“Everything is weird. I feel like a weird person,” Mom said when she woke up from her nap. “My brain’s not functioning.”

I have heard Mom say those kinds of things before. I was determined to distract her, but even as we drank tea together, Mom continue to tell me about her fears.

“I had horrible dreams about you,” she said. “I didn’t know who was in charge. It’s happening, one weird thing after another.”

I tried again to steer the conversation to other things, and again Mom circled back to the same negative feelings. “Everything is upside down inside me. I don’t know what I’m doing. I feel very strange at the moment. I feel depressed. Sorry. All the things I’m supposed to do but haven’t done. I don’t think I’m up to scale.”

The first thing I did was tell Mom she had absolutely no reason to apologize for expressing her feelings. I knew that talk would not dispel Mom’s mood nor would she remember what we had said to each other. So I got out the musical instruments. We banged out tunes fromCarmenwith our castanets and tambourines. We sang along with Barbara Streisand’s lyrical voice. We danced to the music of Michael Bolton. Then we sat down on the couch and took some selfies, giggling all the while. When we reviewed the photos, Mom pointed to herself and said, “She has a nice smile.”

How self-aware is Mom? She is obviously concerned about how she interacts with the world but at the same time she has lost her place in it. We started the rainy day with a short visit from my son and his family. Mom did not remember who they were or how they were related to her but she loved holding her 6-month-old great grandson. She even started singing the same nursery rhymes to him as she’d sung to me and that I’d sung to my kids.

Daddy had to leave soon after everyone arrived. I was keenly aware of balancing Mom's needs against the needs of my young family. I was aware, too, of some internal commitment I've made that keys me into Mom in a way other family members don't understand. I view it as my mission to protect her and create an atmosphere that is safe. For example, I don't mind goofily singing in their presence if it makes Mom happy or just staying home and looking at photos if it's raining.

What goes around comes around. As Mom played with baby Roi, I was again conscious of how much like a child she has become. The difference is that Roi is growing in his cognitive functions while Mom, who can still express herself in words, is shutting down.

It is unclear to us why or how Mom is still functioning at a reasonably high level. Daddy has watched friends who were diagnosed with Alzheimer’s at the same time as Mom descend rapidly into end-stages of the disease where they are unable to communicate. For now, even with all the difficulty, we are thankful for the moments of happiness Mom experiences with us. Let the lights of Chanukah be our guide. Let us light up Mom’s darkness for as long as possible. As we touch the edge of 2017, we pray that Mom remains present with us in the coming year.

This last week of 2016 is filled with the light of Chanukah. It is traditional on Chanukah to eat fried foods because when the Temple was rededicated by the Maccabees, they discovered a small container of oil to reconsecrate the menorah that would last for only one day but miraculously lasted for eight days, allowing time for more oil to be produced while keeping the menorah lit. Here’s a recipe for zucchini latkes that use a little less oil in the frying stage than the traditional potato latkes.

Zucchini Latkes

These light zucchini pancakes are an alternative to the heavy, oily potato latkes that I grew up with. Make sure you eat them with applesauce and sour cream.

1 large zucchini, grated (approximately two cups)

½ onion, grated

4 Tbsp flour

1 tsp baking powder

2 eggs

Salt and pepper to taste

2-3 Tbsp oil for frying

Directions:

Grate zucchini and onion and drain any excess liquids. Add eggs, flour, baking powder and spices. Mix well. Heat ½ Tbsp oil in a Teflon or ceramic frying pan then using a soup spoon, spoon contents into frying pan to create fist-sized pancakes. Press down with back of spoon to flatten latke. Fry on medium heat until latke browns on bottom. Flip and fry on alternate side until zucchini cooks through. Place on paper towels to drain excess oil. Repeat. Yield, about 12 latkes.

My mom’s instinct for social interaction is incredibly strong. When we are out on the streets of the city, we often pause in our rambling to say hello to people we know. Often, though, it’s random strangers who are targets of her sincere and infectious cheerfulness.

We stopped into several jewelry stores to check on the methods they use to remove rings. (Yes, I’m still planning to have Mom’s rings removed, though how we’re going to convince Mom to go along with it is another matter. And it does not help when Daddy cavalierly says, “They have to remove the fingers too!”)

In one store, Mom enthusiastically greeted a woman at the counter as an old friend.

“Do I know you?” she asked Mom.

“I think it’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other,” Mom replied.

I never know what to do in these situations. The woman was obviously confused. I didn’t want to blurt out in front of Mom that she has Alzheimer’s. Mom would probably be insulted and deny it. And by labeling Mom, I would be limiting the way this woman or other strangers viewed her. Most people figure out that something is not quite right, especially as she loses words along the way and her sentences become illogical.

“I think we made a mistake,” I finally said, stepping in to take Mom’s hand and lead her out. “But it is always nice to meet people with nice smiles.”

The woman visibly relaxed, and Mom, as a parting gift, gave her a big hug.

Everything was going well until we got back to their apartment for lunch and I got the text I’d been dreading. Our dear friend Sabrina passed away after a long, painful battle with cancer. We’d been expecting this since early Sunday morning when her condition took a turn for the worse. But it was hearing about Sabrina’s rings that really set me off. After her death, they were removed from her fingers and given lovingly to her six-year-old daughter.

There is such inherent tragedy in the end of a young life, with much left undone and unsaid. Sabrina was a fighter. She withstood the pain and deterioration of her body as long as she was able; we told her she could close her eyes, that her daughter was in good hands, but she stayed with us for another two days, fighting for life.

Rings and other jewelry naturally pass from one generation to the next. The diamond in my engagement ring belonged to my father-in-law, whom I never met; I inherited a ring from my father’s mother, one that had much sentimental value, and that was unfortunately stolen before I could wear it myself.

The slight fingers of a child are meant to grasp paint brushes and crayons and sparkly princess stickers not the jewelry of their mother. Sabrina’s cancer denied her the pleasure of knowingly and whole-heartedly sharing those rings with her daughter or future generations.

My mom isn’t in a frame of mind to be able to pass her rings to me, either. I have in my possession jewelry that Mom no longer wears, but those rings have been on her fingers for years, each one marking a moment in her life. Apart from her wedding and engagement rings, I particularly like the gold ring with a jade stone that Daddy bought in Hong Kong more than 30 years ago.

Those rings are signs of Mom’s vitality, of her very life force. I don’t want to wait for that moment of death to receive them. I also don’t want to deny her the obvious pleasure she receives from wearing them and showing them to me. Somehow, we must find a way to remove them gently and pass them to the next generation in a way that allows Mom the ability to share not only her love for us but the most sentimental treasures she possesses.

May Sabrina's memory be for a blessing. Each time I was with Sabrina during her extended illness, I realized that though she needed my help, I needed her, too. She will live in my memory as a strong, stubborn, caring woman from whom I learned many life lessons.

The minutiae of life goes on even in the face of death. The holiday of Chanukah starts this Saturday night. My daughter asked me if I could bake her gluten free donuts. If you’re issued a challenge like that, it is important to do your best to rise to it.

Gluten Free Vanilla Donuts

These donuts came out light and fluffy, and the fact that they are not chocolate is a plus in their favor. Can you imagine having a child who doesn't like chocolate?!! When working with a donut pan, make sure to fill each one only half way up as this batter rises considerably.

1 cup gluten free flour

½ cup rice flour

¼ cup potato flour

1 tsp gelatin

1 ½ tsp baking powder

½ tsp baking soda

¼ tsp salt

½ tsp nutmeg

dash cinnamon

1 scant cup sugar

¾ cup rice cream

2 tsp vanilla

Glaze:

1 cup confectionary sugar

2-3 Tbsp apple or orange juice

Directions:

In a large bowl, mix all dry ingredients. Add remaining ingredients to bowl and combine until mixed well. Grease each donut or muffin pan. Fill each about half way as these donuts rise significantly. Bake at 350° for 20 minutes. Cool on a metal rack. Meanwhile, mix glaze ingredients to form a smooth paste. Dip each donut in glaze. Let glaze harden. Serve.

We tried unsuccessfully to take Mom’s rings off today. In addition to her wedding and engagement ring, Mom wears four other rings, each one tightly hugging her fingers, so much so that even with liberal amounts of lubrication, the rings do not come off. She’s been wearing them for so long that her fingers have shaped themselves around the rings.

Mom does not have pain in her fingers from her rings. They are not (yet) cutting off circulation. But they look like they might.

The problem is, Mom won’t let either my dad or myself try to remove them. If we are to avoid cutting them, we have to be able to work them off each finger a little at a time, which may hurt if not irritate the fingers. I have visions of us putting Mom under local anesthesia in order to avoid a big scene.

Do the rings really need to come off? If the answer is yes, then we can’t let our fear of Mom’s Alzheimer’s stop us from doing the job. We’ve experienced Mom’s reaction to “invasive” medical procedures like a mammogram or taking blood samples, collecting urine or getting a flu shot. Each time we go back to the clinic, I weigh the significance of the test or procedure not only in terms of its importance to mapping Mom’s health but also to my ability to cajole, persuade, wheedle, charm or even bully Mom into doing something she is disinclined and incapable of doing. If Mom won’t pee into a cup on the first try, she may do it on the fourth or fifth. She may be willing to let me help her, or miraculously, do it independently. Perhaps bribing her with chocolate will do the trick.

Mom is on occasion aware of her weight gain. “I’m getting so fat,” she’s said as she’s dressing. The good thing is that a comment like that is soon forgotten. I’m sure most women would love to be blissfully oblivious about their appearance, or at least unselfconscious of their bodies.

Mom certainly has a higher caloric intake than she needs. And the amount of exercise she engages in—usually in the form of walking—is insufficient. That’s a bad combination for an older person whose metabolism is decreasing.

I’m reminded of a nursery rhyme from my childhood: “Ride a cockhorse to Banbury Cross to see a fine lady upon a white horse. With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, she will have music wherever she goes.” Let’s keep the music, but the rings might have to go.

A jeweler may be more kind to the rings (and fingers) than a surgeon, if we can find one who will saw them off. Imagine needing to own a saw to cut rings. The small circular saw a jeweler uses for emergency ring removal can actually be purchased for minimal cost on Amazon, though I can’t see us doing this ourselves. Apparently, once they’ve been cut, assuming it’s on the joint of the ring, rings can be soldered back together and resized. At that point, I’d just put them away. Mom would likely miss wearing her rings, but if we do have to go through it, we’ll only be doing it once.

If eating a good dessert gets Mom out of a funk, I might even prescribe a second slice. One of our favorite winter desserts is banana cake. If I find myself with overripe bananas, I’ll put them in the freezer until I’ve collected enough to make this moist flavor-full recipe.

Banana Muffins

Desserts that are "diet" can also be tasty. Here's a way to cut down on the calories without compromising on the taste. Don't just have one, though, eat three!

3 ripe bananas, mashed

1 banana, sliced

1 cup flour

2 tbsp sugar

1 tsp baking soda

1 tsp baking powder

¼ tsp salt

2 eggs

¼ cup oil

1 tsp cinnamon

1 tsp vanilla

Directions:

Beat eggs and oil then add sugar, vanilla, and mashed bananas. Add dry ingredients and mix to form a consistent batter. Place one heaping tablespoon of batter into each paper cupcake holder (size #3). Place a slice of banana on top. Bake at 350° for 15 minutes.

“Hello, who’s this?” Mom asks suspiciously.

“Hi, Mom,” I reply as distinctly as I can. “It’s your daughter, Miriam.”

Talking on the phone with Mom is hit or miss. Sometimes she’s sure of how to talk into the receiver, other times she’ll pick up her glasses or even a tissue lying by her bed before she finds the right contraption. When my brother Simon makes his daily call, he calls my dad’s cell phone. That way Mom can see Simon’s photo when she talks to him.

“Oh, Miriam,” she says, “how are you? Where are you calling from? When will you be home?”

I wonder how old Mom thinks I am right now, or if she can even conceptualize she’s 75 and I’m her child. And how do I answer? Do I go with straight facts, or just say something to amuse her? I’m calling, as I often do, to make sure both my parents are ok and to see how the day has been for them. I also call to help Mom mark time with something more interactive than watching the television.

“I’m in my house in Beer Sheva,” I answer. “I’m in my kitchen cooking dinner.”

“The other day I went into my kitchen,” Mom says conversationally, “as I had just finished folding and putting pieces of the white…”

“Chicken?” I prompt, for lack of a better word, as Mom’s train of thought fades away.

Mom mumbles something about the kitchen.

“What did you say?” I ask.

I hear Daddy in the background. He’s been listening in on our conversation.

“Tell Miriam what you said,” he prompts. “What do you think a kitchen is?” He is as curious as I am to know how she’ll answer.

“A kitchen is a place with a funny thing and a funny roof and sometimes you can find it and sometimes you can’t,” Mom declares. “And if you can’t find it, too bad.”

I start laughing. I can also hear daddy laughing. And Mom, still on the phone with me, is pleased she’s said something amusing, so she starts laughing, too.

All in all, a good bit of conversation. I have engaged Mom in the now, if only for a few small moments.

The warmth of her laugh resonates with me as I go about my chores.

Pears show up in our markets at summer’s end and continue their delicious appearance into the winter. Incorporating them into our standard fare adds a sweetness to the cold evenings.

Pear and Pumpkin Soup

Here’s a thick, aromatic soup that is just as good on a weeknight for two as a special weekend dinner with guests.

6 cups pumpkin, cubed

2 pears, quartered and cubed

1 large onion, chopped

3-4 garlic cloves, chopped

4 cups water (more for a thinner soup)

1 tsp cinnamon

Dash curry

Salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

Sauté onion and garlic in a large soup pot until onions start to brown. Add pumpkin and pears. Add water and spices. Bring to a boil then simmer on low flame for at least one hour. When soup cools, blend with a hand-held blender in the bowl. Serves six.

I stand at our meeting place waiting for Mom and her caregiver Sahlee and watch people walking down the path towards me. From far away, the people look tiny, and with my fuzzy focus, I can’t determine whether Mom is among them. Will I recognize them right away? What will give them away from this distance? Will it be Mom’s slow, sloping gait? The faded pink of her jacket? Maybe the white hat she always wears. Perhaps they’ll walk here from a different direction, come upon me while my back is turned and surprise me. Or maybe I’ll overlook them. What if—like a sinister fear playing out in my darkest moments—I don’t recognize them?

Finally, they are unmistakably in my sight. I walk towards them and wave to Mom but she doesn’t recognize me yet. When I’m a few feet away I call out to her.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, clearly puzzled.

“I came to see you,” I say, and take her arm.

We walk into the city and I can tell she’s in a good mood by her happy chatter. We enter a local coffee shop for a quick snack before Mom’s appointment with the hairdresser. We’ve found a French woman named Virginia to cut her hair, and there’s promise of a pedicure. This is the day’s goal—to successfully navigate these appointments as though Mom were a ship on rough seas.

We wait for Virginia to finish with her previous client. Mom slips into French as she effusively praises not only Virginia (“You are amazing! You look beautiful!”) but also her client. Then it is Mom’s turn. No problem getting her hair washed. No problem sitting in the chair. No problem sitting still as Virginia snips with her scissors.

The cut ends up being too short, but that means it will take time to grow and time until we have to do this again.

Then it’s time for the pedicure. Again, Mom is in top form as she somewhat reluctantly steps out of her shoes and places her feet in a warm basin of water. We’ve let her nails grow too long, especially as she’s started wearing closed shoes, but the pedicurist works gently to cut them properly. Mom and I sing with the radio as the pedicurist works, and overall, this too is an easy experience.

I am thrilled that we’ve come through this without any major kerfuffle. Past experiences have taught me to be cautious, to expect Mom’s sour anger telling me she can cut her own nails, that she’s not a baby, that I’m wasting my time. There’s only one more hurdle to go—cutting her finger nails. That will wait until we are back in her apartment.

Once we are back on the city streets, we stop at the grocery store to buy a few vegetables. As we take our purchases up to the cashier, Mom whispers something in my ear.

“I wonder how that woman got black,” she says, “and how she stays that way.”

I look up to see that the cashier is a young Ethiopian woman. Oh, my. Did Mom really just say that? Moving beyond the shock, I try to explain that the young woman was born with dark skin, but Mom doesn’t know the first thing about pigmentation or Africa or anything beyond her own shrinking world. I’m reminded of a boy from India I babysat who once asked his mom who had painted him brown. Or my 7th grade teacher who told me how her son’s relationship with his best friend in kindergarten was tested when the friend’s mother saw them together and loudly pronounced “but he’s black.”

Israel is a rainbow nation with citizens from all corners of the world ranging from Chile to China, from America to Africa, from Canada to Uzbekistan and all points in between. We strive to build together a society where those differences are both valued for their unique qualities and downplayed in social interaction.

None of that matters as we walk slowly—dare I say trudge—back to Mom’s apartment. Once there, I must cut her finger nails. Some are very long, others cracked and torn. I’ve neglected this task because I am afraid of what might happen. I would never forgive myself if I cut her accidentally.

I turn on the TV and start one of the movies my brother Simon has copied. All those lovely old musicals likeEaster Parade, An American in Paris,andCarousel. I choose Disney’sFrozen, because I know Mom loves the voices in the opening scene.

Unfortunately, the movie is not engaging enough for her to pliantly give me her hands. I put my hand in hers, then gently pull it towards me.

“You’re hands are so cold,” she cries, as I try to distract her. She wants to warm them but

before she realizes and hastily pulls away, I make one cut.

Mom tells me to mind my own business. I wait a few minutes and try again. I somehow manage to convince her to watch the screen as I surreptitiously cut one nail then another and another—despite her protestations—until I’ve succeeded in cutting them all.

Whew. Relief. My child mother has become a naïve innocent and sometimes I don’t recognize her.

“It’ll warm the cockles,” Mom would say when she made soup for us. We often joked about what cockles might actually be. Apparently, it comes from the expression to “warm the cockles of the heart,” which refers to the ventricles of the heart. What it alludes to is gratifying one’s heartfelt feelings.

Now that winter is here, I too, strive to warm my family’s “cockles.”

Beef Bourguignon

This dish will definitely warm your cockles. I was relieved that even my French daughter-in-law enjoyed it.

1 kilo beef, cubed (2.2 lbs)

3-4 Tbsp olive oil

10-15 whole shallots (or pearl onions), peeled

1 cup red wine

2 cups water

5-6 garlic cloves, minced

2 bay leaves

1 tsp coriander

1 tsp thyme

2 whole cloves

Salt and pepper to taste

½ cup flour

Directions:

Cut beef into 1” cubes. Dry each cube individually then coat with flour by shaking cubes and flour together in a plastic bag. In a large pot, brown cubes in oil on both sides, working in batches if there is not enough room for all of them on the bottom of the pot. Remove browned cubes from pot. Scrape bottom of pot then return cubes and add remaining ingredients. Bring to boil then simmer for up to 5 hours. Onions should melt in your mouth.

The day my brother Simon left, Mom threw a temper tantrum when she and my dad were out enjoying an afternoon stroll. She used the foulest of language towards him and refused to walk home with him. Daddy managed to convince her to follow him, but her anger persisted all the way into the apartment.

Was there a connection between Mom’s outbursts and Simon’s departure? There’s no real way to know, but perhaps Mom was telling us how much she misses him as best she can. Not that she remembers Simon was ever here. My guess is that after two weeks of having him in her home, accompanying her each and every day, she feels his absence without being able to verbalize it.

I feel blessed in being able to speak my mind, though sometimes I surprise myself. Our goal yesterday was to buy mom a new purse, one with less pockets and compartments so that it is simpler to open and find things in. Mom doesn’t really need to carry a purse, but it is a comfort item, and it gives her purpose to carry it. If she doesn’t have a purse with something in it—tissues, an empty wallet—she gets upset.

We visited several shops in town, then headed to the mall where Sahlee, our lovely caregiver, knew of a sale. As we approached the entrance to the mall, I started explaining to Mom that she had to give her purse to the security guard for him to check its contents, and that we then had to walk through the metal detector. That was about as easy as petting a wild tiger. The woman in line behind us started asking us to hurry up.

“Nu,” she said, that most Israeli of expressions, “what’s taking so long?”

Without even meaning to, I turned and grabbed her wrist. She was as startled as I was.

“Patience,” I declared, “we’re doing the best we can.”

I turned back to Mom, and somehow we managed to get through the security check with our dignity intact.

Not all handicaps are visible. I want to try and carry that thought with me as I interact with others.

There are two essential aspects to my week, each as central as the other. One is my Tuesday visits to my parents. The other is Shabbat which we celebrate by attending synagogue, eating hearty meals, spending time with the kids, and talking with good friends.

This Shabbat, I was privileged to spend quality time with my 5-month-old grandson Roi. I was enthralled as Roi actively and consciously rolled from his back to his front in order to reach an object on the carpet; as he grabbed a set of toy keys I held out to him and rotated his wrist so that they made noise; as he took pleasure in standing on my lap, tall enough, finally, to look over the couch.

This amazing child has no language. He has no words to express himself or explain movement, motivation, or desire. What is going on in his head? How does he know to do these things? How does he talk to himself?

How strange to think that as fast as Roi’s brain expands, and he learns to communicate, Mom is reversing towards infancy, her brain tangled and shrinking. A cruel irony.

Whole turkeys are sometimes hard to find here in Israel. There is an apocryphal story of the woman who ordered a whole turkey from the butcher emphasizing that she wanted it whole. When she returned to pick it up, she discovered that he’d cut it up to make it easier for her to cook. “But it’s a whole turkey,” he explained, “all the parts are here!”

We usually make turkey on the Shabbat closest to Thanksgiving. Of course, the meal wouldn’t be complete without stuffing. My kids wait all year for this.

Marilyn’s Stuffing

Here’s a savory stuffing recipe that will use up every stale bread crumb in your house. This is my mother-in-law’s recipe. I’ve learned many things from Marilyn, including the art of never staying still. Whenever she’d come for a visit, we were sure to find her painting or wallpapering rooms, washing dishes and clothes, and, when they were younger, playing with the grandkids.

