reach. It has to be said, neither of us had much appetite after that, but Becky (wo)manfully rose to the conference challenge, as much out of a need for distraction as responsibility.
I hovered nearby, checking surreptitiosly for signs of a rising rash or other scary symptoms. With hindsight, I’m surprised nobody challenged me for regularly checking out her legs and neck as she worked the meeting room, the first time I’d seen her in full workshop action – a sight to behold as she commanded a century of business school executives in full flow. But the workshop went beyond smoothly, surely offerring a minor boost of adrenaline as she took charge, even after being assaulted by a ‘deadly’ daddy-long-legs, of which she’s also extremely phobic. Maybe she didn’t need an epi-pen injection after all.
Post-conference that seemed as much excitement as we needed for now, and we were both getting a little hungry – hungry for food with a clear set of ingredients and no risk of hidden allergens. So shunning the conference catering, we headed back to the resort, where you could at least announce, as we should obviously have done before, what NOT to put in the food we order. Then a post-adreno-nap was called for as I took to the tablet to write these very lines – keeping a wary eye on the possible patient as I did so.
This issue of food allergy, and specifically the lax attitude to it in the United States, is a mystery to me. Not completely a mystery, as my youngest son has a proven serious, indeed multiple times life-threatening, allergy to peanuts. In his case he’s been stabbed with an epi-pen in as glamorous locations as Paris, his living room, and an M25 service station, all successfully. He’s so tall and well-developed as an adult that it takes two epi-pens to ‘bring him down’ nowadays. The most dramatic experience in his case was when, on the way back from work in London, he (1) picked up a custard danish that would probably have fed a family of four, (2) selfied and circulated his proud catch on social media as he took his first bite, then (3) sent a further selfie as his face blew up like a puffer fish thanks to some undeclared peanuts in the mix. Hence the motorway service station stop-and-stab and a night of observation by nurses, offerring strains of ‘Do you think he’ll be ok?’, ‘I think he’s still breathing’, and ‘Isn’t that Ryan Reynolds?!’
Anyway, back to the US attitude to food allergies. Given the litigious nature of the American psyche, I’m constantly amazed by the sheer lack of regard for nut allergies. Five Guys fries with peanut oil, unless this has changed since I last looked; the Marriott resort we stayed at had banana muffins with walnut ninjas lying in wait, as well as the already mentioned crunchy French toast. The conference, at a Hyatt venue, had what looked like quarter pound bags of nuts to energise or hospitalise delegates according to choice and consumption. Microphones in the workshop were passed from nutty hand to hand. Airlines regularly offer a choice of olives or almonds, but in the same packet, and garnish meals with unannounced murderous additions. In the gym, nuts are often the protein of choice. The same is true of beernut-laden bars. Great for vegans and vegetarians, gluten free and good for you, low cholesterol. Until they shorten your life abruptly. I could go on, but you’ll thank me for nut not doing so, I’m sure. Elsewhere they tell you in tv adverts that drugs meant to do good can kill, cause discomfort, give you cancer, be addictive, the list goes on. But with nuts, no. A devil-may-care attitude surely more suited to scenes in MASH or the Deerhunter. We need a committee to legislate, a nut-lobby, a congressional allergy alliance, or just, just maybe, an ounce of common sense, ungarnished. After all, I’m sure we’d rather hospitalised and hospitality were only side by side in the English dictionary.
International-Eyes.org 