On dealing with the particular ravenousness that occurs with steroid treatment — keto chicken soup edition

Yo.

Slept all day from the muscle relaxers. Not too terrible. But I have been so ravenous all damned day.

Trying to be moderately low carb, as the whole reason I am in this situation is that I lost a bunch of weight then gained it back and my back hates me. So does my closet, but that’s a different story.

Behold!

Egg drop chicken soup with veg noodles.

What you’ll need:

  • 2 packs of chicken thighs with bone and skin (deliciousness bone brothiness)
  • One pack of Walmart broccoli shredded Cole slaw mix. It’s in the veggy section — it’s got carrots and some purple cabbage, but not enough to un-keto or un – deliciousness it.
  • 1/4 cup of lemon juice
  • Water to cover all the veg and chicken
  • 4 eggs
  • Xantham gum, 1/2 pack of the Hodgson mills stuff
  • Spices: salt, pepper, paprika, garlic powder, onion powder, sage, parsley… and whatever else you’d want to throw in to make it tasty to you

what you’ll do:

  • Throw your chicken thighs in the crock pot.
  • All your spices, lemon juice, veg shreds, water.
  • Set it on high for six hours or longer. However it works for you as long as the chicken falls off the bones.
  • When it’s looking about done, ladle about two cups of broth in a separate pot and turn your eye on high.
  • Sprinkle your xantham gum in while whisking.
  • Crack your eggs in whatever dish you have conducive to holding scrambled raw egg.
  • Pour in slowly, stirring continuously
  • When egg is done (like 5 seconds later) pour eggs broth back into crock pot.
  • Enjoy!

And that’s that. You can dress up or down how you want, but it is the bomb.

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Random tangles of incomprehensibility going on in my cranium whilst immeasurably stoned on muscle relaxers

Afternoon.

Well, after my ubiquitous er visit last night due to being unable to walk, I am couch ridden on nsaids, steroids and muscle relaxers. With my wonderful and accomodating husband who is currently making chicken bone broth in the crock pot for egg drop soup… with sautéed veggie noodles.

I wanted to discuss some reasons I nuked my blog. I stated earlier I didn’t think my blog reflected who I was. I felt like I was wring for other people and not for me. I felt I couldn’t get out what I needed to get out to accomplish what I need from blogging. I needed to work through my shit, but then I started having to curate my thoughts because I was afraid. I’m a coward.

In this point in my life I don’t want to be afraid of what others think of me. I want to get the horrible anxiety thoughts out. But I was accused of complaining, being petty, being overly dramatic. All those things.

But, see… I put my mental garbage here. This is my therapy. These are things I want to talk about.

That’s all.

The Incomprehensible and Overstated Necessity for a Nacent Cognitive Framework

It’s strange that in my life I only ever want to start fresh when things are utter shit, but that’s not entirely true. Not right now.

I want to write… in a different direction. I want to scrub clean the slate. Hell, if I could change my name and move to faraway lands, I would.

For a being whose whole existence has been transient, I am shackled. By love. By property. By contracts. By need.

See, I was a single gal in the big-city with big-city problems and big-city dreams. Then I gave up my big-city aspirations and went rural. Literally.

I now live on a farm. With a husband. And a need to nest.

But I’ve lost my big-city energy and fell into some inertial aether where nothing feels real. I’m supposed to always feel on the move, anticipating change and flux. I’m always expecting the bottom to fall out or the ground to shake, but nothing.

I am stationary.

And it is weird.

I try to have projects. So many. I’ve picked up various new hobbies I can’t keep interest in.

I stopped drinking. Mostly because my husband scolds me (the husband being the main anchor in my new stationary life). Also, because alcohol is bad in terms of baby making.

Apparently that is my life.

When I was big-city lady, my semi long distance beau would drive an hour and a half, after not having seen me for weeks — all kinds of wanting — and even though I may not have been in the mood — erascible as my doctor would say — I took it for the team. For love. For equity. It was never assault. And I would castigate anyone who promoted that conjecture. It was my sacrifice. My hill.

Now that baby making is a thing and there are calendars and windows and fluids involved, I get the ill timed “but I’m tired”, “not in the mood”, “full”, “bloated”, “constipated”, “dirty”, et cetera.

Those things. It feels unfair, all my “those things” and I still acquiesced.

Now the I married the man I realized his definition of “trying my hardest” differs from mine.

And fucking money. I’m so tired of talking about goddamned fucking money, like it is the only thing saving our marriage and if would crumble if we had none.

But then there are the crowning moments of heartwarming — like him helping me to the toilet because I fucked up my back again.

Marriage is great.

Oh yeah, I fucked up my back. Hence, me making tangents in my brain and needing something new.