2 Tbsp canola oil

3 cloves garlic, crushed

1 large onion, chopped

4 to 5 stalks celery, chopped

2 red peppers, chopped

1 sliced bread loaf

½ cup fresh dill

2 tsp parsley

Salt and pepper to taste

2 eggs

1½ -2 cups water

½ cup chopped walnuts (optional)

Directions:

Lay slices of bread on a large baking pan and toast in oven on 400° until they begin to brown. Using tongs, flip bread slices and toast the second side. Remove from oven and cool. In a frying pan, sauté garlic and onion until onion begins to brown. Add vegetables, dill and spices. Cook until vegetables are soft. Meanwhile, in a large bowl, break the toasted bread into chunks. Stir in vegetable mixture. Mix together water and eggs then stir into bread and vegetables until coated. Add walnuts. Stuff the mixture into the cavity of the turkey or chicken and cook according to the weight of the bird. Place remaining stuffing into a baking dish and bake at 350° until the top of the stuffing starts to brown.

We took Simon out to a fancy restaurant to celebrate his impending 50th birthday. We had a laugh-filled evening, despite it being harder and harder to take Mom out to eat. Mom can’t always remember how to use a fork or knife, or eat a sandwich, or she removes parts of the meal from the plate claiming it belongs to someone else. She purses her lips when we try to help and pronounces loudly that she is not a child. We try to placate her as best we can.

My dad, Simon and I reminisced about our growing up, and for the first time that I remember, talked honestly and openly about our family dynamics.

When I asked my dad if they’d ever considered having more kids—and Simon quipped that they’d actually thought about having less though the joke was on him because I’m the oldest—Daddy replied that only now does he realize that one of the things that stopped him from wanting more children was my mom’s nervousness in dealing with just two. I was surprised to hear this.

Yes, I remember Mom as being a nervous individual, a “nervous Nellie,” as she would call herself. Most of it revolved around Simon. Little things set her off—being on time to appointments, having dinner ready when my dad came home from work. And sometimes, it was big things. I remember when visiting Great Falls in Maryland we were young. Simon didn’t heed Mom’s pleas to stay away from the edge of the cliffs. In fact, he willfully tested Mom’s anxiety threshold. Mom was in a panic the whole time we were there. When Simon was older and learning to drive, Mom had to physically lie down on the back seat of the car because she was so scared to drive with him.

Were these perhaps early warning signs of Alzheimer’s?

I mostly remember Mom as a loving, caring, and doting mother.

The three of us talked while Mom listened as if we were telling her a story. She tried to join the conversation at the restaurant. “If I were Simon’s age today,” she declared, “I would be, I would be picking... the right ...thing to put on, the…whatever it is.”

To listen to her fumbling for the right words, to know that she has something she wants to tell us but is incapable of expressing it is so hard.

We are alternately amused and saddened by Mom’s erratic behavior. Simon sees her decline most clearly. The last time he was here was in February, eight months ago. From his perspective, Mom has deteriorated a lot. She rockets through an emotional repertoire that often includes anger. She has lost the ability to comprehend the meaning of words. The other night, when she was in the bathroom, I went to check that she’d flushed and washed her hands.

“I’m just washing my hands,” she said. I found her applying toothpaste to the back of her hand. “Oh,” I said, hiding my surprise, “that’s the wrong soap.”

Mom is susceptible to our emotional energy. One night, as we were driving back to Netanya from a night out, my fears of the road came to the surface (yes, I’m becoming more and more like my mom). I could feel my fear infecting Mom as together from the back seat we watched the car hurtling along the dark highway. Again, she could not quite express herself, but she told Simon, who was driving, to be careful of the lines on the road and the lights that she thought were veering towards us.

We got through it, as we do everything, knowing too, that we have the ability to affect Mom’s moods for the positive. After Simon’s birthday meal, we stopped outside to look at the gorgeous, brilliant super-moon. We sang a few moon songs and took photos of it. We skipped home light-filled and happy.

Eggplants thrive in warm weather. They are available year round in our grocery stores, and the longer I’ve lived in Israel, the more courageous I’ve become in cooking this vegetable. Eggplant is filled with vitamins and minerals, including B1 and B6, K, manganese, niacin, potassium, and folate. They are high in dietary fiber, and, when cooked right, extremely tasty.

Sweet and Sour Eggplant

My nieces Eliana and Tzipporah are impressive cooks who make the most amazing salads. This eggplant dish is based on one that Eliana brought with her the last time she came to visit. I’ve tried to make a healthier version of it by cutting out the frying process. Thanks, also, to my friend Robert for suggesting the ketchup.

1 large eggplant, sliced

1 large onion, minced

3-4 cloves garlic, minced

3 Tbsp olive oil

2 Tbsp ketchup

2 Tbsp teriyaki sauce

2 Tbsp sweet chili sauce

Salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

Slice eggplants in 1” thick slices. Lay them on a large flat surface and salt each slice individually so as to reduce any bitterness. Leave up to 20 minutes. Dry each slice and place on a cookie sheet covered in baking paper. Brush each slice with olive oil. Roast for 20 minutes at 420°. While eggplant is cooking, fry minced garlic and onion in remaining olive oil until onions are brown. Let cool. When eggplant slices are cool, cut into small pieces, and mix in onions. Combine remaining ingredients to form a sauce and pour over eggplant. Mix and serve.

My brother Simon is here for a visit! He is all laughter and warm hugs, and it is a pleasure to be around him. I arrived early at my parent’s house in order to spend time with him and with my parents; it’s not often we are together, the four of us, our nuclear family. We slip easily into our familiar roles, recalling family jokes, reworking the same silly arguments.

And yet, we are older now, perhaps wiser (and definitely crankier). How protective we’ve become of Mom. She is the planet around which we orbit, nurturing her as best we can.

Mom is never alone. One of us is always there to speak or sing with her. Simon is working to make old movies and musicals easily accessible on their new television so that Mom can be constantly entertained. We are trying hard to keep her stimulated.

Today, we gave my dad a few hours off and took Mom grocery shopping. Mom wasn’t quite sure what was happening as we piled the cart high with sundry items. She seemed confused by the stocked shelves and the back-and-forth of people all around us. She did stop with delight to coo at a few babies. Her main concern was where my dad had disappeared to. When I told her we were heading home to him, she complained that it was quite insensitive of him to leave her in the first place. When we were getting out of the car at their apartment, Mom had a small fit about removing her seat belt, as if we were taking something from her. But eventually we made it up the elevator with all our purchases.

At lunch, Simon and I started catching up on our mutual friends and sharing stories. He told me about one of his co-workers who is not only suffering from her own rare illness, but is now also contending with her father’s Alzheimer’s. His violent outbursts have forced his family to place him in a senior living facility.

“What a shame,” Mom tutted. “Alzheimer’s is horrible. We are so blessed that we don’t have any of that. We are so normal.”

The three of us looked at each other with knowing smiles. “Yes,” I said, “we’re so normal. Right, Simon?”

“Ah ha,” he chuckled. “So normal.”

I am grateful that Mom doesn’t realize her own illness. There are times when she is intent on understanding our conversations, asking again and again what we’re talking about and what we’ve said, even getting angry if she feels we’re excluding her. And then there are those times that she completely misunderstands. If it weren’t so funny, I’d be crying.

In the meantime, I look forward to spending more time with my family. They’ve decided to come to my house for Shabbat. I am mentally preparing for all that must be done before they arrive.

It seems that my daughter is suffering from low levels of B12 in her system. Whether this is a cause of celiac or one of its symptoms—or neither—is still unclear to us. At first she was half-hearted about the idea of eating special bread, but when she reacted violently to a slice of pizza, we knew there was no going back. In order to keep her feeling well, I’ve been experimenting with non-gluten challah recipes.

Gluten Free Challah

As a starting point to making this bread, I called my sister-in-law for her recipe. After playing with the amounts and ingredients, and trying to use what I had on hand, the recipe changed considerably. The consistency of this dough is more like cake than bread, but it does rise, and it browns nicely on top. And best of all, I can find these ingredients at my local supermarket. I decided to make small challah rolls instead of one large challah as I was baking for one person.

1 Tbsp yeast

2/3 cup warm water

1/3 cup honey

1 cup brown rice flour

1 cup gluten free flour

¼ cup corn flour

¼ cup potato flour

¼ cup oat bran

2 Tbsp unflavored (fish) gelatin

1 tsp salt

2 large eggs

¼ cup oil

½ tsp apple cider vinegar

2½ Tbsp brown sugar

Directions:

Proof yeast by combining yeast, water and honey. Let sit for 10 minutes. When yeast bubbles up, add flours, salt, and gelatin. Add eggs, oil, vinegar, and sugar. Mix well. Place into baking pan (or small muffin tin) and let rise for 1 hour. Bake at 350° for 20 minutes. As a way to keep it moist, bake with a small pan of water in the oven.

Dealing with a parent with Alzheimer's is mercurial, with ups and downs on a moment-by-moment basis and I often think I'm overly focused on the negative (though I know there is also positive). I don’t want to keep writing negative accounts about how Mom’s abilities are fading. They are, it’s true, and we just have to accommodate her slower gait, her confusion, her inability to hold a conversation. My dad gets an A++ for keeping his cool. I know that his bi-monthly support group enables him to share in a safe atmosphere some of the strange things that Mom does—and get feedback on how to deal with charged situations. This is an essential, positive tool for all caregivers.

One aspect of Mom’s behavior that has not slowed down is the speed with which she engages her emotional scale. It’s like riding a roller coaster as she moves from anger to laughter. We can’t predict what will set her off, though I think the anger stems from hearing parts of conversations and not comprehending them. Another thought I had was how like a child she’s become, and like a child, she demands attention. If a conversation is not about her, or does not include her, she becomes annoyed. I had that thought as Daddy and I both held Mom’s hands as we crossed a street together. She was in the center between us as if she were our child. I actually swung her hand about and started a song she likes to sing to try and change her mood. I was only mildly successful.

So now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, I’ll tell you about the laughter. We were stuck inside for much of the morning due to rain. When Mom started singing a song she knows about Christopher Robin and Alice (“Buckingham Palace,” based on a poem by AA Milne), I pulled out the song book we’ve been perusing,Rise up Singing,and there were the lyrics. My dad actually joined in, too, and then we did a rendition of “I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts,” and another one called, “My old man said follow the van,” an old English music hall song from 1919, and we were all happy, if just for a few minutes, and everything else fell away and Alzheimer’s didn’t matter.

Alzheimer’s didn’t matter. That made my day.

With a nod to Halloween this past week and Thanksgiving just around the corner, I want to share my pumpkin bread recipe. I buy a freshly cut block of pumpkin in the supermarket every week and it makes its way into many of our dishes, including soup and stir fry or even roasted vegetables.

Pumpkin Bread

Serve this bread as a side dish to any meat meal. It’s almost like dessert.

½ cup oil

2 eggs

1½ cups sugar

2 cups pumpkin, mashed

1 tsp cloves

1 tsp cinnamon

1 tsp nutmeg

2 cups flour

½ tsp salt

½ tsp baking powder

1 tsp baking soda

Directions:

Chop pumpkin and place in a small pot. Cover with water. Boil then simmer until pumpkin can be pierced easily with a knife. Drain and mash. Whisk oil and eggs then add sugar and mashed pumpkin. Add spices and salt. Add flour, baking powder and soda, and mix thoroughly. Pour into two loaf pans. Bake at 350° for 40 to 50 minutes or until browned on top.

When my dad was away in September, in my naiveté, I thought it would be easy to drive Mom and myself and her caregiver Sahlee to my home for Shabbat. Mom expressed joy at going to see her grandchildren, and even coming with me to synagogue. Throughout the two-hour journey, Mom commented on the long straight road that seemed to lead nowhere. But she wasn’t unhappy. We listened to the radio and hummed our own tunes, and the trip seemed, to me at least, short.

Almost from the moment we arrived, Mom told me she needed to go home.

“I have things to do,” she stated. “You are messing up my schedule.”

I tried the trick I’d employed in Netanya when she thought she wasn’t in her own apartment. I took her on a walk around the block. When we saw my friend Gaby, Mom was friendly and chatty. Then we got back to my house.

Mom was the angriest I had ever seen her. She yelled and called me filthy names. She rattled the locked door and raged at being held like a “prisoner.” In desperation, I call my husband Jeff at his office. He came home to help us. He took her out in the car, and when they returned Mom was in a brilliant, sunny mood. She was willing to eat some lunch, but refused to lie down despite her exhaustion. Still, she repeatedly asked to go home.

It was clear that we had no choice but to take Mom back to her own apartment.

After Jeff got home from work, we ate a quick supper, then drove the two hours back to Netanya. As we stepped into the dark apartment, Mom contritely thanked us for bringing her home, then headed straight to bed. We spent a quiet Shabbat keeping her calm, taking long walks, even longer naps, and avoiding the subject of my absent father.

When my dad suggested they come for the holiday of Sukkot, which was last week, I was nervous that Mom would exhibit the same behavior. I tried to do as much cooking as possible in advance, but the day leading up to Sukkot—only one day after the end of Shabbat—was impossibly tense. I think I managed to hide that from them, and with the start of the holiday, I did visibly relax.

Having my dad here to calm Mom made all the difference. He was the ameliorating factor in helping her navigate being away from her own home. Two incidents, however, highlighted for me the precariousness of the situation. After our lovely meal (if I do say so myself) in our Sukkah, Daddy started helping Mom get ready for bed. This was not in itself simple as Mom didn’t remember how to go from her room to the bathroom. Neither did she want to change into pajamas. Finally, as she sat on the edge of the bed, she started putting on her shoes again. She clearly wanted to go home, and it took all of Daddy’s persuasiveness to change her mind. More than words, his physical presence was what soothed her angst; he lay down next to her and she fell asleep.

At some early hour of the morning, Mom woke up to go to the bathroom. Unfortunately, she turned the wrong way down the hall and ended up standing silently by my daughter’s bed. It’s not clear how long she stood there, but her staring eventually woke Liora with a start. At about the same time, Daddy realized Mom was no longer in her bed.

“Who is that stupid person?” Mom hissed as Daddy coaxed her back to her room. “What is she doing here? Get her out of here.”

“It’s me, Liora,” Liora tried to explain. Mom had no concept that she was talking to her granddaughter.

All of this leads to a subject that my dad and I are perpetually discussing: When should he and my mom move to their new home which is right down the street from me? The current plan is next fall.

I am advocating for them staying in their current location for longer. After 20 years in the same city, they have built a network of friends. There are many activities that Mom attends on a weekly basis, most importantly the Monday classical music concerts, not to mention her monthly poetry circle. The city is in walking distance and there is much to see and be distracted by. Their doctors’ office is close, and my grandmother, Mom’s mom, is still alive at the age of 101 and lives a short walk away.

Daddy feels that he must move before age makes it more difficult for him. He wants to have the strength to assist Mom in the transition to a new home, a seemingly staggering challenge. What we’re ultimately arguing about is how difficult that transition will be and whether they should wait until Mom is more incapacitated, and thus, my thinking goes, easier to handle.

And so we go round and round. We watch with sadness as Mom’s conversation devolves into nonsense, as her walking slows, as she reverts to a more childish nature. Where will she be in a year’s time? What skills will she still retain? Ultimately, I will acquiesce to Daddy’s decision.

As the weather cools, I automatically start making soups to keep us warm. While I’m happy eating the standard carrot-pumpkin-sweet potato variety, I also like to branch out and try new tastes. This is the mushroom leek soup we served during Sukkot.

Mushroom Leek Soup

The earthy taste of this soup is like a herald of the coming winter. While mushrooms are available all year round, their peak growing season is the fall. Choose mushrooms that are evenly colored and without blemish. Store them for up to three days in the fridge but use them as soon as you wash them.

2 leeks, chopped

1 large onion, chopped

3-4 garlic cloves, chopped

2½ containers mushrooms, chopped (8 oz or 225 grams each)

¼ cup red wine

2 bay leaves

1 tsp parsley

4 cups water (or 6 for a thinner soup)

¼ cup cooking cream (or non-dairy rice cream)

Salt and pepper to taste

Dash hot pepper flakes

For garnish: a swirl of cream and chopped chives

Directions:

In a soup pot, sauté garlic, onions and leeks until onions start to brown. Add mushrooms and spices and sauté for another five minutes. Add water and wine and bring to a boil then simmer for 45 minutes. When soup cools, remove bay leaves and add cream. Blend soup. (I use a hand-held blender right in the pot.) Serve each bowl with a swirl of cream and a few chopped chives.

When I was younger, I remember visiting a friend with a new baby. I must have obsessed about the baby crying, worrying and wondering and questioning how the friend could let her cry so. I don’t remember the sequence of events, but all of a sudden, the friend turned on me and, in an attempt to hurt me, told me I was just like my mother.

Back then, without the experience of my own babies (who sometimes cried uncontrollably) or the closeness that grew between me and my mom (when those babies were born), I was terribly insulted.I am nothing like my mother!I wanted to scream.

With time, I’ve realized that the appropriate response to that old-but-not-forgotten insult should have been, “Thank you for the compliment.”

Most of us experience it one way or another: a difficult yet loving relationship with our parents. I know there are people who do not talk to their parents—and do not want to. In my life, I’ve been blessed with closeness to my family, though I do admit there were times—years in fact—when we were at loggerheads.

We may look like them, have similar mannerisms, voices, or stances. We may lead our lives in harmony or, more likely, chart our own path to be their opposite. We learn that our parents are fallible and despite the difficulty, we have the power to forgive them for their real and supposed offenses. We realize that the traits that make us unique are often inherited. We also learn that we must accept those traits so that we can ultimately accept not only our parents but ourselves.

When I took care of my mom for two weeks while my dad was away, we spent such intense time together that I could anticipate Mom’s mood or the song she wanted to sing. When I helped her fall asleep, lying next to her on my dad’s bed, I noticed we would curl up like two identical book ends. I lay there in the quiet of their room wondering in what other ways we were similar.

My mom has always been sweet, helpful, and giving. She continues to be outgoing and friendly despite the Alzheimer’s. She loves social interaction. She stops on the streets to chat with old friends (who recognize her—Mom can't remember most people she meets) or even women in brightly colored dresses. She coos loudly over cute babies and bends to pet small dogs.

I guess I’m like that, too. I find it important to make eye contact with people who are walking by, as if acknowledging them augments my own place in the world. When my 17-year-old and I were out walking recently, he asked me why most people don’t say hello to each other. I suggested that we sometimes suspect the worst in people, that we’re too busy to stop and talk, that saying hello to strangers is not in our genetic make-up. He countered with the idea that the world would be a much more charming place if we did take the time to connect with others. Ah, I thought, we’ve both inherited this from my mom and perhaps her father before her, this desire to reach out and project our happiness.

Mom’s essence seems to have become more concentrated the simpler she becomes. Even during the jagged anger she displays, I know that her sweet nature is there waiting to reemerge. When I took her for a haircut today, she angrily refused to have her hair washed because putting her head backwards into the sink might hurt her neck. I really wanted the hairdresser to wash Mom’s hair, but it just wasn’t going to happen. We figured out a way around it, and when the hairdresser had finished, Mom was all smiles.

When we are together, I play to the happy soul I know she possesses. Her laughter, her joie de vivre, her sweet voice are what keep me coming back for more.

It’s not Rosh Hashanah without beets. They are as ubiquitous as apples dipped in honey and one of the symbolic foods we eat to usher in the New Year. The custom relates to a tractate in the Gemara. In Hebrew, beets are calledselek. When we ask God to “remove our adversaries,” we are saying,“sheyistalku sonaynu,”a clear play on the wordsselekandyistalek.

Moroccan Beet Salad

Having never made beet salad before, I was imagining a long, drawn-out process, but it was easier than I expected. And perhaps I don’t hate beets as much as I thought I did.

4-5 medium-sized (or 2 large) beets, quartered

1 Tbsp sugar

½ tsp salt

Juice of 1 lemon

1 Tbsp olive oil

1 tsp cumin

1 Tbsp fresh parsley chopped

Directions:

Wash beets well. Cut top and bottom off the beet, then quarter and place in small pan. Do not peel. Cover beets with water and boil for one hour and fifteen minutes until beets are soft. When they are cool, peel and slice into strips. Mix oil, sugar and spices together then pour over beets. Stir in parsley. Serve cold.

Owing to the upcoming holidays, I'll be on break for the next few weeks. Here's wishing you a sweet new year. May you be inscribed in the book of life.

I grew up singing John Prines’ song“Dear Abby,”a humorous look at the kinds of people who write to advice columnists. Be satisfied with who you are and what you have, the song implies. Of course, Calvin of Calvin and Hobbes fame, takes a different perspective. His suggestion: all the whiny people of the world should just suck it up and stop whining.

If I were writing an advice column about Alzheimer’s, I’d tell you to learn from my mistakes. I’ve made plenty in taking care of Mom, and I figure I’ll be making a lot more in the future. Here’s some advice I gleaned these past two weeks living with Mom while my dad was away. I offer it in the hopes it will help you if you are going through something similar.

Each individual with Alzheimer’s is unique, so there’s no telling if what works for my mom will work for you. In fact, sometimes, what works one day with Mom won’t work the next. Bottom line, be creative. This is a by-the-seat-of-your-pants operation.

Probe gently.What kind of mood is Mom in today? Is she hostile and guarded about her independence? Will she accept my help? Ask specific questions to figure it out. Not, “Would you like my help?” but “Can I adjust the water temperature in the shower for you?” If you are rebuffed, keep trying. She needs you; she just don’t realize it.

Use improv.If Mom is talking about how someone had something that they had to deliver but it went astray and what should she do and does she need money and is this the letter (holding up her nightgown) that she needs, counter with your own illogical answer. “Oh, yes, she found the right monkeys to give it to. They were very happy to drink tea and visit the queen.” Mom eventually realizes you’re joking with her, and she’ll start to laugh. My husband Jeff is a pro at this.

Stay calm.My mood affects everyone around me, sometimes inadvertently. If I’m a little tired or even taciturn, Mom will pick up on that. And if something strange happens, like she starts coating her arms and chest with deodorant or brushes toothpaste into her hair, if you yell at her to stop, she may startle or become defensive. (“I know what I’m doing. Don’t tell me what I can do!”) Instead, swallow your incredulity and hand her a towel or run like rabbits to the bathroom.

