Well, you know, I did not want to be an obnoxious patient but by the time I got to his office, I was concerned. The problem was not going away.
“I have the color thingy,” I said to my doctor. “I looked it up on Wikipedia. You didn’t tell me it might happen and …”
My eye doctor laughed and put down the eye drops he was about it use. It’s been a week since cataract surgery on my right eye and this was checkup number two. All is fine actually.
But I did hear an echo: “You call those socks matched?” I remember countless wives and girlfriends yelling that at me. Uh, not countless wives, I have only been married twice. And the first one did not yell much until she found out about one of the girlfriends.
I’m not digressing here. I have had a hell of a time matching up my socks. Black, dark gray, navy blue, navy gray — my God, I don’t know how I bought them all and I certainly cannot match them now.
“So,” and my doctor really began with this, “remember when you were in your twenties and you could match your socks?”
“Kinda,” I replied. We’re talking decades here.
“You began to lose your blue vision by age 30,” he continued. “It was all very gradual. You never noticed, you couldn’t notice, but year by year your world became less blue and more yellow. And now, with this surgery, in one day you’re seeing the world as it is for the first time in decades. The world is bluish.”
And it is. It’s amazing. My left eye, yet to be operated on, does see the world with the yellow lens that cataracts impose. But I’m right-eyed, so my color perception is driven by what I see coming in now: new, bright, and blue.
I’m back to normal now. Adjust to this new blue normal. It’s the reason I’ve been negligent in blogging. And in taking photographs and in using Photoshop. I wonder how that’s going to go?
I’m back to writing. If in these first few days my photos look a little too blue for you, please let me know. I know this really fabulous eye surgeon …
Oh, I was terrified going in. I hate eye drops. I could never wear contacts. The thought of watching some hand holding a scalpel and approaching my eye was keeping me up at night. “What if I jerk?” I kept asking myself.
Turns out not to be a problem at all. I was so drugged up, it could have been Dexter coming to finish me off with one of those butcher knife plunges through the heart. [Dexter is a TV character, a serial killer, who only does in bad people who have escaped the law; so while technically a criminal, most viewers tend to view him as a very personal vigilante. He works in Miami but most cities could use one.]
Time for a drink with Blue Curacao. Stunning.
According to NPR this week, unwashed eggs don’t have to be refrigerator. They come out of the chicken with a membrane over the surface that provides preservation. Of course, refrigeration is always helpful. So helpful, that eggs can last 2-3 months. So helpful, that the carton of eggs in the store — the one that announces it is “Farm Fresh” — can contain eggs that are really weeks old.
My Sunday eggs were really fresh. And that means different in look, taste and feel. This picture at the top has some special salt from, naturally, Trader Joe’s. But the picture below here shows the yolk, that wonderful yellow yolk that went so well with Suzen’s homemade bread.
Where to get fresh eggs? Well, farmers market. Perhaps someone in your community. Perhaps you. Yes, you or someone down the block. There is a incredible new movement of people raising chickens in their back yards. Even if they live in a city. Now, Suzen and I have three acres upstate but our deed forbids us from raising chickens. But our daughter Kelly has 1/3 of an acre inside the Seattle city limits and she can have chickens. Up to eight. No roosters. Kelly and her architecturally adept boyfriend Mark even made a home for their egg layers. That’s the final picture below. Kelly and Mark have been stops on the annual tour of Seattle chicken coops — yes, there is such a thing and they occur all around the country.
Over time, Kelly and Mark have become experts, as you might, in what breeds to house for their eggs. The national favorite is Rhode Island Reds because they tend to produce an egg a day. Pretty regularly. Although, chickens are a bit seasonal and they lay at different rates over the different seasons of the year. There are ways to spur their production. Apparently, visual display of sharp hatchet often gets them crackin’.
Look around your neighborhood, find those fresh eggs, and treat yourself next Sunday to an unsurpassed flavor.