Let them talk.I don’t have to correct Mom’s version of reality. I don’t have to respond to every half-baked statement. If Mom says her food is tasteless or she’s worried that she hasn’t seen her parents in a long time, or she has things to do and must get home, say nothing. If Mom introduces me as her sister or cousin, I let it slide. At least I know she still values me as a close relative.

When in doubt, sing.We have a song for brushing teeth and washing hair, a song for putting on Mom’s medicinal patch, walking songs, eating songs, sleeping songs, songs for good moods, silly songs, and old favorites. Tap into their early memories and sing away. It doesn’t matter if you can’t carry a tune. Definitely learn the words to“I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts.” 

Always know where they are.It happens gradually, their inability to function, their loss of time, of reality. You’ll have to decide for yourself when you can no longer trust them to be on their own. At that point, make sure someone is with them at all times. Even if it is sitting amiably and quietly in the living room listening to music, they should not be alone. Don’t let them out of your sight: they can do foolish things like putting on five pair of underwear or cutting an electrical cord with a pair of scissors to turn off the light. This is particularly daunting but necessary.

Be prepared.Ok, you can’t really be prepared, but you can train yourself to realize that each day will bring its own challenges, burdens and goals. I felt this crazy sinking feeling each time Mom stood in her living room and told me she had to go home. By the third or fourth time it happened, my sense of disbelief gave way to a sort of practicality in helping her find her way home.

Accept their non-normative behavior.This is a hard one. It really depends on whether you can accept what they’re doing. Should I let Mom sleep in her clothes? What about wearing her glasses to bed? How about putting on a winter coat in the middle of summer or eating sliced grapefruit in a sandwich? Singing loudly in public? Wearing mismatched clothes? Refusing to wash her hair? Some of these behaviors resolve themselves as Mom’s abilities falter and she relies on a caregiver to make her food or choose her clothes. Others you just might have to put up with until you find a solution.

Use their memory loss.This might sound cruel, but if you know they won’t remember what you asked or requested five minutes ago, ask again in another minute. It makes me feel guilty to do this, but the results are worth it. Maybe this time they’ll acquiesce and take off their glasses or swallow their pills. You can show them the same movie or sing the same songs over and over and they’ll never get bored. They also won't remember any painful experiences, the ones that eat away at you because you do remember.

Pay attention.Yes, I'd rather be on my phone, or furthering my own agenda, but if I’m not focused, not only will I miss Mom's amazing statements (“That man is wearing sleeves on his knees.”) but she’ll also manage to do something silly like fill the cooking pot with water so she can have a drink.

Don’t take it personally.When she’s angry, Mom lashes out. She calls me horrible names and curses like a sailor. She uses words I never knew were in her vocabulary. It’s not personal. Really. These are imbalanced brain chemicals and tangles speaking. Deep down she still loves me, and when her anger has ebbed, she’ll let me know.

Take time for yourself.Oh, this is a big one. There is a reason people hire non-family members to care for their loved ones. We are so close, so connected, that it is hard to separate our own needs from the people we love most. Make sure you have good, responsible people backing you up and giving you down time from caregiving. When you have rest and distance, you are a better you.

My dad came back last Thursday after two weeks of being away. Mom was already asleep. We talked late into the night about caring for her, how hard it was, what we could do better, then headed to our beds. When Mom woke up the next morning and saw him lying beside her, she didn’t even realize he’d been away. I’d spent two weeks keeping her calm in his absence—because his absence made her unbalanced—and it was all wiped away in a single instance. How’s that for gratitude.

For all my dad does, for his loving care of Mom, I salute him. I have newfound depths of admiration and empathy for him.

Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, is less than two weeks away. The first thing I think about baking is honey cake. Of course, when my daughter told me she’s going off flour to test for celiac disease, I started thinking about the wonderfully easy apple crumble recipe I love to make. Oats, apples, honey. That will do it.

Apple Crumble

I’ve been making this dish since my college days in Oberlin when I worked and ate at Fairchild Coop. And it’s still as delicious as it was then.

Apples:

10 to 12 medium red apples, peeled and cubed

2 Tbsp lemon juice

¼ cup brown sugar

1 tsp cinnamon

Crumble:

3 cups raw oats

¾ cup gluten free flour

1½ tsp cinnamon

½ tsp salt

¾ cup oil

¾ cup honey (or date honey)

½ cup orange juice

Directions:

Peel and cube apples and toss with lemon juice, sugar and cinnamon. In a small bowl, mix oats, flour, cinnamon, salt, oil and honey. Spread about half the crumble on the bottom of a pie pan then pour in apples. Top with remaining crumble and pour orange juice over the top. Bake uncovered for 40 minutes on 375°. Serve warm.

Why don’t any of the Alzheimer’s books or websites prepare you for the rage? Or your helplessness and guilt when you can’t defuse it?

We’d already walked out and come back twice. I’d even called her on the phone from the privacy of the study, pretending I was somewhere else to see if I could calm her.

She stood by the door for two hours. Two hours! She tried kicking it, using a nail file, even a wet rag. She gathered things for her journey—a book, her nightgown, four bras—and put on a winter coat. She appealed to my kindness to assist her in opening it, and when I wouldn’t, cursed me and called me an imbecile and a shmuck (and worse things I won't mention). I kept telling her the door was locked until morning, that I’d take her home then but that we were staying here tonight. Nothing helped. Nothing I said seemed to make a dent in her determination to leave. She adamantly insisted that this was not her home and that she needed to go home to her parents.

I knew she was safe inside these walls. We’d locked the top lock so she couldn’t open the door even if she somehow succeeded in getting the right key in the regular lock. I had a momentary horrific image of her flinging open the large living room windows and jumping out in desperation from the 3rd floor. Then I remembered with relief that the stiff blinds would block her from doing that.

So we rode it out, her periodic pleading, her anger. She was dripping with sweat in the humid living room. I tried my own anger to forestall hers. I tried rationalizing. I put on music. I tried to busy myself so I wouldn’t see her standing there. But I heard it, that intense turning of the door handle, the rattle of the keys being slid into and out of the lock, the mumbled words flung with fear at anyone who could help. I wanted to cry seeing her standing there, feet planted by the door, her sloped back in the blue coat, sun hat sitting askew on her head.

I don’t know why she finally decided to listen. Perhaps she was just so worn out. I suggested we had to change our plans in light of the door being locked, that it was cool in her bedroom where the fan was on. I gently helped her take off the coat and wash her face in the bathroom. She was dripping with sweat. I led her to the bedroom and got her to sit with me. I fought my urge to suggest she undress and when she lay down fully clothed, I didn’t care. She kept up a patter for another few minutes then drifted off to sleep.

I have had enough of the mercurial mood swings, of having no time to myself, of her thinking of Miriam as a little girl who is lost and needs to be found (all while she’s holding my hand). I want no more of the loud chirping at every baby we see, of the same songs sung over and over and over and over, of feeling like her mother. I hate having to smile and talk at her level. I hate my bad moods and my monosyllabic sulk. I want to say goodbye to my youngest leaving for Poland, and advise my daughter on a new watch, hear the news from my oldest and his baby, and sleep in the same bed as my husband. I want my life back.

And yet…. What would I wish instead? What is the alternative? With all the pain and heartache we have now, the future is only bleaker. So I’ll take this mom, the one that fills my head with silly songs, who smiles and prattles on nonsensically, who loves to laugh and is moved beyond words by a beautiful symphony. She is filled with love for her family, and for me. When she asks how long she’s known me, I tell her all my life, from that first kiss she gave me on the day I was born. I know this.

This is hard. This is so terribly hard. I’ve lost my mom ten times over. But I can do this. I can treat her with the dignity she deserves as a sweet human being, as a beloved lost mother who lives on in my memory. For tomorrow, when she wakes, there will be no memory of this incident. We can start again with the smiles and the songs. It will be my second chance (for the nth time...).

There’s not much you can do to relieve all those churning, swirling emotions, except maybe eat ice cream (which I’m doing a lot of). As an alternative sweet treat, I fixed myself a fruit, yogurt and granola snack. Yes, this helps, too.

Fruit, Yogurt and Granola

Simple, easy, and elegant.

½ cup fresh fruit

1 container yogurt (200 grams or 8 oz)

2 Tbsp granola

Directions:

Cut your favorite fruits (I used grapes, banana and melon) and place ¼ cup fruit in the bottom of a wine glass. Pour in half the yogurt (your choice of flavors), sprinkle with half the granola, and repeat.

I feel like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole into an Alzheimer’s version of Naomi in Wonderland. My dad flew to Miami two days ago, and I am here taking care of my mom for the next 10 days. We’ve thrown out logic along with any concept of personal space and emotional buffers. The only time I am alone is when she’s sleeping. I have been relying on my creative parenting skills and using her memory loss to keep her on schedule.

Once Mom is showered and dressed—a process I assist her with—it’s time to eat breakfast.

“Here are your medicines,” I tell her. “You have to put them in your mouth and swallow them with your juice.”

“Those aren’t mine,” she states.

“Can you put them in your mouth?”

“Why would I do that? I’m not taking those.”

On the 10th try, she acquiesces. That’s only because she can’t remember I’ve asked her to take them 9 times already!

She wants to nap with her shoes and glasses on? Go ahead.

She wants to eat her sandwich with a knife and fork? Great.

She wants to do the dishes? Superb. I’ll wash them with soap when she’s sleeping.

She wants to wear her clothes to bed? Fine with me.

When she asks where Daddy is, I tell her he’s at a conference (which is true) and that he’ll be home soon (which is not so true). When she pouts that “he didn’t tell me,” I pull out the note he’s left her:

Dear Naomi,

I have to go to a conference in Miami. I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry. Enjoy being with Miriam.

Love you very much,

Jack

That note is my most precious possession. After the first day of Mom’s constant questions, when I left it lying on the kitchen table, I decide I need it with me at all times. It saves us from her anger at feeling abandoned.

I can deal with all this. It’s par for the course for a caregiver. But what happens when Mom is adamantly convinced that she’s not in her own home? I am astounded by her perception of reality. I can't quite believe that she believes this is not her home. There is no one else to turn to, and as the responsible adult, I must use all my skills to help her through this.

I try telling her we’re staying here just for the night. I use logic to show her the family photos, her name on their door, the familiar paintings. She tells me she has a room identical to this one, but this one is not hers. She rebuffs my suggestions and angrily demands I take her home. It’s dark outside. Can I lock the door and walk to another room until she calms down? Should I put music on and hope that works? Should we leave the apartment? What will happen if I take her outside? Will she run from me, or stubbornly refuse to return with me? I am terrified of her reaction, of losing all leverage to change the situation, of not being able to calm her.

I decide I must take the chance. We put our shoes on, gather our purses and set out into the night. We leave from the front door of the apartment building and head down the street, arm in arm, singing as we go. We turn the corner and continue walking round the block. We approach the building from the back entrance.

“Here’s your building,” I tell her. “Here’s your car. Let’s go into the lobby. It’s nice to be home. Let’s go up the elevator to your apartment. Here’s your door with your name on it. Here we are. We’re home!”

She walks in appeased. And I tremble with relief.

“Thank you for bringing me home,” she says as she puts her purse under her pillow.

I’ll remove it later when she’s sleeping, along with the skirt and shirt she’s stuffed there, the extra nightie, the tissues and napkins she’s collected, and her glasses that she’s folded with care.

I tell her we’re having a girl’s night, a slumber party.

“Can I get you anything,” Mom asks. “Do you need anything?”

How sweet her solicitousness is, I think. I tell her I’m fine. Then she asks again and again and again until I exasperatedly tell her that I can help myself.

Mom reads Daddy’s note one more time then finally climbs into bed and crashes till morning.

I’m not sure what awaits us during the next week and a half. I hope we can continue to find happiness together in each passing day. That is what I’m aiming for.

Yes, it’s true, I like to eat cake in stressful situations. And when it’s airy orange cake, it’s easy to eat several slices in one sitting. Thanks to my friend Judy who shared her recipe. Thanks to my mom for stressing me out…

1 2 3 Cake

This is a light cake with a delicate, orangey taste. Don’t be surprised if it takes more time to bake than the allotted 45 minutes.

1 cup oil

2 cups sugar

3 eggs

1 tsp vanilla

3 cups flour

2½ tsp baking powder

½ cup water

½ cup orange juice

Directions:

Beat oil and sugar until creamy. Add in eggs and vanilla. Alternately stir in water and orange juice with flour and baking powder and beat well. Bake at 350° for 45 minutes or until done.

For marble cake:

Pour 2/3 of batter into tube pan. Add 1/2 cup of chocolate syrup to remaining batter and beat well. Pour into pan and use a spatula to marbleize.

I can’t decide which film I like best,Willy Wonka and the Chocolate FactoryorThe Frisco Kid.There are others, of course, includingBlazing SaddlesandYoung Frankenstein—that even had my kids rolling on the floor—that I consider timeless movies. The naïve, sincere, blue-eyed funny man with a halo of curls: this is how I will remember the actor Gene Wilder.

Gene Wilder died on Monday, August 29, from “complications from Alzheimer’s,” according to his family.

What does that mean? If Alzheimer’s is an illness with no cure, isn’t it Alzheimer’s that kills? How does one die from “complications from Alzheimer’s?”

This is what Alzheimer’s does: Alzheimer’s is a progressive brain disease in which abnormal protein deposits build up in the brain causing brain cells to die which causes problems with memory, thinking and behavior. As the disease progresses, patients lose the ability to recognize their loved ones; their appetite decreases; they forget how to wash and dress; they become incontinent; they need assistance to eat, walk, dress, and more; they stop communicating; and eventually they become comatose.

According to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention, Alzheimer’s is the 6th leading cause of death in the US.* It is thought, however, that many more deaths assigned to pneumonia, asphyxiation, general infection or even cardiac arrest, are actually complications from Alzheimer’s.** In a weakened state, Alzheimer's patients are susceptible to many health problems.

End stage Alzheimer’s lasts about 1.5 to 2 years, on average, according to the NIH.*** I’m not sure that it’s really worth worrying about what actually kills you by the time you’re at the end. The bigger issue is to make your loved one as comfortable as possible without needlessly extending their suffering.

As scientists race to find a way to cure or even halt the slow degeneration of Alzheimer’s, focus has also been placed on preventing the disease. At the 2011 Alzheimer’s Association International Conference, a study presented by Deborah Barnes, associate professor of psychiatry at the University of California, San Francisco, suggested seven risk factors: physical inactivity; depression; smoking; hypertension; obesity; low education; and diabetes.****

What is the correlation between a low education and Alzheimer’s? As Barnes suggests, if we start at an early age to use our brains, we build up our neural pathways. With that power, we can teach ourselves that the remaining risk factors can be minimalized by taking care of ourselves and maintaining our health.

We may never know what triggers Alzheimer’s in any given individual or if anything we do ultimately prevents it. As for me, I’m going to keep myself as active and healthy as possible. I might even watch a few Gene Wilder movies to jog my memory and, of course, laugh.

Making and presenting new recipes is another way for me to keep my brain active. There are as many ways to prepare eggplant in Israel as there are grains of sand on the shore. You think I’m exaggerating?!!

Roasted Eggplant with Cherry Tomatoes

The ubiquitous eggplant.

1 medium eggplant

1 tsp garlic, crushed

1 Tbsp olive oil

2 Tbsp crushed tomatoes

10-12 cherry tomatoes, halved

Fresh parsley for garnish

Salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

Poke eggplant with a fork, rub in olive oil, and place on baking sheet. Roast in oven for 20 minutes at 420°. When cooled, peel ¾ of skin from eggplant. Cut eggplant flesh in strips from skin on down. Stand eggplant in shallow dish. Garnish with olive oil, garlic, tomatoes and spices. Serve.

*http://www.cdc.gov/nchs/fastats/leading-causes-of-death.htm

**http://www.livescience.com/43892-alzheimers-deaths.html

***https://www.nia.nih.gov/alzheimers/features/alzheimers-disease-and-end-life-issues

****http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/07/19/prevent-alzheimers-healthy-lifestyle_n_902539.html

When a fuse blew in my parent's apartment, at first my dad couldn't find the source of the incident. It seemed localized to their bedroom, so he started turning off and on all the lights. He discovered that Mom's bed-side light wasn't working. When he examined the lamp, he noticed that the cord had been cut. Because if you can't turn off the light at its source, the next best idea is to take metal scissors from the kitchen, cut the cord, then put the scissors back in their place.

The singed scissors gave away Mom's actions.

I don't mean to sound alarmist, but Mom could have been seriously hurt. She most probably received a big shock as the scissors cut into the live wire, though if she did, she has no recollection of it. We are thankful that the blown fuse seems to have protected her.

If not for the inherent danger in what she did, Mom was actually very creative. The scissors, however, have been moved to a more secure location.

Does this mark the end of Mom's unsupervised time in her own apartment?

What a thought. To be constantly supervised. To have someone with you at every turn. Mom still insists she can do things on her own, though it is evident she needs assistance. We remind her daily how to shower, dress, or eat. Even drinking tea today confused her, until I suggested she pick up her mug.

If the cut cord is a metaphor for Mom's Alzheimer's, it aptly describes her inability to think through her actions or to connect to those parts of the brain that she can no longer access. Mom continues to struggle with expressing herself. As we were getting ready to go shopping, Mom asked where her things for the head and the arm were. Ah, we realized, Mom was asking for her hat and her bag. At other times, it feels as if Mom, too, has blown a fuse, her rage coming on abruptly and without context.

It's not like Mom's so active in the house. Mostly she follows Daddy around like a lost puppy. She'll sit in the living room watching TV (usually a musical we've screened specially for her) then, unlike most viewers who get hooked by what they're watching, she'll just walk away. She is drawn to whatever room Daddy is in. She'll stand behind him as he types on his computer. She'll ask what's going on, even though she can't understand. When she's in bed and seems fast asleep, she'll suddenly get up to find out what's happening, especially if she hears people talking.

We've known for a long time that Mom needs us with her. But her act of cutting the lamp cord reinforced that fact. We must be vigilant.

When you combine ingredients that at first glance seem like opposites, say sweet and savory, you end up with a wonderful taste experience. It's the creativity of this dish that I dedicate to Mom: to her wildly dangerous yet creative mind.

Spinach Cheese Pie with Sweet Potato Crust

Not only is the tart taste of the spinach when combined with the sweet bite of the sweet potato crust complimentary, but the colors are absolutely eye-catching.

Crust:

1 large sweet potato, coarsely chopped

Water

1 tsp oil

Pinch salt

Filling:

800 gram bag spinach leaves, chopped

1 onion, chopped

2-3 cloves garlic, crushed

3 eggs

½ cup grated yellow cheese

250 grams cottage cheese

¼ cup grated Parmesan

Salt and pepper to taste

Paprika

Directions:

Place sweet potato chunks in pot and cover with water. When soft, drain and mash and add oil and salt. Pat into bottom of pie pan.Sauté garlic and onion in a large frying pan. When browned, add spinach leaves and steam until cooked. Let cool.In a large bowl, beat eggs and add cheeses.Add spinach mixture to egg and cheese.Pour into pie pan and sprinkle with sweet paprika.Bake for 30 minutes at 350° or until browned on top.

I took Mom to get a blood test today but we left the clinic with her veins intact.

We got to the clinic, took a number, and sang a few songs while we waited for our turn with the nurse. I joked with Mom that we were going to visit the vampires who required a taste of blood. Finally, our number was called. As Mom sat down at the nurse’s station, I whispered to her about Mom's illness and suggested she reach out to Mom.

The nurse was patient and friendly. But Mom refused to show the nurse her arms. It's not like Mom was talking so coherently, but there were absolute moments of clarity when she knew what she was saying.

"I'm a real person," she announced. "I'm a proper person. And I don’t like people talking about me."

Strike one.

Mom rambled on for a few minutes. "I don't share my blood with anyone," she declared.

Strike two.

We had been in this exact situation before, but previously Mom had been compliant. In fact, once, when I took her for an ultrasound, she lay on the table singing, "I've got you under my skin," which was so funny that we both laughed and the nurse asked her to stay still.

This was different. I don't think Mom understood what was being asked of her, but she knew enough to refuse to cooperate with us. Many words have lost their meaning to Mom. When she gets dressed in the mornings, she cannot distinguish between skirt, shirt, bra. When she's in the shower, she doesn't know what soap is. She alternates between anger at being told the obvious ("Of course I've washed my face. What do you take me for, an imbecile?”), and absolute incomprehension at the task before her.

"I am not interested in what you have to say. Today is not my time to give blood."

Strike three.

I looked at the nurse. How important were the blood tests? They were requested by her doctor to track Mom’s changing physical reality. As tests go, taking and testing blood is a mildly intrusive way to check what's happening in the body. What were our alternatives? We both realized that there was nothing we could do or say—apart from physically forcing her—that would make Mom change her mind.

"Ok, that's it," I said. "We're leaving now."

We went back to the waiting room and had a cool drink of water. Several minutes passed and I again told Mom that we had to get some blood tests done. Nope. It didn't make any dent in her intransigence.

I made the right decision by not forcing the issue. I just wonder if I could have done or said something different that would have persuaded Mom to cooperate. I hold out hope that the next time I can be more persuasive.

When you need to get out of a slump, a good spicy meal can wake you up. The kick in this curried peanut lentil dish will have your tongue in great flexible shape for your next repartee.

Curried Peanut Lentils

This seemingly strange combination of ingredients yields a powerful taste with real kick.

1 cup brown lentils

2 cups water

1 onion, chopped

2-3 garlic cloves, minced

1 Tbsp curry

½ tsp coriander

½ tsp cumin

1/3 cup chunky peanut butter

½ cup water

1 tsp salt

Red pepper flakes to taste

Directions:

In a small saucepan, cook lentils in 2 cups water until water has been absorbed and lentils are soft. While lentils are cooking, sauté onion and garlic in a frying pan until onions begin to brown. Add spices and water, then stir in peanut butter. Sauce will thicken almost immediately. Add more water if sauce is too thick. Simmer sauce on low flame until lentils are ready. Drain lentils and add to curried peanut sauce.

There’s a Hebrew idiom,“al ta’am v’reyach ein l’hitvake’ach,”which literally translates to, “on taste and smell it is impossible to argue.” Meaning, there is no absolute judgement on personal preferences.

While this is true for the general population, it’s probably 10 times truer for an Alzheimer’s patient, because Alzheimer’s patients lose their ability to taste and smell.

It has been established that loss of smell is one of the initial symptoms in degenerative neurological diseases such as Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s. Studies have even shown a connection between lowered sense of smell and the likelihood that a person will develop such diseases later.

Things taste different if we can’t smell them. Try an experiment: pop a flavored candy in your mouth but hold your nose while you start chewing. You probably can’t detect the flavor. Now, before it’s all gone, unplug your nose and see if you can sense its flavor. Chances are you can. Your nasal passages carry the smell of food to you along with the air you breathe. Without that interplay of taste and smell, you wouldn’t be able to comprehend complex flavors. You’d be limited to what the tongue alone can distinguish—salty, sweet, bitter and sour.

On a practical level, because food doesn’t taste good to Mom, Mom, like many Alzheimer’s patients, is interested in foods that have intense flavor, often those that are the least nutritious and the most processed. It is very disconcerting to make a healthy meal for Mom only to hear her say she doesn’t like it because it has no taste.

Taste and smell also carry an emotional connection, one that with their fading memories, Alzheimer’s patients lose. I can still remember the first time I tried sushi. Daddy took me out for my birthday, just the two of us. I must have been about 10 years old. That first powerful bite sent shockwaves through me. I remember thinking, this taste is like no other I have ever had; the world is so much bigger than I imagined.

When he was in the army, my father-in-law bit into what he thought was pound cake only to discover it was dry, flavorless cornbread. That memory is still so strong that he won’t eat cornbread to this day.

If the food itself is unappetizing, there are certain things you can do to make mealtimes more significant.

Eat Together.Make your meal a social event as even Alzheimer’s patients love to interact socially.

Eat nutritious meals.Try not to worry too much about the taste of any one food, but do offer a wide variety of whole grains, fruits and vegetables.

Cut the food in small pieces.Even sandwiches can be cut into bite-sized pieces that are easier for an Alzheimer’s patient to handle by hand or with a fork. You might have to remind them how to use a fork.

Extend your mealtime.Alzheimer’s patients often eat very slowly. Allow enough time for them to finish their meal without stress.

Use colorful plates. Red plates make a big impression on someone with Alzheimer’s, especially if they’re eating white rice, chicken, or mashed potatoes.

Give in to their cravings.Do make eating an enjoyable event when you can, especially towards the end of life. There is always room for a small serving of ice cream or other treat.

It’s all about balance and moderation and the acceptance that taste and smell is different for everyone.

If you’re looking for a vegetable with a strong taste, try asparagus. Not only is it loaded with nutrients, asparagus, like leafy greens, delivers folate, which works with vitamin B12—found in fish, poultry, meat and dairy—to help prevent cognitive impairment. Asparagus also contains a unique compound that, when metabolized, gives off a distinctive smell in urine.

Roasted Asparagus

1 bunch asparagus, approximately 250 grams

2 Tbsp olive oil

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 Tbsp lemon juice

1½ Tbsp parmesan cheese

Salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

Cut ends of asparagus on a diagonal to remove the woody stalk. Place in a flat-bottomed container. Pour over olive oil, lemon juice and spices and coat well. Remove to baking pan lined with baking paper. Sprinkle with cheese. Bake for 10 to 15 minutes at 425°.

I lost my temper today. Not at Mom, but at her hairdresser, the one who has been cutting her hair for about 20 years.

When I called last week to make an appointment, Hairdresser X—we’ll call him Ralph—was hesitant to make an appointment for us. He’s seen Mom become more frail and unpredictable due to Alzheimer’s, so I could understand his hesitation. I assured Ralph I’d be there, too, reminding him that Mom dotes on him and enjoys being in his salon.

We showed up early for the appointment, the August heat and humidity having left its toll on us as we wandered in the city. Ralph turned as we entered, then returned to the client in his chair. I stammered that we were early, but we’d wait our turn.

The small salon was crowded. As I went to move some chairs for Mom to sit down, I heard Ralph speak.

“I can’t,” he said, his back to us.

“What?” I asked.

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t? We have an appointment.”

“I can’t.”

“But I spoke to you last week. We made an appointment with you.”

Not once did Ralph come over to greet us or try to speak to us in private. Neither did he turn around and face us.

Oh, I boiled up and over. Unfortunately, my anger made me tongue-tied. I yelled out some indistinct adjectives and stormed off in a huff, Mom and our caregiver Sahlee following behind. Except I couldn’t really storm off, not like I wanted to. Mom’s gait is so slow I had to significantly reduce my walking speed to match hers.

Even as I fumed, Sahlee pointed out several other salons in the street where we were walking. “He’s not the only hairdresser,” she said.

Hey,I thought,you’re right!

We stopped at one of the salons and I entered cautiously. I engaged the hairdresser in a short discussion, explaining that Mom has Alzheimer’s but that it shouldn’t hinder him while cutting her hair. Yossi was nonplussed. He said hello to Mom, invited his assistant to wash her hair, then expertly began cutting and shaping Mom’s silver locks.

Let me describe our new hero: shoulder-length black hair with streaks of bordeaux, nut-brown skin, deep eye crinkles, a trim mustache, tight black pants and t-shirt, and these tri-colored shoes in dayglow yellow, pink, and green. Did I mention handsome? Mom was in heaven. She praised the hands of the assistant who had washed her hair, then chatted amiably with Yossi about London, one of Yossi’s favorite cities and Mom’s birth place.

When we left, we were all in good moods. Mom certainly had no recollection of what had transpired, but I purposely led us home in a circuitous route so that we would not have to pass Ralph’s salon.

Now that I have regained not only my faith in humanity, but my ability to express myself, here’s what I want to say to Ralph.

“Ralph, you lost our business today. Instead of treating Mom with kindness, you ostracized her because you view her as sick. You had the audacity to embarrass us in a roomful of strangers by literally turning your back on us. You chose not to connect with us on a personal level. Your lack of empathy dehumanized Mom. Had you made the effort to find the best and safest way to cut Mom’s hair, you would have been rewarded with the emotional warmth she bestows on those around her. If this is the way you treat valued customers, we are happy to move on.”

There. Enough said.

When you’re feeling low, it is best to buck up your emotions with something sweet. Now that mangoes are in season, here’s a recipe for mango lassies, a popular traditional yogurt-based drink in India.

Mango Lassi

Summer fruits are definitely my favorites. Mangoes, grapes, peaches, plums, melons. While it may be hard choosing which to eat, no other fruit, in my opinion, blends as well with yogurt as mango.

1½ mangoes, peeled and chopped

1 container plain yogurt (i.e., 200 grams or about 7 oz.)

1 tsp vanilla

6 cubes of ice

Cinnamon

Directions:

Place ice cubes in blender. Pulse until crushed. Combine mango, yogurt and vanilla in blender with ice and blend until smooth. Pour into a glass and sprinkle with cinnamon.

Life’s gifts are to be found everywhere: In suddenly seeing a problem from a different perspective, in offering of yourself to a friend, in realizing that you receive more than you give.

My week has been about finding those gifts.

Mom was in great form today. We smiled and laughed together, listened to music, sang, had coffee. In fact, it was a “typical” day for us. There were moments of great confusion as she told me that “my two bookings that we have just now are not good for waiting.”

“Oh, really?” I responded, not having the foggiest idea of what she was trying to express.

There were moments of great anger. I tried to surreptitiously cut Mom’s nails while she alternatively hummed and conducted along with the video she was watching, but she kept pulling her hand away. “I don’t trust you,” she yelled. “I’ll do it myself later.”

I relied on Mom’s Alzheimer’s to make her forget my nail-cutting attempts before I tried again. Eventually, I prevailed.

In one of her good moments, she told me that “All these years I’ve known you. And now I know you a lot.” To me, she was saying that she no longer recognizes me as her daughter but, regardless, we have a special bond. She does trust me. I’d like to think that she also meant that she enjoyed my company.

When I met three friends in the local mall recently, one of them mentioned that my parents were blessed to have a daughter like me. No, I said, I am blessed to have my parents. Caring for Mom and Daddy gives shape and meaning to my life just as much as caring for my husband and my children.

When I visited a friend in hospital, she lamented that her young daughter does not remember a time when she was not sick. That makes little difference, I reasoned, because there are so many ways to show love and tenderness. Children adapt and grow in difficult situations.

My goal is to stay open and positive in the face of Mom’s changing abilities. I want to try to accept her fully, to unburden her with the need to always remember where and whom she’s with. I’d also like to be less tired when I’m with Mom. I’m falling asleep as I write these words, having woken early to catch the train for our weekly visit. That’s secondary to understanding that Mom is teaching me how to be patient, kind, creative, and resourceful.

Mom’s world is filled with laughter, light and colors. When I was showing her family photos on my phone, I inadvertently showed her the photo for this blog. She was delighted by the sharp, bold colors of the vegetables, even more than the people pictures. She did coo and aw over photos of her great grandson, but without being able to identify him or connect him to her own life. This one’s for you, Mom.

Marinated Grilled Vegetables

These colorful veggies are a great addition to any summer barbecue party. Prepare in advance and let the skewers sit in the fridge until you’re ready to grill them.

2 red and/or orange peppers

1 purple onion

2 small or 1 large squash

20 cherry tomatoes

4 portabella mushrooms

Marinade:

1 Tbsp olive oil

1 Tbsp lemon juice

1 Tbsp soy sauce

1 Tbsp date honey

2-3 cloves crushed garlic

Salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

Chop peppers, squash and mushrooms into large pieces and toss into large bowl. Quarter the onion and add to bowl along with tomatoes. Mix all marinade ingredients together in a lidded container and shake well. Pour on vegetables and stir until all are coated. Let stand for at least an hour. Spear veggies onto skewers, using the onions at the ends to keep veggies secure. Grill for approximately 10 minutes until vegetables soften and catch a slight burn around the edges.

We’ve been watching National Geographic’s Emmy-nominated series, “Brain Games.” With interactive games and hidden cameras, this show reveals how brains process information related to topics like stress, addiction, competition, food, trust and language. And, of course, memory.

One episode on memory, “Remember This,” starts out by stating that memory is faulty. Almost immediately, we become witnesses to—along with about 20 other unsuspecting participants in the film—a mugging in a park.

A police officer starts interviewing the witnesses to find out how many people were involved, what they looked like, what was stolen, what they were wearing, and other pertinent details. It becomes absolutely obvious that not one person can remember all the details. Ironically, those most sure of what they recalled seeing or hearing are the least likely to describe details correctly. And as interactive audience members, we, too, realize that memory is unreliable.

In essence, our short term memory doesn't save everything it sees. It is highly selective. The brain’s hippocampus receives information sent by our senses and then must decide what to reject and what to save. Information for saving gets sent to long term memory for later recall. Anything else will be lost from short term memory in about20 seconds.

There is no permanent mechanism for storing short term memory. It is built to help you function in the moment. Open the fridge and take out the milk, find your car keys, close the door to the bathroom, cross the street. Only by creating a narrative with the items you want to remember can you possibly lock details into your brain and move information from short term to long term memory.

Some information is so primal and instinctive, however, that it makes an impression on your brain almost instantaneously. This includes faces. Our brains are hard wired to recognize faces by binding together elements and interpreting lights and shadows that create a three-dimensional shape. Sometimes just a part of the face—the shape of an ear, an exposed neck—are enough to allow for facial recognition. Think of Holocaust survivors who identified their Nazi guards without the slightest hesitation.

If you’re not certain about a memory, your brain sometimes makes things up. Unconscious transference occurs when you recognize someone or something and create a new memory based on your fragmentary existing memory. You reconstruct the fragments by filling in the blanks to create a whole. With so few fragments to work with, your memory might be different every time you think of a specific incident.

If you don't actively use memory, over time, you could lose it. Like most things we cherish in life, we take memory for granted. Without it, small chores like brushing our teeth or making tea would have to be relearned every day.

With the challenge of our selective short term memories, the degradation of our fragmentary memories, and our habitual use of rote memory in our daily lives, it’s a wonder we don’t all have some form of dementia!

Alzheimer’s is different. Alzheimer’s brains have an added physiological factor where amyloid plaques* accumulate between nerve cells and interrupt the brain’s functional ability, particularly in memory pathways.

As time passes, memory fades. As memory fades, it becomes vulnerable. This is true for all of us, but so much more so for someone suffering from Alzheimer’s. Watching this show made Mom seem merely further out on a memory spectrum than uniquely isolated in her memory loss. I know that’s not quite true, especially given Mom’s total disconnect from time, but it allows me to empathize as my own memory falters.

There are dishes I make almost every week that I remember without looking at the recipe, and then there are those dishes that, though I have made them many times before, because I make them more infrequently, I must use the recipe. Here’s one of those dishes—Chinese beef—that is always appreciated when I make it, but I don’t make it often.

Chinese Beef

This recipe reminds me of the chicken and vegetable leftovers Mom used to make, but with a bit more panache. Serve on a bed of rice.

1 lb beef, cubed

½ cup flour for dredging

2 Tbsp canola oil for frying (plus more if needed)

1 onion, sliced

3 cloves garlic

2 carrots, thinly sliced

1 head broccoli cut into florets

2 Tbsp soy sauce

Salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

Pat beef dry with paper towels. Coat with flour in a small bowl or bag, then sauté in a large frying pan covered with a thin layer of oil. Cook meat in batches, browning on all sides. Remove to a separate dish. Sauté garlic and onions. When onions are translucent, add carrots. Cook for 5 minutes. Add broccoli and cook until broccoli turns bright green. Return beef to pan and add soy sauce. Cook a few minutes more, then serve.

*Amyloid plaques are sticky buildup which accumulates outside nerve cells, or neurons. Amyloid is a protein that is normally found throughout the body. For reasons as yet unknown, in Alzheimer’s, the protein divides improperly, creating a form called beta amyloid which is toxic to neurons in the brain.www.memorylossonline.com/glossary/amyloidplaques.html

I am learning that it is often best not to delay or challenge Mom’s instincts when she’s in a bad mood. The sticky, humid heat is getting to her. We spent the morning wandering in town and having coffee before my dad left us for one of his meetings. By the time we walked back to their apartment, Mom complained of being soaked through. All she wanted to do was lie down.

I tried to get her to paint with me. I took out the water colors, covered the table with newspaper, and positioned a cup of water nearby. I showed her how to dip the brush into the vivid colors. I painted swirls and lines, flowers, clouds. Mom finally took up her brush, dipped it into the red paint, and wrote, “I am here.” Then she abruptly left the table and headed for her bed.

Mom is in touch with how she feels. She can still decide—in the moment—what she wants. That’s not to say she is always right. She overheard me talking with Daddy about a friend who had recently been sick. She barged into our conversation and accused us of spreading lies about her.

“I don’t make people sick,” she yelled. “You want to kill me. Everyone wants to kill me!”

I don’t know what fuels this paranoia. Perhaps it stems from the fact that she cannot navigate her surroundings without assistance. If she feels that one of her key caregivers is turning on her, she panics.

Mom can still be a good judge of what her body needs. This is the lesson I must learn. That no matter how I try to assist, I must pay attention to and take into consideration Mom’s instinctive gestures. I must read her body language. It makes life a lot easier when I do.

Mom ate lunch after her short rest. Then, we sat on the couch and sang our hearts out. It was just what we needed. I’m glad no one was listening, as I really can’t carry a tune. But no matter. With our book,Rise Up Singing,*we sang song after song, each one embedded in Mom’s memory with such clarity.

It didn’t matter that Mom had been angry, or that she’d had to be reminded about how to eat a sandwich, or that she referred to me as a friend. What did matter was the fun we had in the moment. I’ll be back next week for some more fun.

I think of summer as a wonderful time to eat cold salads. Here’s a sweet carrot salad that incorporates one of my favorite summer fruits—grapes.

Sweet Carrot Salad

3 carrots, grated

25 grapes, sliced in half

1 Tbsp toasted pecans, chopped

1 Tbsp craisins

Juice of one orange (or ¼ cup)

1 tsp cinnamon

Directions:

Place grated carrots into a mixing bowl. Toss in remaining ingredients. Mix well. Refrigerate for at least an hour before serving.

*Blood, Peter and Annie Patterson, eds., USA: Sing Out!, 1988.

Many of my friends are taking on the responsibility of caring for their elderly parents.  We all go through the same process of realizing our parents' limitations: their memories fade, their stride slows, their eyes weaken, they lose their hearing. We spend time helping them shop or visit doctors; we become their eyes and ears, their extra pair of hands, their walking sticks, their active memory.

Many of my friends are also losing their parents. Yes, death is inevitable, but the loss is no less palpable for knowing that. In my mind, it is not that they have left this earth that affects us most; it is that the death of our parents orphans us. Even with all the changes we witness in our parents' behavior and abilities, even when we become theirde factoparents, even when their memories fade, they are still our elders, our primary source of life and love, the embodiment of our childhood. When they die, we stand alone.

When my friend Sarah called to tell me her mother had passed away, I felt her loss. I remember her mother as a lovely, vivacious woman.  I also know what it's like to lose a parent. Not in the euphemistic use of the word that means death, but in the actual meaning. I've lost my mom, several times over. And here's the biggest difference in caring for a parent with Alzheimer's vs. a parent who is just, well, aging: Mom's disconnect from time means she has no recollection of me as a child, or of caring for me (or my brother). Additionally, she does not remember her grandchildren (or great grandchild). She is orphaned in time.

Today we met with the social worker at the home where my 100-year-old grandmother lives. She asked my dad, as my grandmother's guardian, to start thinking about the philosophical, physical, practical and emotional aspects of her inevitable death. The Israeli Palliative Care bill allows you the right to decide beforehand to refuse or agree to treatment depending on the circumstances. The social worker requested that we meet again with her, the doctor and nurse of the home to sign and legalize my grandmother's "Living Will." If you are 65 years or older, you should carefully consider signing such a document, especially while you are stillcompos mentis(of sound mind).  And, as my father is also my mother's guardian, she recommended we think about Mom's inevitable death, too.

Weshouldtalk about it. We can't talk about it with Mom, but we should try to determine—to the extent we can—what type of treatment Mom can receive as the quality of her life declines. It will happen, sooner or later, whether we are prepared or not.

In memory of Sarah's mom, I made sure to give my mom extra hugs and kisses at nap time. I helped Mom under the covers, laid her glasses on the night stand, and then climbed into bed with her. It was wonderful to feel embraced by her, as if I were a little girl again. Unfortunately, the feeling didn't last too long.

"We should tell your mom that it's nice when you visit," she said. "Perhaps she'll let you come again."

Tell my mom? I kept the tears at bay as I untangled myself from her, blew a few more kisses, and headed out the door.

When in doubt, cook. That's one thing I do when I have an ache in my heart and need to keep myself busy. Here's sweet, low fat dessert that you can eat a lot of.

Skinny Mini Cupcakes

These cupcakes are sweet without the sugar. They satisfy that craving I have for sweets. Trust me.

1 large egg

1 cup rice cream (or other milk substitute)

2 Tbsp sugar

1½ tsp vanilla

1 ¼ cups flour

1 tsp baking powder

½ cup chocolate chips

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350°. Mix all ingredients together. Line cupcake tin with no. 3 size cupcake liners. Spray each one with oil so that the paper doesn’t stick after baking. Pour a heaping table spoon of batter in each cupcake mold. Bake for 15 minutes. For variety, mix in one ripe banana and 1 tsp cinnamon. Makes 18 mini cupcakes.

Whenever I’m with my extended family at an event, I always feel torn between my sense of responsibility and my desire to enjoy myself. Thebritof my grandson was no exception. (Yes, I have a new grandson and his name is Roi Michael, and I am so thrilled to be a grandmother!)

I sat with my parents, making sure Mom was never alone. I took her to the bathroom, helped her find the tissues in her purse, surreptitiously removed from her purse the fancy cloth napkin she insisted was hers, soothed her anger when she denied that we were attending her great grandson’sbrit, and prevented her from stealing the silverware (really).

Taking photos was difficult. Mom’s attention kept wandering, which annoyed the photographer. The subtlety of including or excluding her from specific photos was lost on her. The fact that my mom is now a great grandmother was also incomprehensible to her.

I was not the only one taking care of Mom; my dad and our lovely caregiver Sahlee were also there. Mom enjoyed interacting with the guests, including those she’d never met before. She cooed and awed over the baby. She even spoke French to my daughter-in-law’s French speaking relatives. Language, like music, seems to be holding steady in her memory.

I divided my time between Mom and the other guests. I allowed myself time to interact with my son and daughter-in-law, and I held the sweetest baby imaginable.

There are currently five generations of my family alive at the same time. What an amazing concept. My grandmother Millie, at 100 years old, couldn't be with us. Her life is circumscribed by her lack of mobility, much as baby Roi's life is. She can still hold conversations, but even those are fraught with miscommunication. Still, with my parents and in-laws there, plus two great grandmothers on my daughter-in-law's side, this baby had six great grandparents present at his circumcision.

A generation is typically separated by 22 to 32 years. My grandmother is 100, my mother is in her mid-70s, I'm in my 50s, my son is in his 20s, and baby Roi is, well, 1½ weeks old. I've become so conscious of my age. I'm definitely getting older. I've probably lived more than half my life. With the birth of this scrumptious baby, however, I realize that 50 is only the cusp of experience.

I am saddened beyond words to think that Mom will never completely share in this baby's life. The lively, interactive, loving grandmother that my kids remember just doesn't exist anymore. When I showed her photos from thebritjust one day later, she didn't remember anything.

"That's me," she said. Then, after a short pause, "Whose baby is that?"

My life is divided between the sorrows of Alzheimer's and the joys of my growing family. And yet, despite those sorrows, I carry an ineffable optimism that what lies beyond is exquisite.

Making new food discoveries is almost as exciting as meeting your new grandchild. Well, not really, but for me, eating kohlrabi for the first time was definitely fun. Kohlrabi is a turnip-shaped vegetable that is part of the cabbage family. It has a mild, sweet flavor and a crisp, crunchy texture. Once you’ve peeled it, you can cook it or just eat it raw.

Kohlrabi and Carrot Salad

For some reason, though it grows throughout the year, I associate kohlrabi with the hot months of Israel. Here’s a simple salad that will brighten up any table.

1 kohlrabi, peeled and sliced

2 carrots, peeled and cut into strips

¼ cup fresh parsley

¼ cup oil

2 Tbsp vinegar

2 Tbsp lemon juice

2 cloves garlic, crushed

Salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

Peel and slice kohlrabi and carrot into small strips. In closed container, mix oil, vinegar and spices. In a small bowl, pour dressing over vegetables. Add parsley. Toss. Can marinate overnight or serve immediately.

Mom doesn't like to drink water. I'll hand her a glass, and when she takes a sip, she invariably says, "Uch. It's tasteless." Wateristasteless and colorless. My guess is that Mom doesn't really see the water. Her perception has been altered by her Alzheimer's.

Drinking water is essential to our overall health. It flushes out unwanted wastes from our bodies. It aids in the prevention of constipation. It keeps us from experiencing headaches and pains from dehydration. And it helps alleviate possible urinary tract infections. It is important to stay hydrated, especially in the hot summer.

There are many alternative drinks to water. Unfortunately, most of them are filled with sugar. So in order to keep Mom drinking, we've developed a few tricks.

Buy low-sugar soft drinks in a variety of flavors. Mom's favorite is lemonade.Make your own drinks (see recipe below).Dilute the flavored drink with at least half a glass of water.Hand Mom a glass of drink. Don't wait until she is thirsty. She might not be able to tell you she wants (or needs) a drink.Keep drinks in the refrigerator. A cool, refreshing drink is like a treat on a hot day. Add an umbrella or a straw for effect.

I met up with my parents at my niece's wedding this past Sunday night. It was a wonderful joyous celebration. When my niece was young, Mom was her ersatz grandmother. She'd include her in all the games and songs she sang with her own grandchildren, give her cuddles and kisses, and delight in her sweet gentleness.

Mom was confused by the number of empty glasses at each place setting. At one point, when we came back from dancing with the bride, I noticed that Mom had three glasses sitting in front of her, including one of mine. Two were filled with lemonade. The third, mine, with water, was pushed to the side untouched.

Mom's disinterest in water extends to showering, too. On most mornings, Mom showers without assistance. What she refuses to do, however, is wash her hair. I haven't figured out what it is about the water that repulses her, if she is afraid or just uncomprehending, i.e., forgetting how to wash her hair, but she refuses to place her head under the water. What most of us think of as an enjoyable experience, Mom detests.

We have tried numerous tricks to get Mom to wash her hair. Sometimes what works one week won't work the next. But we keep trying. We tell ourselves that it's only social convention that suggests hair must be washed regularly. It's really not so bad if it's dirty. Here are some of the things we've tried.

Always start with a song. "I'm gonna wash that man right out of my hair," from South Pacific, is a perfect starter.While Mom is in the shower, tilt her head back and gently wet her hair with your hands to show her it's not so bad. Do the same to rinse the shampoo out. (Make sure you don't mind getting wet—shower water has a way of running down your arms and into the sleeves of your shirt.)Use a hand-held shower nozzle so that Mom has control over where the water squirts.Wash Mom's hair in the sink in the afternoon, and do your own at the same time in solidarity. Pretend you are at a salon.Write out a note from your "doctor" that says hair must be washed at least twice a week.If modesty is an issue, pretend you're going to the beach and wear a bathing suit or long t-shirt in the shower.

I've read that positive reinforcement—praise and kind words or even the promise of a present at the end of the ordeal—can sway an Alzheimer's patient. We'll have to be more active on that front.

If Mom, despite our best efforts, is still intransigent, we drop the issue. Tomorrow is another day. We can all live with dirty hair.

After I saw the movie,Supersize Me,I stopped buying sugary drinks. Coke, sprite, lemonade, caffeine free or not, even orange juice, it all got dumped out of our house. We began drinking only water. And for special occasions, we made our own lemonade from the tree in our yard, and iced tea with flavored tea bags. The kids grumbled at first, but I felt we were doing the right thing.

Home-made Iced Tea

My husband Jeff has perfected the recipe for this most popular drink. We make two versions: one with sugar, and one with sugar substitutes. Play around with the amount of sugar until it meets your needs.

5 tea bags (1.5 gram, any favor)

¼ cup lemon juice

¾ cup sugar or 6 tablets of sugar substitute (saccharine/sucralose/stivia/etc.)

2 liter/quart water

Directions:

Steep five tea bags (1.5 gram, your choice of flavors) in hot water for at least 30 minutes. In a 2-liter bottle, dissolve sugar or sweetener in one liter of water. Add lemon juice and steeped tea and shake/stir. Fill remaining space in bottle with additional water. Serve cold.

Mom doesn't seem so excited to see me this morning. When I knock on the door, I hear my dad tell her a surprise visitor is arriving. And then it is just me standing there, a familiar face whom she can’t quite place.

“Hi, Mom, your Miriam’s here,” I call as I give her a big hug. Ah, recognition.

I make a point of showing Mom photos of the family when I come. I take out my phone and show her our latest pictures. There’s the one of the big fat cat that she adores. Here’s one from last night when we took our daughter Liora out to a pub to hear Irish music.

“Who is that?” she asks, pointing to Liora.

“That’s your granddaughter Liora,” I tell her. We compare the photo of Liora as a little girl that is still on their fridge. “Liora just had a birthday. She’s 19 now.”

“Where has time gone? It’s frightening,” Mom responds.

We talk some more about relatives. When I mention my paternal grandfather, for whom Liora is named, Mom hesitantly asks if he is gone.

How profound, I think. As profound as the windows of the taxi I drove in this morning that were covered in some thin adhesive, the view of the road distorted because whoever put it on did a lousy job.

Just as I’m getting into the rhythm of profundity—that Alzheimer’s Disease destroys time; that it distorts our world view—Mom pulls me back to the present.

“I think time’s gone out for a drink.”

I stand there laughing, which is contagious. We dance around the room laughing and singing and I know that no matter what else happens today, this is the moment that I will cherish, that will sustain me as our conversation becomes illogical, as it trips over words that the mind cannot retrieve, even as she bounces between childish joy and mature, ugly anger.

Because Alzheimer’s gorges on time as if it were a sugary snack. And it corrupts reality. I struggle to see Mom in as positive a light as possible so that our time together is meaningful. At least to me.

I’ve discovered a new favorite main course—seared tuna steaks. They take only a few minutes to cook, and are surprisingly moist. It’s good to have something new to try. It takes my mind off of the emotional toll of Mom’s slipping away. As she might remember to joke: “You can tune a piano but you can’t tuna fish….”

Tuna Steaks

I used to only enjoy eating salmon until I tried this recipe for tuna steaks. The trick is to put the oil on the fish, not in the pan.

4 tuna steaks, at least 1” thick

4 Tbsp olive oil

2 Tbsp fresh lemon juice

1 tsp rosemary

1 Tbsp salt

½ Tbsp ground pepper

1 Tbsp cumin

1 Tbsp garlic crystals

Directions:

Preheat frying pan on medium high burner. Combine spices in a small bowl. Dip both sides of tuna in spices. Rub ½ Tbsp oil on one side of steak, then flip oiled side into pan. Cook for 1½ minutes until sides of fish start to turn color and edges in the pan brown slightly. Rub remaining oil onto exposed non-cooked side then flip in pan for another 1½ minutes. Remove to plate. Can be red in middle. Drizzle lemon and a little extra oil on fish to keep moist.

“These stairs are getting slower and slower,” Mom comments as we walk down the three flights to the street. I laugh at her expressive way of telling me she's moving slowly. I am like an anthropologist discovering the true meaning of her words. When we walk past a kitchen wares store, Mom says, “I remember the first time we went to look for frying pans together.” I decide she's telling me that she enjoys my company.

Mom is using her words to suggest that she has a connection to the past, that her memory is somehow intact: The stairs were once faster; in the past she bought frying pans. But I think this is rote behavior bolstered by association. Most of the time, Mom is squarely in the present. Can you imagine your every moment disconnected to the one before it and the one to come? That's where Mom is. There are feelings she intuits, people she recognizes, places that look familiar, but nothing to anchor her to what came before. There is only the now. We walk together through the city like kids at a fun-fair—everything sparkles, everything amuses.

When we meet Daddy for lunch, we talk about getting older. Daddy assures me they'll move to their new house near me before he turns 80. “How old am I,” Mom asks? “We must go over my age because I think I'm 180.”

Just when I'm despairing about Mom's fading skills, she'll start singing. And her memory is whole again. I always join in, despite my lousy voice. Who can resist “We're off to see the Wizard,” as we're strolling arm in arm?

This week marks the holiday of Shavuot, literally “weeks” in Hebrew. And in fact, one of the themes of Shavuot is counting and marking time. It's a bit like declaring that clichéd but true aphorism each and every day for seven weeks: Today is the first day of the rest of my life. Don't take your days for granted. Relish their unique blessings. Live in the moment; a lot can happen there. I'll take that positive approach over the bleak future which is Alzheimer's any day.

It is traditional to eat dairy dishes on Shavuot. I'll be making cannelloni, salmon with dill sauce, and, of course, cheesecake. You don't have to eat the cheeses with the highest fat content to enjoy the richness of this holiday's meals. Here's a lighter cheesecake that is based on a recipe my mom got off the back of a Cool Whip package. It was one of the ones I found in the cache of recipes my dad gave me on Passover.

Light Chocolate Cheesecake

What could be easier than folding chocolate pudding into whipped cream? Yum. If you freeze your cheesecake, remember to take it out to defrost half an hour before serving.

Crust:

250 gr petit beurre, chocolate or vanilla

100 gr butter

1 Tbsp powdered sugar

Filling:

500 gr 9% whipping cream

3 containers of diet dark chocolate pudding, approx. 300 grams

(low calorie, low fat)

Directions:

Break cookies and place in blender with softened butter and sugar. Blend until ingredients combine to form a “dough.” Pat crumbs into bottom of a spring form pan, leaving aside ½ cup for topping. Beat whipped cream according to instructions. When firm peaks form, mix in chocolate pudding. Pour over crust. Crumble remaining cookie crumbs on top. Remove belt around pan base before serving.

Mom’s sister, my Auntie Barbara, is visiting from London. It is great to see her. She is a wild, funny, woman with strong opinions and a quirky view of the world. She is always laughing, a real glass-half-full personality. When they were younger, she and my mom had a close, loving relationship. Even though they’ve lived apart most of their adult lives, they’ve always been in touch and visited each other when they can.

Mom understands what a sister is supposed to be: someone you share with and are inordinately close to; someone you love unconditionally. In fact, when she and I are together, Mom often calls me by her sister’s name. What she doesn’t understand is that the woman staying in her apartment—the cheery woman who greets her in the mornings and makes great efforts to engage her—is herrealsister.

In a recent article fromThe Washington Post,*author Susan Berger quotes a director of dementia care at an assisted living facility as categorizing friends and relatives of Alzheimer’s patients into three groups:

Those who get it immediately. They understand that the person with Alzheimer’s has a different reality and they need to “get into their world” and adjust their conversation accordingly.

Those who don’t understand initially but learn that it is easier to agree than to argue.

Those who don’t get it. They fight with the person and argue instead of realizing that they need to fix the way they interact.

I believe that I fall into the first category. Yes, it is difficult to accept Mom’s alternative ever-morphing view of the universe, but for the most part, I “adjust accordingly” and can converse with Mom at her level. We sing nursery rhymes together; we pet small dogs; we dance across the living room; and we laugh as much as possible.

My dad falls into the second category. I often point out that he is on the front lines of this illness with Mom. He is with her on a constant basis, through all the strange and convoluted dialogue she invents to try and carry on a conversation. He can be forgiven for wanting his spouse to be the person she was, to have fought a battle to bring her back to his world but to eventually have learned that this is a war he will lose. He has recognized the limitations of the situation and has changed his ways.

My Aunt Barbara? I would say that she is somewhere between the second and third categories. She knows what is happening to her beloved sister. She does get it, and she is heartbroken. The cherished sister of her childhood no longer exists. Barbara cannot reconcile Mom’s Alzheimer’s-induced personality with the intelligent, engaging woman Mom used to be. Barbara is not yet ready to accept that in order to earn Mom’s trust—in order to engage her fully—she has to adjust the way they interact.

Barbara reminded me of the advice I gave her to try to reach Mom: When in doubt, sing. I have childhood memories of listening to them in the kitchen as they slaved over a full sink of dirty dishes, their voices filling the house with joy. Often, when I am with Mom, I introduce a specific song to soothe or distract her. It doesn't work every time, but it often has the desired effect.

It is hard and disheartening to think of and treat Mom like a simple person. But that is what she has become. Alzheimer’s has robbed us of her rich, intelligence, though we do not love her any less than we did before.

To keep our eyesight sharp in order to see the beauty of Mom as she is now, we should eat lots of carrots. These root vegetables are rich in beta-carotene, a naturally occurring pigment that nourishes the eye. If you’ve got an overabundance of carrots in the fridge, this soup is for you.

Carrot soup

What makes this soup zing is the refreshing taste of lemon and ginger.

10-12 carrots, sliced (about 5 cups)

2 leeks, chopped

1 onion, chopped

3-4 cloves garlic

6-8 cups water

1 carrot grated (for garnish)

1½ tsp ginger (if fresh, finely sliced)

Salt and pepper to taste

Zest of one lemon

Directions:

Sauté garlic, onion and leeks in a soup pot until translucent and beginning to brown. Add carrots, half of the zest, and spices. Add water and bring to a boil then simmer for one hour. Let cool. Blend soup in the pot with a hand blender. Garnish each bowl with grated carrots and remaining zest.

*“What’s the best way to talk to someone with Alzheimer’s?” by Susan Berger,The Washington Post,May 30, 2016.

It is fitting that when our kids were small, my mom used to call herself “Savtarella,” the Hebrew equivalent of Grandma-ella, after that most famous of down-trodden young women, Cinderella. When she visited, Mom would rush into our house, get down on the floor and play with her grandkids, give them baths, read them stories, then, with her left-over energy, clean the house when they’d gone to sleep.

It was our little joke about all she would do for us.

These days, I’ve noticed that Mom suffers from another aspect of Cinderella’s storybook existence. There seems to be some sort of unwritten, internal striking of the clock that turns Mom into a pumpkin.

Last week, we attended the opening of my dad’s latest art show. Mom was brilliant at greeting friends and enjoying their company. “How are you?” she’d chirp, “I haven’t seen you in ages!”

When one friend, with a mischievous smile, answered, “Naomi, it’s so good to see you too, even though you saw me just five minutes ago,” Mom thought that was funny. We all laughed with her.

An hour into the event, Mom announced that she was tired and wanted to go home. Her mood changed immediately, and she became sullen. Our plans were to go out to eat after the crowd left; it was hard to convince Mom to participate. Even while eating dinner at the restaurant, she sulked and barely talked to us.

When she finally got home, Mom went straight to bed.

It took a while, but I finally realized that Mom was telling us what she needed. I was impressed as it’s a skill I’d assumed was lost to her. This was not the first time that she was able to understand her limitations. Sometimes, when we're out having coffee, Mom will suddenly announce she’s tired and decide it’s time to go.

I’ve often thought that perhaps Mom needed more stimulation. Meaning, if she had something to do that stimulated her, she wouldn’t be so eager to climb into bed. Now I’m rethinking the issue. If Mom can identify her breaking point, then perhaps we have to try harder to get her home on time. The alternative is dealing with a negative, angry woman with whom it is impossible to reason.

Jack Cohen, portrait of an artist with his portraits.

Is Mom unique among Alzheimer’s patients with the ability to verbally acknowledge their boundaries? I don’t think so. What I do think is that Alzheimer’s is a tough disease to understand. One day your loved one is completely with it; the next day, she follows you around like a lost puppy; and on the third day, she recalls how you celebrated your 21st birthday (more than 30 years ago!) but can’t find the bathroom.

It comes down to this: Caregivers must intuit how much their patient understands on any given day and on any given issue, and judge as best they can as to how to proceed. With the incremental downward slide that is part of Alzheimer’s disease, to quote Mom quotingForrest Gump, “Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get.”

Tonight is the holiday of Lag B’Omer, which marks the 33rd day of the 49 days we count between Passover and Shavuot. It is traditional to light bonfires on Lag B’Omer, and at our synagogue, we hold a big barbecue dinner. What could be better than home-made kebabs?

Kebabs

The fresh spices in these kebabs are what make them so appealing. Plus, they are smaller than a regular-sized hamburger, so you won’t feel guilty eating a few of them. If you can’t grill them, a frying pan works well.

makes 20 kebabs

1 kilo (2 pounds) ground beef

1 Tbsp olive oil

1 small onion, minced

¼ cup fresh parsley, chopped

¼ cup fresh basil, chopped

¼ cup fresh mint, chopped

3-4 cloves garlic, minced

Salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

Spread a small amount of olive oil in a frying pan. Using your hands, mix spices into the ground beef. When all is mixed, take a small fistful of the beef and shape into oval patties that taper at the ends. Place in frying pan and fry on high until meat begins to brown. Turn flame down to low. Cover. Turn and cook on remaining side. Cooking time, about 15-20 minutes. Serve with tahini, ketchup or even amba (mango chutney).

When Mom is angry, there is no reasoning with her: Alzheimer’s has robbed her of that intellectual function. Come the late afternoon, Mom’s righteous anger and indignant demands to leave the apartment are hard to defuse. We think she’s being affected by Sundowning Syndrome.

It is common for Alzheimer’s patients to become agitated, aggressive, anxious or confused when the sun begins its descent. It seems that the fading light and increased shadows disrupt the internal body clocks of people who have mid- or advanced dementia.

“Sundowning isn’t a disease, but a group of symptoms that occur at a specific time of the day…. The exact cause of this behavior is unknown,” writes Dr. Glen Smith on the Mayo Clinic’s website.

Great. And how do you keep your mother inside on a sweltering day when the temperature soars to 40° Celsius? That’s 104° Fahrenheit!

Mom insisted she had to go out and meet her friends. Daddy was so frustrated that he called me to confer. The argument that they were going out later didn’t help. Neither did Mom comprehend he severity of the heat wave we were experiencing.

When I spoke to Mom, she angrily told me that she was locked up against her will and that she was being deliberately prevented from going out. She then yelled about needing to meet someone outside. At that point, the conversation became nonsensical.

Mom was right about being locked in. Their door has an extra top lock that she doesn’t have a key for and can’t unlock. I’ve seen her try to unlock the door before. Sometimes she puts the wrong key in the lock and rages when it won’t open. Other times she stands there and rattles the door with all her might. What would happen if she got out without our knowledge? It would be disastrous if she went out by herself. Not only is there the possibility of her getting lost—or hurt—but if we couldn’t find her, she would undoubtedly panic. I can’t even imagine the level of fear and stress she would experience.

I suggested that Daddy put on Mom’s favorite concert video of Danny Kaye conducting or some equally whimsical movie. I also thought that going outside with her wouldn’t be so horrible. Despite the extreme heat, they could walk around the building or walk down the block and then go back up to their apartment. On a cooler afternoon, there is nothing wrong with taking a stroll along the cliff top overlooking the sea.

Tips for preventing Sundowning include reducing afternoon naps, refraining from caffeine, exposing Mom to more sunlight during the day, playing soothing music, sticking with familiar patterns and routines, and reducing background noise.

I have no doubt that Mom would benefit from receiving more attention. I am not close enough to where they live to pop over and sing with Mom, but I imagine that that would appease her. Unfortunately, she repels the attention and assistance offered by their caregiver.

In the meantime, Daddy is doing his best to keep her safe. The night he called, after watching a little bit of the Danny Kaye concert, they ate dinner early—a good distraction—then really did go out. By the time they sat down to dinner, Mom had forgotten about the whole incident.

It is unclear how often Mom will have these reactions or how long this sundowning behavior with continue. It is not easy, but we must try to focus on the fading yet vibrant multi-hued beauty of Mom’s sunset.

I seem to be on a cauliflower kick. Maybe because this vegetable looks so much like a brain. I wish that dealing with Mom were as easy as manipulating cauliflower into any number of recipes. Sadly, Alzheimer’s brains are harder to whip into shape.

Cauliflower Patties

When our friend Sharón needed a place to stay for the night, we were happy to put her up and feed her dinner. As Sharón is a vegetarian, I didn’t think she’d enjoy the meat dish I was making. Here’s what she ate instead.

½ head cauliflower, cut into florets

1 egg

¼ cup parsley, chopped

2 cloves garlic, minced

¼ cup crushed walnuts

Salt and pepper to taste

1 Tbsp olive oil for frying

Directions:

In a small pot, steam cauliflower until soft. Mash cauliflower, then add remaining ingredients. Spread a thin layer of olive oil in frying pan. Form mixture into patties and place in frying pan, browning on both sides, approximately 15 minutes. Remove from heat. Eat!

Mom’s attention fluctuates greatly. We are walking outside noticing the red hibiscus when she veers off course and tells me she’s looking for something in her bag. I stand patiently while Mom opens every zipper pocket, takes out things she’s squirreled away—like a bottle top or three pretzels wrapped in a napkin—then puts them back into their respective spaces. If for a fleeting moment she knew what she was looking for, the image or idea of that thing is now long gone.

“Here’s a tissue,” I say, trying to find a way to redeem her frustration. I pull one out of my bag and hand it to her.

“Oh, thank you,” she says.

Mom wipes her nose, stuffs the tissue in some pocket or other, hangs the bag back on her shoulder, and we continue walking.

We make our way through town window shopping and happily commenting on everything around us. I’m surprised by Mom’s coherence.

“If you could choose one item of clothing to buy in these stores, what would it be?” she challenges me.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “Something has to speak to me in order for me to want to try it on.”

“Do you want spots?”

“Polka dots?” I ask, trying to figure out what she means. “No, I don’t need those.”

“Are you sure? Maybe you do.”

Ok. This is getting strange. I change the subject as we walk down the crowded city streets. I can feel Mom getting anxious about the number of people around us. I keep her hand in mine, not only to provide comfort, but also support. It seems she’s been tripping over uneven sidewalks lately. My dad calls to tell us he’s finished his errand at the bank and we should meet up in the city center. As we near our destination, Mom spies Daddy standing in the center of the walkway before I do. She suddenly rushes off as I start to protest; when I see where she’s going, I relax a little. We joke that Daddy is the center of the universe around which all other objects—and people—orbit.

Is it a blessing in disguise to have such a short attention span? If Mom is angry, her anger is apt to defuse rapidly, and she has no memory of it. If we remind her to walk with someone, she forgets that too, or is annoyed at us for trying to control her. (As if we could.)

Today marks Israel’s Memorial Day. This commemoration is characterized by two public sirens wailing for one minute at night and two minutes in the morning. The day is somber and is felt on both a personal and national level. When the sirens sound, the whole country comes to a remarkable standstill. I’ve been with Mom when the sirens sound. She dutifully stands at attention, but she doesn’t know why. She can’t understand why there are so many flags flying on buildings, on passing cars, or even on her own balcony.

Tonight, Israel transitions from mourning to celebrating with the start of the 68th Israeli Independence Day. Perhaps the country’s emotional swing is similar to Mom’s fluctuating attention span—we have only a fleeting ability to hold onto the sadness of this Memorial Day. I’m hoping that as we shift from somber reflection to joyous celebration, Mom’s mood can also swing to glee at the beautiful flags that adorn our homes and our hearts. The difference is,weremember.

Tabouli or tabbouleh is a Mediterranean salad traditionally made of bulgur, tomatoes, finely chopped parsley, mint and onion, and seasoned with olive oil, lemon juice, and salt. You can substitute quinoa or rice or even couscous for the bulgur. Or, if you want a low calorie tabouli, mince fresh cauliflower to create the same texture. When you know you’ll be eating a lot at your Independence Day picnic, fill up on this dish instead of some of the more fattening foods on offer.

Cauliflower Tabouli

This tabouli has a wonderful crunchy texture. The addition of mint gives it a startlingly cool taste. Even when I think I’m making it only for myself, everyone at our table enjoys this dish.

1 small head cauliflower, checked, cleaned and cut into florets

2 cucumbers, finely chopped

2 tomatoes, finely chopped

2-3 spring onion, chopped

¼ cup fresh parsley, chopped

12 to 15 mint leaves, chopped

2 cloves garlic, minced (optional)

2 Tbsp olive oil

2-3 Tbsp lemon juice

Salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

On pulse setting, mince cauliflower florets in a food processor. Add garlic if using. Remove to bowl. Chop tomatoes, cucumbers and onions into tiny pieces. Add to cauliflower. Chop parsley and mint. Toss in olive oil, lemon juice and spices. Mix well and serve.

As soon as you start measuring good deeds to determine which is greater, which takes priority over the other—you have already entered precarious ground. Your job is to do whatever is sent your way.~From the wisdom of the Lubavitcher Rebbe

Each night from the second night of Passover, we actively count the days until the holiday of Shavuot. This period is known as the Counting of the Omer. These seven weeks are a time of reflection and personal growth, a chance to take note of each precious day and all we are blessed with. The app on my phone that reminds me to count also sends me brief contemplations. The one above seems perfectly suited to my day with Mom.

It was hard getting up at 5:30 to ready myself for my journey. It would be so much easier to stay in bed. By 9:15, I was at my parent’s apartment. The temperature was going above 30° Celsius so we decided to go out early before it got too hot. As Mom put on her sandals, we noticed bright red stains on the bedroom carpet. Somehow, an old lipstick had been crushed underneath her shoes and there was a trail of red everywhere she had stepped. She was so upset to think she’d caused trouble. We managed to wipe everything clean and pacify Mom before she became too weepy. Then we were out the door.

One of our errands was to resize Mom’s ID bracelet. She’d lost it the week before when it got stuck in one of her sleeves as she was undressing. It’s a bracelet that Mom wears in case she gets separated from us so that she can be identified and have someone call us.

With that out of the way, we did a little shopping, then high-tailed it back to their apartment to avoid the heat. That’s when the fun began. I had to figure out how to get Mom to let me cut her toe nails. The pedicurist who had cut her nails and cleaned her feet in March refused to do so again. She was worried about lack of insurance if she cut Mom by accident. Mom’s sense of self is at times so complete that she cannot fathom that she can’t cut her own nails or wash her hair or even close her shoes properly. Therefore, anyone offering to assist her is suspect.

I put on Mom’s favorite concert of Danny Kaye conducting the New York Philharmonic, and somehow got her to give me her feet. She was fine for a while, but when we started gently removing the dead stinking skin from between her toes, she went ballistic. We managed to calm her enough to finish the job, but it is clear that we cannot let this situation continue. We are going to have to find ways of cleaning her feet on a weekly basis. It gives me pause just thinking about it.

I am trying to use the counting of the Omer to be more positive, try new things, and pursue my goals. What I learned over Passover is this: Stability is rare. We are pushed and pulled by so many conflicting needs and wants that often we are out of balance. I want to be there for my parents. And in fact, when I visit them, I am content (for the most part—toe nails aside) to do whatever is needed. When I am sandwiched between my parents and my kids, as I was on Passover, I tilt towards my parents, catering to them, helping them, entertaining them at the expense of my children. My kids tell me I’m tense when we are all together. I know it’s true, though I wish it weren’t. I need to find some way to balance myself better in order to give in a calmer, loving manner. That’s going to take time.

The best gift I received on Passover? When they were cleaning for Passover, Daddy found squirreled away in a filing cabinet a huge bag of recipes Mom had saved over the years. Some of them are in her handwriting, others from the inside of packaged food like Jell-O and salmon cans. I am making my way through them with an archivist’s eye. There are some real gems here.

Meanwhile, it is nice to have all my regular dishes back where they belong after Passover. With access to my recipes—and “forbidden”kitniyot(legumes)—we’re back in business!

Chicken Ratatouille

Simple, elegant, tasty, and colorful. A real crowd pleaser. Serve with rice.

1 eggplant, cubed

1 cup fresh mushrooms, sliced

1 onion, diced

2-3 cloves garlic, crushed

1 can 800 gr crushed tomatoes

1 whole chicken, cut into parts

3 bay leaves

1 tsp basil

1 tsp oregano

1 tsp parsley

Salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

In a large pot, sauté onion and garlic until onion begins to brown. Add eggplant and cook on low heat for 15 minutes. Stir in crushed tomatoes, mushrooms and spices. Add chicken. Bring to boil then cook on low heat for 40 minutes or until chicken is completely cooked.

Those of us with relatively good health take feeling well for granted. When we get sick, no matter how minor the illness, all that changes. When we're sick, life becomes difficult. It's as if we enter a netherworld, a parallel reality, where even minor tasks become a challenge. Worst of all, we must rely on others to help us function. It takes a strong person to allow themselves to give up control of certain facets of their lives and accept assistance.

Add to that the difficulty of perception. For example, I don’t look sick. I look like I should be functioning as usual. I can do just about everything I normally do—shower, dress, go grocery shopping—but I have no energy. I feel lousy. I’ve been lying around for the last few days with some sort of infection that may or may not be connected to the throbbing pain in my thumb.

My one consolation is that I can tell people how I feel. I can explain what hurts. I can ask for assistance. I believe that “part of healthy independence includes a healthy interdependence on people who care about you—where you help others and they help you.”* We are on a perpetual see-saw, and when we’re up, it’s our turn to give; when we’re down, to receive. It is impossible to do everything alone.

In two days, my Mom is coming to visit for Passover. I pray I have regained my strength by then so that I can guide her and assist her even when she is incapable of asking for help. That’s the curse of Alzheimer’s: not only do you not know how to ask for help, but your self-esteem also kicks in and demands that you do not accept help. Alzheimer’s patients are notorious at pushing away the people they care about most over some perceived slight.

It is traditional to wish a sick individual a speedy recovery. Get well soon, we say. In Hebrew, we use the termrefuah shlayma,or full health. The wordshlaymacan also mean whole or complete. A friend recently told me that she no longer wishes peoplerefuah shlayma.Instead, she wishes themshleymut, wholeness. They should be as whole as they can be in their current situation, she suggests, because health is unpredictable.

Which brings me to a conversation I had with my 17-year-old son today. “What’s the meaning to life?” he asked. “What are we living for?”

I recounted with tears in my eyes the strong, positive memories that drive me forward—that moment of falling in love; the birth of my three children; singing with my grandfather; or sitting at the Seder table with four generations of our family.

“So we live our lives for a few memorable moments?” he asked. “I don’t think most people are happy, and they don’t live happy lives. Why should we live?”

I actually started to get angry. This is not a morose, depressed teenager I was talking to. This is a healthy, privileged kid with a full circle of friends, a positive outlook, and an enchantment with religion. What was he asking me? What was he asking himself?

“What’s the alternative,” I challenged, “suicide? We can’t always be happy. You’re missing nuance in your question. It’s not 'why should we live' but how can we strive to make our lives meaningful.”

And, yes, I continued, it’s those memories that we cherish and build upon that make life meaningful; it’s treating others with kindness; it’s finding our creativity and using it to beautify the world; it’s dreaming big about the future; and it’s holding my mom’s hand and guiding her to fleeting moments of happiness, not for her, because she won’t remember them, but for me, because that’s what I’ve chosen to do..

Be as healthy and as whole as you can be wherever you are.

Another way to be happy is to bake! My dad craves my Passover chocolate brownies, but when I’m in a lighter mood, I make this airy chocolate chip cake from Tamar Ansh’sPesach—Anything’s Possible!**

Gluten-Free Chocolate Chip Cake

Light yet satisfying, and definitely more-ish.

4 eggs

1 cup brown sugar

½ cup sugar

1 cup oil

3 tsp vanilla

1 cup potato starch

3 tsp baking powder

¾ cup ground almonds

1 cup chocolate chips

Directions:

Whisk together egg and oil, sugar and vanilla. Add potato starch, baking powder and almonds. Mix in chips. Pour batter into greased (or lined) baking pan and bake at 350° for 40 minutes.

*http://www.beliefnet.com/columnists/lessonsfromarecoveringdoormat/2013/08/relying-on-others.html#ixzz46MYpPTzF

**Tamar Ansh,Pesach—Anything’s Possible!,Targum Press, Michigan, 2009, pp. 240, “Pesach Blondies.”

“Do you think we made Savta happy?” I asked my daughter, Liora, as we were returning from Netanya. (Savta is the Hebrew word for grandmother.) Liora came with me today ostensibly to shop but rain washed out those plans. Instead, she spent time talking with her grandparents.

“It’s hard to say,” she replied. “Savta’s moods change so quickly. One minute she’s singing in the middle of the street—just like the movies. Then she says something that doesn’t make sense or she gets angry for no reason.”

I doubt that Mom understood that Liora was her grandchild. She could not remember the existence of her other three grandchildren. Their names were foreign to her though she enjoyed hearing about their news. (She also introduced me today as her good friend.) I see her world shrinking so noticeably. It is more of a loss for me than for Mom: I am heartbroken to realize our past does not exist for her.

“I think just being with her was the important part,” said Liora wisely.

Grandchildren have an uncanny understanding of their grandparents. I was not surprised that Liora had read the situation so well.

Last week, I attended the funeral of a lovely woman who finally succumbed to Alzheimer’s. In his eulogy, her oldest grandson recounted the times he would spend with her when he was young. His words conjured up lazy nights on the seafront promenade eating ice cream, bowling in the local alley, and a feeling of joy at being spoiled with such love and attention. His grandmother declined rapidly in her last few months, ending her days surrounded by family. At the end of his short speech, he addressed her directly: “I will remember you loving, healthy, happy, and strong.”

The depth of these words has been growing inside me. It takes a conscious effort to remember our loved ones as they were. Each of our mothers, wives, grandmothers, sisters, daughters (and of course fathers, husbands, grandfathers, brothers, sons) is irreplaceable. In remembering them, we become the repository of their history. They need us to carry their memories forward as we rely on the next generation to do the same for us. Our progenitors are our testament to our existence.

I know it’s hard for my kids to interact with their Savta these days. She has changed from the woman she used to be. When she arrived for a visit, it was always in a whirlwind of activity and intense interaction with them. Today, it's different. Mom can't do much of anything without assistance. They are old enough to realize that their kindnesses have only a momentary effect but that they are well worth the effort.

Passover is next week! We are looking forward to the Seder with our close family of 17. That includes my parents who will stay with us for at least three nights. Hmm. I have to come up with some easy tasks for Mom to help me with. Pealing eggs might be one. Or rolling hotdogs into strips of matza might be another. These little appetizers, traditionally called dogs (or pigs) in blankets, are known as Moses in a Basket or Moshe B’Teva in Hebrew. They are a fun and fitting dish for Passover given we retell the story of the exodus from Egypt in which Moses has a starring role.

Moses in a Basket

The method of creating foldable matza is from a cookbook called,Matza 101.*The recipes all start with the process of wetting the matza, covering it with a wet paper towel, and letting the water sink in until the matza becomes flexible. Once the matza is soft, you can cut and roll it almost any way you like. These appetizers are always a welcome treat for Passover.

8 hotdogs

2 matzas softened as per directions

2 Tbsp olive oil

1 tsp paprika

1 tsp garlic salt

Salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

Take each matza and run it under water in the sink. Place on flat surface. Wet two paper towels and lay one on top of each matza for up to 10 minutes. Remove paper towel. Matza should now be soft enough to bend without breaking. In a small bowl, combine oil and spices. Cut each matza into four quarters. Using one quarter matza at a time, brush both sides with oil mixture. Place hotdog at the tip of the matza quarter and roll up diagonally. Hotdog ends should stick out. Place on baking pan lined with baking paper seam side down. Bake at 400° for 20 minutes until tops of matza are browned. Serve with mustard and ketchup. For smaller sized snacks, cut each matza into 8 pieces and each hotdog into halves.

*Jenny Kdoshim and Debbie Bevans,Matza 101: An Innovative Cookbook Containing 101 Creative Recipes Simply Made with Matza!,CA, Alef Judaica, 1997.

I recently heard aradio showabout an Alzheimer’s patient, who, when unable to draw a clock as part of his doctor’s assessment, went home and relearned how to do it. This fellow, a former physicist, was one year into his diagnosis. He was aware of having Alzheimer’s, aware, too, of the cognitive skills that the clock test was trying to assess.

What an extraordinary feat of mental capacity, I marveled as I heard the story. How amazing that this man regained lost skills by thinking and examining the problem before him.

I expect that this individual is the exception to the rule. Most Alzheimer’s patients, while self-aware—meaning they know they are losing their memories—do not understand what is happening to them.

When Mom was diagnosed, she refused to acknowledge she had Alzheimer’s. We stopped trying to coerce her into accepting our explanation, realizing it was better for her to respond to her emotions as she experienced them. I remember the ache of standing with her in the kitchen, my arms around her as she cried helplessly that something terrible was happening to her.

Some Alzheimer’s patients maintain the ability to communicate effectively for some time after their diagnosis. As with most diseases, the course the disease takes within an individual is unique to them. There are sign posts and stages, standards and junctures, but it is often hard to tell how an individual measures up against the medical terms of the disease.

In his sentient state, the man in the radio interview realized that even while he had regained his ability to read a clock, he would soon lose the skill again. “There’s no path back,” he explains. “There is no path back.”

I thought about all of this as I was getting ready to leave my parents’ apartment today. Mom asked if my parents knew I would be going. “I don’t know,” I said, turning to Daddy. “Do my parents know I’m leaving now?” A little laugh, I thought, a chuckle over how we cope. Even when Daddy told her I was their child, Mom couldn’t work it out for herself. Ah well. I know I’m loved, and love in return. That’s the bottom line as we walk tentatively forward—without hope of retrieving the past.

The last few years have seen an increase in promoting healthy diets as a way to stave off the risk of developing Alzheimer’s. One such diet plan is theMIND diet,which recommends at least two servings a week of green leafy vegetables such as kale, spinach and broccoli.

Known as “brain foods,” broccoli, for instance, is a great source of vitamin K, which is known to enhance cognitive function and improve brainpower.* Here’s a recipe that combines all sorts of healthy green vegetables to create a smooth, aromatic soup.

Green Soup

This recipe is one for the olfactory system as well as the taste buds. The smells of peppery celery, aromatic dill, parsley, broccoli, fresh basil, sharp garlic and onion combine into one amazing soup. Think of it as your brain’s protection.

1 onion chopped

3-4 cloves garlic, chopped

1 Tbsp olive oil

1 head broccoli in florets

1 package fresh spinach leaves (approx. 200 gr)

3 celery stalks, chopped

¼ cup fresh dill

¼ cup fresh basil

¼ cup fresh parsley

2 bay leaves

6-8 cups water

Salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

In a large pot, fry onions and garlic in olive oil. Add in remaining vegetables and spices. Cover with water. Bring to a boil, then simmer about 1 hour. Remove bay leaves and with a hand-held blender, blend in the pot. Serve hot or cold.

* Vasanthi, Hannah R.; Mukherjee, Subhendu; Das, Dipak K., “Potential Health Benefits of Broccoli- A Chemico-Biological Overview,” Mini Reviews in Medicinal Chemistry, Vol. 9, No. 6, June 2009, pp. 749-759

I try hard not to treat my mother as if she were my child. When my dad asked her how old she was, Mom first said 12, then 17. It is safe to say Mom has no concept of age.

When we are together my mothering instincts kick in automatically. Take the incident of the red bag, for example.

Last week, my parents came to visit for Purim. The highlight of our celebration is the performance of my husband Jeff’s “PurimShpiel,” a raucous rendition of the Purim story set to well-known music.* This year’s was based onWest Side Story.

When it came time for the performance (the local version: “(Middle) East Side Story”), Mom and I moved round to the other side of the table from where we were sitting so that we could see the stage. Mom sat in a chair that had been vacated, but our friend’s bag and coat were still draped on it.

Theshpielwas hilarious, and Mom hummed along to all the songs. The entire audience had a great belly-laugh at the clever words and antics of the performers. When it was over, my parents got up to leave while I stayed behind to help clean up. Just as I was turning away, I heard Daddy raise his voice.

“No, it’s not your bag,” he said.

“Of course it is,” Mom replied vociferously. “It was on my chair.”

Daddy called me over. “Miriam, will you please tell Mom that this is not her bag.”

Oh no, I thought, how do we get out of this one? My friends know about Mom’s Alzheimer’s. When she introduces me to them as her sister, we all let it slide. But seeing her irrational anger up close and personal is another matter, and I did not relish being part of the scene that was unfolding.

“Actually, Mom,” I said in my most patient voice, “it’s not your bag. It’s black like yours, but yours is at home.”

“Don’t tell me ridiculous stories,” Mom yelled.

And then the solution came to me. I ran round to where we had been sitting and pulled the tired red shopping bag I’d brought with me that morning—loaded with props and food—from where it lay under the table. It was empty, and I wasn’t sure it would work, but I held it out to Mom as a substitute. In the back of my mind were countless memories of taking toys from my young kids only when I had a replacement toy to give them. It was a tried-and-true strategy back then that cut down on the crying.

Surprisingly, it worked with Mom, too. Mom’s anger was assuaged though she grumbled on the way home about people stealing from her.

How can I not mother my mother?

Mom is vulnerable. This disease not only affects her physically it also mercilessly strips her of her intellectual abilities. She obviously cannot navigate the world as she used to; she needs a guide. As the “older” of the two of us, I guess I have volunteered.

One of the items that I had placed in the red bag was a huge bowl of coleslaw. By the time the meal was over, the bowl was empty. I carried it home in an anonymous plastic bag, none the wiser for the bag substitution.

Coleslaw

This recipe was given to me by my wonderful mother-in-law Marilyn. Some people shred the vegetables for this dish, but I prefer to cut the cabbage by hand. For one, I don’t have to wash out the cuisine art; for another, it lends the dish a crisp, crunchy texture.

½ head cabbage, sliced

2 carrots, grated

1 onion, thinly sliced

½ cup mayonnaise

¼ cup sugar

2 Tbsp lemon juice

2 cloves garlic, crushed

Salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

With a sharp knife, slice cabbage thinly then cut slices in half. Grate carrots and place in bowl with cabbage and sliced onion. Mix dressing ingredients in a close topped bowl. Pour over vegetables and toss till evenly coated. Note: Add thinly sliced green pepper for extra color. Also feel free to cut down on sugar if you like it less sweet.

*Visit Jeff’s website,Purim Shpiels R US, to view and download Purimshpielscripts.

I recently watched the Disney movieFrozenwith my mom. I’d seen it several times before with my own kids, so I was curious as to how Mom would react to it.

Mom was enchanted by the opening voices and graceful snowflakes. She laughed when she saw the trolls, and she commented many times about the cold and snow. As we watched Elsa and Anna struggle to assert their sisterly love, I felt like I was seeing new details of the movie through Mom’s eyes.

I am one of those people who buy whole-heartedly into the Disney magic. My favorite movies are probablyUpandEnchanted, though I’m also partial toThe Little Mermaid.(I took my husband to see it for our second date.)

What these movies have in common is clear and explicit visual language that is generally easily interpreted. Add in colorful scenes, catchy songs, and unambiguous emotions, and it is easy to see why Mom enjoys animated movies.

We gain most of our information about the world and our immediate surroundings through our eyes. “Aside from the brain, the eye is the most complex and incredible organ in the animal world,” writes John Schmidt on theBest Alzheimer’s Productswebsite. “Vision is our most important sense, the one…that offers the broadest range of possibilities for stimulation.”

Mom spends many evenings watching and singing along to musicals likeOklahoma, West Side Story,andThe Sound of Music.She knows them intimately.

I was surprised that even asFrozenkept her attention, Mom was easily distracted by noises and movement around us. She enjoyed the lively action, but could not hold on to the plot. Still, it was a wonderful activity for a rainy day, and we both enjoyed sitting together on the couch and sharing the experience.

It turns out that Disney movies are not just enchanting; they have also helped a family with an autistic child create and tailor an “affinity therapy,” a method of learning life lessons through the child’s affinity to, in this case, Disney movies.Life, Animated: A Story of Sidekicks, Heroes, and Autismtells the story of Owen Suskind, the son of Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Ron Suskind and his wife, Cornelia. An autistic boy who couldn’t speak for years, Owen memorized dozens of Disney movies then turned them into a language to express love, loss, and other emotions. In the process of engaging Owen, the family members became animated characters, communicating with him in Disney dialogue and song.

Regardless of which Disney movie you hold in highest esteem, the power of animation to animate us and provide an emotional accompaniment to our lives is one that we should embrace, especially for someone with Alzheimer’s.

Each Purim, we prepare packages of food to give to friends and relatives. Ah, the amazing junk food we collect, just like Halloween. Some friends, though, spend extra effort making healthy, wonderful treats. I would wait in anticipation each year to see what my neighbor Eva would send us. She was an amazing baker, and we’d devour her bread and cakes with gusto. Last year, the package was accompanied by a silly smiling bowl that I knew would liven up our Purim table. Sadly, Eva passed away last year after Purim. When I took down the funny bowl this past week, I was inundated by a sense of loss. We are commanded to be happy on Purim. So here’s a hearty rice salad that I offer in Eva’s memory. Each one of us is a unique treasure in this world. There are no replacements when we lose someone we are close to. But we can eventually find balance again in what remains. May this Purim be a happy one for all of us.

Brown Rice Salad

Mmm... I love the tangy dressing that coats this rice salad.

1 cup brown (or white) rice

2 ½ cups water

1 purple onion, chopped

2-3 cloves garlic, minced

2 carrots, chopped

1 zucchini, chopped

1 red pepper, chopped

Sesame seed s for garnish

Dressing:

1/3 cup oil

2 Tbsp soy sauce

1 Tbsp lemon juice

1 clove garlic, crushed

½ tsp ginger

Salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

Place rice and water in a small sauce pan and bring to a boil. Simmer for 20 minutes until water is absorbed and rice is cooked. Set aside. Sauté garlic and onion in a large frying pan. Add carrots and zucchini. Cook for about 10 minutes until carrots are soft. Mix dressing ingredients in a closed jar. Combine rice, cooked vegetables, and pepper in a large bowl. Pour over dressing. Toss to coat. Add sesame seeds. Serve.

The hardest aspect of growing old or being sick is recognizing our limitations. What we could do yesterday we may not be able to do today. And there’s no guarantee that what we can do today we’ll be able to do tomorrow. If, as (somewhat) rational adults, we have the ability to acknowledge our boundaries, then it is up to us to swallow our pride, put aside our anger, and bravely ask for help.

My mom cannot ask for help. Alzheimer’s has robbed her of that ability.

I write this as I sit in the quiet comfort of my own home discomforted by what I saw today when I was with Mom. Unless compelled by circumstance, who thinks to examine the physical condition of their parent? Our bodies are intimately our own. Why would I want to intrude into that private space? Certainly not for my own pleasure. Who knew that Mom had a huge yellow bruise on her knee or that her toe nails had grown to monstrous proportions?

As it happens, I had scheduled a pedicure appointment for mom while I was with her. Mom’s moods are so mercurial I wanted to make sure she was ok during the appointment. When the technician took off Mom’s shoes, one of her nails was completely bloody and there was blood between her toes and on her sock. We were both shocked to see it. We quickly discovered that one nail had grown so ragged it had pierced the skin on the toe next to it. The blood had congealed under the nail, turning it temporarily black.

It was pointless asking Mom if her toes had been hurting her. They must have been. I wondered how she could have walked through the obvious pain.

As I bent to see her toes, I noticed a big bruise on Mom’s knee. Daddy had told me she’d fallen last week and was still complaining of pain in her side. Here was another sign of her fall.

We did not intentionally overlook Mom’s health issues. We just forgot that Mom needs us more than she’s able to express. The hard part is not only forcefully intruding on her privacy but also getting her to allow us to help her. Thankfully, Mom only grumbled a little bit during the pedicure. We kept her busy singing songs. Before we left the salon, we made a follow-up appointment for next month.

When I walked Mom back to her apartment, it was raining hard. Our twin red umbrellas turned inside out in the strong wind and I had to literally drag Mom across the street as she screeched in terror because her fear of cars had rooted her to the sidewalk. To change our mood, we spent the rest of our time together signing rain songs, playing with musical instruments, and dancing around the room to “I Feel Pretty.” Thank God for her short memory.

The festival of Purim is just around the corner, and I’ve started to think about baking somehamentashen, oroznei hamanas they are called in Hebrew. Here’s an alternative to Purim sweet treats. Made with a filling of sautéed vegetables, they are a delicious accompaniment to any meal.

Savory Vegetable-filledHamentashen

Dough:

2 ½ cups flour

1 tsp baking powder

½ tsp salt

1 egg

½ cup oil

1 tsp white vinegar

1 egg (for coating finished product)

Filling:

2 medium sized carrots, grated

1 large zucchini, grated

1 onion, diced

2-3 cloves garlic, minced

1 cup frozen thawed spinach, drained

1 tsp basil

Salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

In a small bowl whisk oil, vinegar, egg and salt. Add flour and baking powder, kneading until dough is formed. Set aside. In a frying pan, sauté onion and garlic until onion becomes translucent. Add carrots and zucchini. Cover pan and let simmer on low heat for 10 minutes. Add spinach and spices. Simmer until spinach is cooked through. On a floured surface, roll out dough and using a circular bowl or cup, cut out as many circles as you can. Place a small amount of vegetable filling in the center of the dough circle. Lift on three sides and pinched closed in a triangular shape. Transferhamentashto a baking sheet lined with baking paper. Gather remaining dough and roll again to cut more circles. Brush with egg. Bake at 350° for 20 minutes or until dough begins to brown. Can make them small or large.

I blame myself. I blame my cell phone. These phones suck us in and divert our attention. That's why I missed Mom when she came out of the bathroom.

We were having lunch at our favorite restaurant, The Vineyard, overlooking the Mediterranean. Mom had already downed three glasses of lemonade that we'd thinned with water even before the main course arrived—because she drinks a lot and complains that water has no taste—. She'd ordered the mushroom quiche.

My dad was with us, too. In fact, walking to the restaurant had caused a certain amount of stress as Mom was anxious to see him. She worriedly explained that she couldn't trust anyone, not even me, to find him. I started singing some of her favorite songs to distract her, which helped, but until she saw him, she was unyielding in her disfavor with the world.

At the end of the meal, Mom and Daddy went off to find the bathroom together. I guess Mom came out before him and made her way to the outside tables. I was sitting right where she'd left me, but she didn't see me. And I, playing with my phone, didn't see her either.

It must have been a few minutes before Daddy came out and found her pacing the restaurant in utter fear. She even shouted at me.

"How dare you move away when I'm looking for you!" she yelled.

It took another few minutes to pacify her and apologize for my serious lack of attention.

I don't know how mothers of young kids do it today, but when my three were little, I didn't have that constant distraction. I vividly remember participating in all their antics, their water games on the front porch, the puzzles and projects, the books we'd read. In many ways, I feel like Mom is my fourth child. It is my job to protect her, to give meaning to her time, to pull her out of bad moods, to guide her to the right locations.

She couldn't find me. For those few minutes, I'd failed in my job.

Happily, when it was time for me to head home, Mom had forgiven and forgotten. She graced me with hugs and kisses and told me she loved being with me.

How easily lost we become. How fickle the mind.

This week marks my son's 2nd wedding anniversary to his talented and beautiful wife (yes, I'm a biased mother-in-law), and my husband's birthday. It's a given I'll be making chocolate chip cookies for our gathering.

Chocolate Chip Cookies

My husband Jeff used to make these cookies every week. The small, tasty treats would find their way to our kids' schools, our offices, and of course, our Shabbat table. Now that we're alone during the week, he's stopped making them. When we do make them, they are a special pleasure.

¾ cup oil

1 cup sugar

½ cup brown sugar

2 eggs

2 tsp vanilla

2½ cups flour

¼ tsp salt

1 tsp baking soda

1 package chocolate chips

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350°. Whisk oil and sugars in bowl until yellow and fluffy. Add eggs and vanilla. Mix in flour, salt and baking soda. When dough is formed, add chocolate chips. (For extra fun, mix white and brown chips.) Using a teaspoon, place dough in small amounts on a cookie sheet covered in baking paper at least 2 inches apart to allow cookies to spread. Bake 10 minutes. Can make up to 75 small cookies.

“To forget your birthday is…tragic,” Mom declared in a moment of clarity. We watched her bounce between unbridled joy, disbelief and even annoyance as she “discovered” it was her 75th birthday today.

The first time we told her, she expressed such enthusiasm. “It is?” she asked in a child-like voice. The third time, she rebuked me. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “I don’t have time for that nonsense.” By the time we’d left for a birthday lunch at a nearby restaurant, Mom was enchanted again.

What kind of present do you buy for the person whose needs are shrinking? She barely wears jewelry anymore, just the same favorite earrings and necklace. She doesn’t read. She doesn’t cook. She doesn’t travel. She doesn’t even enjoy eating out that much. (By the time the meal arrives, Mom doesn’t remember having ordered it; and she eats so slowly, she’s better off at home.)

We gave Mom a new tea cup with a photo of the family on it. I like to remind her of who we are, even though she really doesn’t remember. She also couldn’t figure out how the photo got there.

Mom received several birthday cards which she puzzled over. The one that excited her the most was from her sister, Barbara. It read, “Happy birthday, sister…”  Mom wanted to use the card to call Barbara.

At the restaurant, we surreptitiously asked the waitress to bring us a dessert with a sparkler. At first, Mom was so excited to see the sparkler. Then, when it was placed in front of her on the table, she became frightened and insisted we remove it. Her mood spoiled, she wouldn’t even eat any of the cake.

As we walked back, Mom didn’t recognize any of the streets near her house. “I’ve never been this way before,” she said. And at the apartment door, she hesitated going inside what she thought was someone else’s home. We had to gently convince her at each step that she was in the right place.

When she woke from her nap, Mom had another surprise waiting. Her caregiver, Sahli, had made her a cake. “It’s my birthday?” she innocently asked. She loved the lit candles, and she happily made a wish as she blew them out.

It wasn’t the most scintillating of days I’ve spent with Mom, or the easiest. Regardless, I’m committed to being with her. Perhaps the best “present” we can give her is to be with her in the present. As my husband Jeff told our kids, “I know it may seem pointless to call and wish her happy birthday since she doesn’t really know who we are—and won’t remember a minute later. But for that moment, it has tremendous value.” I firmly believe that finding the joy in the day is a gift not to be wasted, especially on her birthday.

My wish for my mom is that she will have a year of being loved for who she is and who she is becoming; and a year of comfort as her mind and body continue to disintegrate.

When we got home, I decided to honor Mom’s birthday by making another cake for her. We’ll think of her when we eat it. Happy 75th Birthday, Mom!

Banana Cake with Chocolate Chips

This cake requires one very quirky ingredient, namely mayonnaise. You’ll see that it adds to the deep, rich taste of this most moist of cakes.

½ cup vegetable oil

2 eggs

1 cup sugar

1 tsp vanilla

3 very ripe bananas, mashed

½ cup mayonnaise

½ tsp cinnamon

2 cups flour

1 tsp baking soda

1 tsp baking powder

¾ cup chopped walnuts (optional)

½ to ¾ cup chocolate chips (optional) (but not really!)

Glaze:

3/4 cup powdered sugar

1 tsp vanilla

2 Tbsp milk or milk substitute

Directions:

In a large mixing bowl, whisk oil and eggs. Add sugar, banana and mayo. Stir in all dry ingredients. Add chocolate chips and nuts (if using). Pour batter into a Bundt pan or other baking pan. Bake at 350° for 45 to 50 minutes. Remove to plate to cool. Mix glaze ingredients into a smooth consistency. Pour over cooling cake.

(And happy birthday to my dear friend, Sarah! I’ll save you a piece.)

We are standing in the middle of the mall and we have a half hour to spend before my father picks us up. Mom is agitated. She wants to be with him already.

“Why are you angry?” I ask. Up until now, we’ve been having a good time window shopping and drinking coffee. It is a rainy day outside, and this is the perfect place to loiter.

I don’t really expect an answer. I ask because I am surprised by her sudden turn in mood and until that moment we are any mother and daughter enjoying an outing.

“Sometimes it comes over me and I feel shitty,” Mom explains in an exasperated voice. “I don’t know. I am resistant to multi, multi things.”

In their disjointed way, Mom’s words remind me of shopping together when I was a young girl. It used to be a painful experience. When I needed clothes, Mom would drag me to the stores and I’d try desperately to find myself in the mainstream fashions. The gawky, frizzy-haired Jewish girl I was would inevitably storm away in tears because nothing I tried on made me feel as if I might finally fit in. My fragile sense of self was easily crushed and Mom's words did not help.

Now I am the one who tries to soothe the moment. We stop by a demonstration of a small steam iron and I can feel Mom pulling away to somewhere else. She cannot stand still. She must find my father.

I take her to the large bay windows on the second floor of the mall, ostensibly to check if it’s still raining. She does not want to sit down.

We walk by the children’s play area. Mom loves children. I expect her to coo at them and make sweet noises to get their attention, as she usually does. She scowls at them and flings horrible words into the air. We move off before someone is offended.

Finally, we walk to the entrance of the building where Daddy will pick us up. I don’t know how long it will take until he arrives. Mom paces the floor, back and forth, back and forth. I explain several times that it may take a while, that we have to wait until he calls, that we have to stay inside because it’s cold and rainy. She has no patience for anything but his arrival.

I watch Mom race towards him as he steps out of the car to wave and signal his arrival. She greets him with such excitement, as if they’ve been parted for eons more than the two hours we’ve spent without him. And then she visibly relaxes.

I do not envy the unique burden Daddy carries. He is her touchstone, the one most important person without whom she cannot live; her map in a world that Alzheimer’s makes difficult to navigate. I understand and accept her overwrought emotions towards him.

I am happy to be dessert to Daddy’s main course. I turn up each week with the aim of being there for both of them—entertaining Mom while Daddy has some time to himself. I had fun today, despite Mom’s anxiety. I know, in some small recess of her being, she had fun, too, even if fleeting and forgotten.

Here’s an elegant chicken recipe deserving of my dad’s main course status.

Tomato Basil Chicken

This dish makes our house smell divine. It starts with the tangy smell of fresh basil and continues as the chicken slowly browns to perfection in the oven. It is one of our favorite chicken recipes. The sauce will cover two whole chickens cut into parts.

2 whole chickens cut into parts

Sauce:

1 cup dressing (see below)

1 cup fresh basil

2 large tomatoes, chopped

5 cloves garlic

5 sun dried tomatoes

Dressing:

(Home made Italian dressing. Never better.)

3/4 cup vegetable oil

1/2 cup white vinegar and

1/4 cup Balsamic vinegar (optional--or an additiona 1/4 cup white vinegar)

1/2 cup ketchup

1 Tbsp mustard

1 Tbsp garlic, minced

1 Tbsp paprika

Salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

Make dressing by combining all ingredients in a lidded container and shaking well. Place 1 cup of dressing along with other sauce ingredients in a food processor and pulse until a paste is formed. Place chicken in a large baking pan then spread sauce on top, making sure to coat each piece evenly. Cook on 350° for 1¼ hours or until chicken is browned and cooked through.

This recipe is adapted from Susie Fishbein'sKosher by Design: Short on Time(Mesorah 2006, New York)

We seem to have turned a corner. Mom has finished her course of antibiotics, and is doing much better. She was more her positive self and we laughed and sang together.

As I arrived at their building, a social worker was calling on the intercom to be let in for a surprise visit. The social worker was from Matav, the organization that helped my dad hire our lovely foreign caregiver; they try to send someone every two months to check on the families they assist. Mom was angered by this “intruder” in her apartment, and Daddy had to escort her out of the room so that I could update the social worker on Mom’s condition.

Understandably, Mom feels slighted when we talk about her while she’s in the room. Mom comprehends just enough to realize she is the subject of our conversation, and it makes her feel as if she doesn’t matter. She sulks and swears as a way to get attention. When the social worker asked if anyone else lived in the apartment, Mom angrily huffed, “Just me, Naomi Cohen. I live her too.” By the end of the short visit, Mom was all smiles: the social worker had spoken directly to her and paid her compliments.

Despite the continued angry outbursts, Mom’s health is definitely improving. She is no longer rushing to the bathroom or experiencing extreme discomfort. Urinary Tract Infections(UTI) are notoriously difficult to get rid of and I don’t relish the idea of a recurrence.

As such, we’re taking some precautions:

Daddy has removed the bathroom lock so that Mom can’t inadvertently lock herself in. Instead, there’s now a sign on the bathroom door that reads, “Occupied,” when the bathroom is in use.

We’re also in the market for a bed monitoring system. There are quite a number available. In general, they operate as follows: a pad under the sheets (or mattress or even under the rug by the bed) senses changes in weight when a person rises (or steps on it) and then sends a signal to a cordless monitor. This is good not only for dementia patients who may wander at night but for those individuals with a tendency to fall out of bed. We’ll be able to know in real time if Mom is up and about during the night.

We’re not convinced the UTI is gone for good. We still have to check Mom’s kidneys for any damage, and convince her to give another urine sample. We’ll also try to prevent and reduce the risk of UTIs by drinking lots of water, promoting healthy bathroom habits, taking vitamin C, using cranberry extract and other over-the-counter remedies, and avoiding foods that are bladder irritants.

Sometimes I feel that we are hastening down a path strewn with rocky challenges; other times it is as if we are plodding along a rutted road going nowhere. I bless and curse the future in equal measures knowing how hard it is to deal with Mom in her current state, yet also craving the genuine laughter and joy that Mom is still capable of sharing with us.

Today was a good day. I’m so relieved and happy, I think I’ll bake a cake.

Peanut butter is one of my favorite foods. I hated it as a child, and certainly never ate the ubiquitous Israeli “bamba” snack. In high school, at a conference I attended for my youth group, I remember being so desperately hungry that I took to eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Who knew it was so good? I was hooked from then on.

Peanut Butter Cake

Dense and moist, this cake literally crumbles in your mouth.

1 cup oil

2 eggs

1 tsp vanilla

½ cup white sugar

¾ cup brown sugar

1 cup peanut butter (preferably natural)

3 cups flour

1 tsp baking soda

½ cup chocolate chips

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350°. Whisk oil, eggs and vanilla in a bowl. Add sugars and peanut butter. Stir well. Add flour and baking soda. When mixed, add chocolate chips. Transfer batter to a baking dish and bake at 350° for 30 to 50 minutes. Top of cake should be lightly browned and inside should be moist.

Two weeks since I last wrote and my mom is still ill. She has a urinary tract infection that won't go away. She's been on three types of antibiotics and because pills have now become difficult for her to swallow, we're dissolving them in cranberry juice.

While I was away, my brother Simon arrived from California for 10 days to help out. And this weekend, they all came to visit me—Simon, Mom and Daddy, along with my oldest and his wife, plus the two kids who still live at home. The kids were as shocked as I was to witness the sharp decline of their beloved, fun, caring grandmother. We stood by helplessly as she vocalized nonsensical sounds and tapped her fingers against the edge of the table or her skirt, strange, repetitive motions that stem from the disease.

Mom is angry, bitter, depressed, and in pain. There were episodes where she described a burning sensation all over her body and yelled such hate-filled expletives. They were sometimes directed at us but more often towards herself.

Simon and I each took turns with Mom so that not all the burden of her care was on my dad. I was on call in the mornings to assist with showering and dressing. Mom adamantly refused to wash her hair. I could not convince her to do it. I don't know when it was last washed. Yet despite her staunch intransience, her helplessness was evident when she asked me what to do next in the dressing process.

Nighttime was especially difficult. What if Mom needed to get up and use the toilet while we were all sleeping? Could she find her way there? Could she find her way back to bed? We left the lights on where possible. Unfortunately, we hadn't thought to tape the sliding bolt on the bathroom door so Mom wouldn't inadvertently lock herself in. Suddenly we heard her knocking and banging inside the bathroom, hysterically trying to get out. We were just about to take the hinge off the door when she somehow managed to slide the bolt back. What relief we all felt when she opened the door.

I took Mom to synagogue with me on Saturday morning. Surprisingly, Mom wasn't that keen on going. Once we were there, though, she enjoyed both the singing and the attention of my friends, even if she can no longer keep up with the service.

I've noticed a pattern to some of Mom's anger. If we invite her to join in an activity she's not sure of, she rejects it. It is easier to say, "I don't need to waste my time on that," or, "that's not for me," or even, "don't be rediculous," than to ask us to explain things to her. Perhaps in that instance she forgets even how to ask.

The one constant is Mom's memory of and pleasure in singing songs. When she was in a bad mood, Simon worked hard to get her to sing or watch snippets of musicals on his tablet. Invariably she would catch the spirit and join in. Oh, what joy to hear her sing, to watch her light up and be happy, even momentarily.

I know things will be better when she feels better. But I won't delude myself into thinking we'll get her back.

The one thing that can make a difference is to continue to bestow small kindnesses on Mom. Listen to her plaintiveness, guide her to sense, accept her protests, and understand the difficulties in navigating her increasingly shrinking world.

Sometimes you need to make comfort foods, those foods that make you feel better just by seeing them in front of you. I feel this way about potatoes. Mashed potatoes are perhaps my favorite, but I’ll take sweet potatoes any time. This recipe combines sweet potatoes with a little bit of Middle Eastern taste to produce a healthy, appetizing dish, that you don’t have to feel guilty eating.

Sweet Potato Medley

What could be better than sweet potatoes and salad. This is a healthy potato dish you don't need to feel guilty eating. Serve warm.

4 small sweet potatoes

1 onion, chopped

½ cup mushrooms, chopped

2 cloves garlic, crushed

1 Tbsp olive oil

10 cherry tomatoes, quartered

¼ cup fresh parsley

¼ cup tehina

Salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

Cut potatoes length-wise. Rub a small amount of oil on each one and place cut side down on baking tray. Bake in oven at 350° for 20 minutes or until knife pierces them with ease. Sauté garlic, mushrooms and onions in remaining oil on stove top until onions begin to brown. Set aside to cool. Cut tomatoes and parsley and combine with cooled onion mixture, salt and pepper. When potatoes are done, arrange in a flower pattern on a plate. Drizzle with tehina. Add salad mixture. Serve warm.

How naïve I was to think I could weather this devastation that is Alzheimer’s and maintain my wits. Mom is disintegrating before my very eyes. She is a changed individual. I fear that she will never revert to who she was before her fever two weeks ago. It is the compassion of the rain pouring from the skies that hides my tears.

Today, as follow-up to her doctor’s visit last week, I took Mom for a chest x-ray and blood tests. The doctor could find nothing physically wrong with Mom, but just in case—because we are by nature hopeful—she ordered some tests. It was extremely difficult to get Mom to cooperate because she didn’t understand what was happening.

Chest x-ray: Yes, undress and expose yourself to the technician. Take off your necklaces that you never remove. Hug the machine as if in an embrace so that your body is flush against the cold screen. Closer. Closer. Spew the word “f-ck” as many times as you can, your face clenched in anger. Breathe in deeply and hold that breath while the technician presses a button. Let out your breath. Then redress, a process that has become untenable.

And blood tests: Present your veins to the nurse while she probes them and wraps a tourniquet on your arm. Gaze with shock as the nurse takes up the needle. Look away. Your daughter is making silly faces at you, which is at least more pleasant than seeing the red liquid filling the test tubes. Swear at everyone who passes, say they lied about the pain. Angrily shush the crying child in the next cubicle. Hold the cotton wool against the hole the needle has made and bend your arm up, making it awkward to carry your purse or coat. Then accept with alacrity the nurse’s farewell wishes.

I pray that this is the last time we have to subject Mom to nurses and technicians. But I know the prayer is in vain.

We walked a few blocks to the nearby mall for a cup of coffee, but the short walk tired her out. Mom complained of feeling ill. She couldn’t tell me more than that. No nausea. No dizziness. “Where does it hurt?” I asked. She just doesn’t feel well, she doesn’t feel herself, and she told me she’s sorry I have to put up with her like this. We drank our coffee, then called Daddy to pick us up because not only was the weather outside stormy, but the walk home was much too far for her. This is a walk we’ve done hundreds of times. I am not sure when we will walk it again, if ever.

As I tucked Mom into bed for her afternoon nap, my efforts at keeping her awake were unsuccessful. She needed to sleep, she told me. Then, “I’m so glad I have you. We’re so lucky to have each other, really.”

Yes,I whisper.I’m so glad you had me, too, because there is no place I’d rather be than by your side.

When Mom was asleep, I had a chance to tell Daddy about our morning and cry with him over the sudden changes in Mom’s cognitive and physical abilities. Then it was time to head home. By the time I entered Beer Sheva, the rain that had followed me on my journey gave way to blue skies, the sun’s welcoming light, and fields as green as Ireland. A brief respite from the grey cold of winter.

Note: I will be away for the next two weeks escorting the AACI trip to South Africa. I worry about leaving, even temporarily, but I am looking forward to venturing into a distant summer.

Winter is a time for thick soups and dishes with extra carbohydrates. When I makecholentfor Shabbat, I often add a vegetariankishkaas an extra treat.Cholentis a traditional Jewish stew that is simmered overnight for 12 hours or more, and eaten for lunch on Shabbat. Traditionallykishkais stuffed intestine with a filling made from a combination of meat and flour. I do away with the meat and add an array of fresh vegetables instead.

Sarah’s Veggie Kishka

This is a recipe I received many years ago from my fabulous friend, Sarah. I love the piquant taste of the celery. It reminds me to be thankful for every bite of life.

3 large celery stalks with leaves, chopped

2-3 carrots, chopped

1 large onion, chopped

2-3 cloves garlic

¼ cup fresh parsley, chopped

½ cup oil

1 cup flour

½ Tbsp paprika

Salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350°. Chop vegetables roughly then toss in a food processor. Pulse until veggies are minced. Remove to bowl and add oil, flour and spices. Stir until mixed. On a flat surface, lay down a square of foil covered by a smaller square of baking paper. Place about ¼ of the mixture on the edge of the baking paper and roll into a small cylinder. Twist ends of foil closed. Repeat until all the mixture is used up. Place foil rolls in a pan and cook on 350° for 1 hour. If serving withcholent, place baked foil rolls on top ofcholent(inside the pot) and cook additionally until served on Shabbat.

Mom is running a fever and has a cold. Pretty common in winter. In fact, I’m nursing a bad cold, too. It seems that not even the flu shots she got could have prevented this. If Mom were a healthy person, getting over a virus would be relatively easy, but she isn’t a healthy person. She can’t seem to recognize what’s happening to her body, let alone request help. She lay awake in bed one night shivering and shaking, and it was only by chance that my dad woke up to find her suffering. It’s worrying because her cognitive skills seem to be in free-fall. Mom is suddenly uttering nonsensical statements, searching for things that don’t exist, walking at a snail’s pace and sleeping practically the whole day.

If we’re lucky, Mom’s situation will improve when the virus leaves her system. A 2009 study in Neurology,* however, suggests that common colds and other infections may increase the rate of neurological decline in Alzheimer’s patients. As the article explains, our bodies fight disease by producing pro-inflammatory cytokine tumor necrosis factor a (TNF-a) that plays a role in “immune to brain communication. [R]esearch shows that acute systemic inflammation contributes to an exacerbation of neurodegeneration.” Meaning, the very inflammation that our bodies produce to fight infection could be a catalyst for brain degeneration in Alzheimer’s patients.

As children, Mom would nurse my brother and me back to health with special meals, TV watching in bed, and gloriously warmth-inducing hot water bottles. My favorite meal, perhaps still to this day, was the banana mashed into sugary milk. It didn’t matter if it was for fever or great big scrapes on my knees, Mom’s care made all the difference.

I vividly recall the deep concern I once had that my two-year-old would never recover from his high fever, listlessness and loss of appetite. I remember holding him in my lap and trying to feed him his favorite creamy puddings only to be rebuffed by small cries and head shaking. What if he stayed this way, I worried. I was so thankful when he began to eat again and to play. I learned from that experience that children do bounce back, sometimes so quickly it’s as if they’d never been sick. (My son is in his 20s now, and doing quite well.)

Although Alzheimer’s is a progressive degenerative disease, there seems to be a wide individual rate of decline unconnected to internal or external factors. As early as 1994, The Journals of Gerontology** published a study on a “Longitudinal Investigation of Risk Factors for Accelerated Decline” in Alzheimer’s. The study followed 156 patients annually for up to five years. Their results: “The average rate of decline in cognitive function, as measured by the MMSE (mini-mental state evaluation) and DRS (dementia rating scale), becomes more rapid as the disease progresses. Higher education, younger age, and agitation at intake were also significantly related to increased rates of cognitive decline.”

We can’t win this one. As Mom’s disease progresses, I go through enormous emotional loss. She is already lost to me in so many ways. She is not there for motherly counsel, or even for good retail therapy. And yet, though our roles are reversed, we still communicate our love for one another. I crave that fun-loving laughter we share, the hugs she bestows on me. At this point I will take what I can get.

The best thing I can do for myself these days is to make soups to keep away the winter chill. They are comforting and healthy, and "warm the cockles," as Mom would say in her best British accent. I hate missing her like this when she’s still here.

Cauliflower Leek Soup with Jerusalem Artichoke

The Jerusalem artichoke is actually a sunflower species native to North America. It is similar to a potato in its texture but it has the smoky taste of an artichoke. It makes this soup rich in flavor.

1 onion, chopped

3-4 cloves garlic, chopped

1 Tbsp olive oil

1-2 heads cauliflower (depending on size), in florets

2-3 Jerusalem artichokes, peeled and sliced

2 leeks, chopped

6-8 cups water

2 bay leaves

1 tsp basil (or ¼ cup fresh)

¼ cup fresh parsley

Salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

Sauté garlic and onion in oil until they begin to brown. Add cauliflower, leeks and artichoke and sauté for another five minutes. Measure water until all vegetables are covered. Add spices. Bring to boil then simmer on low heat for at least an hour. Remove bay leaves. Using a hand-held blender, blend soup right in the pot.

*http://www.neurology.org/content/73/10/768.abstract

**http://biomedgerontology.oxfordjournals.org/content/50A/1/M49.short

“Was I there, too?” Mom asks as my dad tells us about a concert they attended Monday night.

“Of course,” he responds.

“I don’t remember,” Mom replies. “I don’t even know if I’m here or there.”

We laugh, because in context, it’s funny. What it means, however, is that Mom is aware of her memory loss, of her dislocation from time, of her inability to live beyond the moment.

We’ve accepted this about her. And in fact, as Mom’s abilities decline, some things are easier. Mom doesn’t fight me anymore when I need to cut her nails. She willingly holds hands when we cross the street. And, whereas before she rejected sandwiches for lunch, she happily eats them because we now cut them into bite-sized bits she can eat with a fork.

What remains a mystery is how Mom, who sits on the sidelines for most conversations, suddenly enters the fray with a zinging comment. Here’s an example from this afternoon.

As most of their bills are in Hebrew, Daddy and I have taken to going over them together to make sure he understands them. He has a pile of papers waiting for me when I get there, and as we sift through them, I notice that one whole stack is not for him. The address is right, but the name on the letter does not correspond to anyone in their apartment. When we finally decipher the last name (Hebrew is written without any vowels, so it is sometimes a guessing game as to how to pronounce words), Daddy realizes the papers are for their upstairs neighbors, the Pe’er family.

“I think they’ve both died,” Daddy says, “although, maybe she’s still alive.”

And then Mom, transliterating from Hebrew to make a joke: “What a pair they are.”

Zing.

Mom’s brainisfunctioning.

We laugh long and hard over that joke. It is a small celebration of her vitality and it makes us feel as if our efforts to keep her active and engaged do have an effect.

As I gather my things to head home, Mom tells me she’ll miss me. “I’m like a yo-yo,” I say. “I’m leaving now, but I keep coming back.”

“But when will I see you?”

“I’ll visit next week,” I promise. Mom is still with us. I want to experience that for as long as I can.

The thing about broccoli is that it’s good brain food. Broccoli is high in a phytoestrogen compound that has been shown to benefit cognitive skills. A 2005 study by researchers at King’s College London revealed that broccoli is also high in glucosinolates, a group of compounds that can halt the decline of the neurotransmitter acetylcholine, which is necessary for the central nervous system to perform properly. Low levels of acetylcholine are common in those with Alzheimer's Disease.*

The broccoli kugel featured here is in honor of Mom’s phenomenal brain.

Broccoli Kugel

If you’re not overly fond of broccoli, you can substitute almost any other vegetable—cauliflower, squash and carrots, spinach, even cabbage—and still create a hearty vegetable side dish. My favorite: broccoli. This works with fresh broccoli, too.

800 grams frozen thawed broccoli, chopped

1 large onion, chopped

3-4 cloves garlic

4 eggs

4 Tbsp mayonnaise

1 Tsp mustard

4 Tbsp flour

Salt and pepper to taste

Paprika to sprinkle on top

Directions:

Sauté onions and garlic until they begin to brown. Let cool. In a large bowl, mix eggs, flour, mustard and mayonnaise, salt and pepper. Add broccoli and onion mixture. Pour into a small casserole dish and sprinkle with paprika. Bake at 350° for 40 minutes or until browned on sides and top.

*http://www.worldhealth.net/anti-aging-tips/75/broccoli-brain/ 

“See you next year,” Mom would say as she tucked us in on December 31. Implied was the promise of something new, an optimism about the future, of life being different when we awoke on the first day of the new year.

Year’s end is coming round again, and we are spiraling downwards into unknown territory. Mom is less mentally acute. She is less able physically. In contrast, I am more accepting of Mom’s quirky behavior, more open to caring for her. Today, as we were crossing the street, I realized Mom was panicking. She tightened her grip on my arm and backed away from the road pulling me with her. Whereas before I might have persuaded her to cross the street, even pulled her towards it, I realized it was much more sensible to wait until the road was clear. She also becomes tired when we’re walking back to her apartment. Sometimes we rest on the benches along the way and enjoy the winter sunshine.

Mom still appreciates my goofy jokes. I told her the one about the policeman who steps into a room full of cows. “Alright,” he shouts, “nobody moo.”

It is difficult to give all your attention to Mom all of the time. I get reports from my dad that Mom will slip into bed at 7:00 p.m., because she’s bored and her bed is a safe place. For someone who doesn’t read or watch TV (too many characters to keep straight in any given show) or even hold conversations, there’s not much else to do. Thankfully, Mom’s musical memory is alive and well. Daddy has successfully set up music on his iPod that allows Mom to conduct symphonies from her bedroom.

It is not without fear that I step into the New Year. There is no rewind in this movie. No prequels. No way to change the script. There is only going forward. And as the movie progresses, the previous scenes are erased from Mom’s mind forever.

Life, however, is never all black or all white. We live in a permanent grey zone where everything has nuance. Even as she forgets herself, I am there to remember.

I am holding on to the sparks of life that Mom still possesses as if they are precious stones. They have weight and substance. They glow with happiness. Her ability to sing with me, dance around the living room, enjoy simple jokes, laugh with abandon. I cherish these things. I store them in my memory so that when the black days do come, they will help me find balance.

When my new oven finally arrived, the first thing I baked was fabulous chocolaty zebra cookies. Unlike life, foodcanbe black and white. Everyone enjoyed them, including Mom.

Zebra Cookies

This recipe produces a thick fudge-like dough. If it feels too sticky, add a little extra flour. You can also wet your hands before rolling the dough into balls to cut down on the stickiness.

½ cup oil

4 eggs

1 tsp vanilla

1½ cups sugar

2 cups flour

1 cup cocoa

2 tsp baking powder

½ cup powdered sugar

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350°. In a large bowl, whisk eggs and oil, then add sugar and vanilla. Add dry ingredients and mix until dough becomes a thick fudgy mixture. Using your hands, make about 25 walnut-sized balls. Dip each one in the powdered sugar before placing on a baking tray covered with baking paper. Allow room between cookies as they expand while baking. Bake at 350° for 12 minutes.

It’s official! My parents now own a property just down the lane from me.

Though we only live 90 minutes apart by car (or 2½ hours by public transport), even that distance is sometimes too much. How often I’ve wished I could pop in for a short song and dance with Mom, stop by to help out, do their shopping, or give my dad some alone time.

They won’t be moving right away. The house purchase is to help us plan ahead. We’ve hired a contractor to make some internal changes, including wide doorways for an eventual wheelchair, a large bathroom where a caregiver can assist with personal hygiene, a sliding door at the back to let in sun (plus, as we live in Israel, a reinforced safe room that will keep them protected from rockets). The house is all on one level with a small park nearby, as opposed to their current 3rd floor apartment, so it will be easier to get around.

Moving is fraught with stress at the best of times; how more so for someone with Alzheimer’s. Mom’s stability relies on the routine of living in a familiar environment, walking familiar streets, seeing familiar faces, attending familiar events. If we take that away, we might unbalance her.

Eventually, it will come to pass. And when it does, we will have to be sensitive to her needs. Here are a few tips to help us prepare.

Talk about the move. Assuming Mom can understand what’s happening around her, talking about the benefits of moving can lessen the trauma. The incentive of living near me is a powerful one, and we can emphasize this as we describe the advantages of a new home.

Keep Mom occupied during the move. I can imagine her standing in a room that is being packed up and reacting very emotionally to all her “things” being put in boxes. When it comes time to leave, we’ll bring Mom to my house so that she will be in a familiar setting rather than the new house with all its boxes and mess.

Unpack your sheets first. This is advice Mom gave me years ago during my first move. Make your bed so that you can collapse when you’re exhausted.

Decorate her room with comfort items. Hopefully this will give Mom a sense of familiarity in her new home.

Expect a period of transition. Mom might experience grief or anger at being in a new environment. There’s no way to know how long it will take before she is comfortable in her new home. The dislocation from her familiar surroundings might induce Mom to ask to go “home.” We’ve experienced this before, and it’s clear that the “home” Mom was referring to was her childhood home. We’ll have to give her support as she transitions.

Provide the opportunity to reminisce. Alzheimer’s patients can access long-term memory more readily than short-term memory. Getting Mom to talk about her previous homes may be comforting.

There is no right or best time to move someone with Alzheimer’s. Whether you’re moving your loved one to a seniors’ living facility or a new house, it’s an individual decision. It depends on so many factors, and must include the health and preparedness of the caregivers. Perhaps we’ll wait to move Mom until she is no longer capable of understanding that one place is different from another. Or maybe we’ll move her in the near future so that she can become accustomed to her new surroundings before it’s too late. Either way, the stresses of moving will be magnified for an Alzheimer’s patient.

Meanwhile, the saga of my oven continues. It’s been more than a week since the oven died. I’ve been getting good use out of the burners, and it’s made me try creative cooking methods. For example, both chicken and meat can be cooked on a stove top. Here’s the recipe I used for a succulent roast cooked in a pot on the stove.

Stove Top Pot Roast

This is the best roast recipe I’ve ever used. The meat cooks to a tender and juicy consistency, and despite the long cooking time—four hours—once it’s cooking, there’s little work involved.

1 to 2 kilo steak roast (the foreshank, no. 5)

3 Tbsp olive oil

3-4 potatoes, cubed

3-4 carrots, sliced

2 medium sweet potatoes, sliced

2 large onions, chopped

10 or more garlic cloves, unpeeled

2 tsp rosemary

2 tsp basil

3 tsp paprika

Salt and pepper to taste

Up to 4-5 cups water

Gravy:

1 Tbsp flour

½ Tbsp potato starch

Directions:

Heat on a high flame 1 Tbsp oil in a large pot. Using half the remaining oil, rub one side of roast with oil and half the spices. Place roast spiced-side down in pot and sear until brown. Meanwhile, rub the second side with remaining oil and spices, and sear this side, too. (Searing the meat to an almost caramelized crust will make it more flavorful.) Then, if you can manage, flip the meat on its sides and then its ends to sear these parts, too. (You might have to hold the meat upright with your hands until seared.) Once meat is seared, add water so that it covers half the roast. Cook on low flame for two hours. After two hours, add potatoes, carrots, and garlic cloves. Cook for another hour on a low flame. Add sweet potatoes and cook roast for an additional hour. Transfer roast to a large pan and let sit covered for 30 minutes before slicing. Remove vegetables to a serving dish. Transfer meat juices to a small saucepan and heat to boiling. Use the meat juices to make gravy by adding 2 Tbsp of meat juice or ½ a cup of water to 1 Tbsp flour and ½ Tbsp potato starch in a small cup. Mix, then pour flour mixture slowly into meat juices while stirring until juices thicken. Reduce heat and simmer for 10 minutes.

“This mirror looks like me,” Mom exclaimed. We were in a café with my dad.

“It does, doesn’t it?” I answered, as Daddy and I exchanged humorous glances. I was pleased she actually recognized herself.

Mom’s general state is often one of confusion. “I don’t know if I’m coming or going,” she says. Today it was, “I don’t know if I’m ready for what I’m waiting for.” How apt a phrase for someone with Alzheimer’s.

We try to cheer ourselves up by suggesting that even though Mom is deteriorating, she is still engaged with the world, and perhaps not as bad off as others. She seems to be fading at a shuffling crawl, and I hope it continues that way.

There are many stories of Alzheimer’s victims who are not so lucky. One fear is how many manage to wander from their homes and caregivers and end up in the hospital in a state of utter befuddlement with cuts and bruises, or worse.

In an article that my brother Simon shared with us from the Contra Costa Times in Concordia, California, the Alzheimer’s Association estimates that about “60 percent of people with Alzheimer’s disease at some point will wander away…because of boredom, overstimulation or confusion.”*

Boredom, overstimulation and confusion. Wow, that pretty much sums up Mom’s whole day. When she’s bored, she has a tendency to wander the house looking for things that she has only a vague sense of. She can get herself into trouble, like today, when she turned the kitchen faucet on full force and was shocked by the blast of water that shpritzed her. She wanted to help make lunch so I put plastic cups and dishes in the sink for her to “wash.” When I’m with her, I try to engage her in singing or word play. We’ve even colored an adult coloring book together.

Walking outside with Mom is a sure recipe for her to be over stimulated—the noise of cars, construction, conversations, crowds, or even barking dogs can unsettle her. I’ve taken to always holding her hand when we are together.

As for confusion, that’s a given.

Several companies have created GPS locaters small enough to be worn as a pendant, stuffed unsuspectingly into a purse, or embedded in the bottom of a shoe. These enable family members to keep track of their loved ones if they go missing. Mom wears an ID bracelet with her name, address and phone number on it. She thinks of it as part of her standard jewelry, but I look at it as something that may help her if she’s ever lost.

I can only think about these things in the abstract, because if I begin to ponder losing my mom, anything can set me off. This weekend, I wore a beautiful glass necklace and earrings that Daddy recently passed on to me. I remember coveting this jewelry when I was little, the exquisite Venetian beads in blue and gold having made an impression as they glittered around Mom’s neck one night as she dressed for a party. As soon as someone complimented me on the necklace, I felt uncomfortable. Clearly she’s not wearing it anymore. Had I unwittingly stolen it from her? I loved wearing it, the grace it added to my outfit, the gentle clink of the beads, the knowledge that it was given with love to her from my dad. I pacify myself by saying that my dad has loaned it to me it for the foreseeable future.

We make every effort to keep Mom tethered to the world. We love and laugh, and we try to prepare ourselves for what we know is awaiting us.

The chilly weather has brought out my urge to make soup for dinner. How heavenly to feel the warmth of a good soup surging through your body. Here’s a pumpkin leek soup recipe that will warm you up.

Pumpkin Leek Soup

Pumpkin is one of my favorite fall fruits. (Yes, pumpkins and gourds are technically from the fruit family.) This soup uses similar spices to those in pumpkin pie, which I also love, and for me is reminiscent of chilly fall days.

3 leeks (white part only), chopped

1 onion, chopped

3-4 cloves garlic, chopped

2 lbs pumpkin, cubed

2 carrots, sliced

1 tsp cumin

½ tsp nutmeg

½ tsp ground coriander

Salt and pepper to taste

6 cups water (or more for thinner soup)

Directions:

Sauté leeks, onion and garlic in large pot until they become translucent. Add spices. Stir. Add remaining vegetables, stir, and cook for five minutes. Add water. Bring to a boil. Turn down heat and simmer for 30 minutes to an hour until vegetables are cooked through. Allow to cool slightly then blend with a hand-held blender right in the pot. Serving suggestion: add 1 Tbsp of cream and a sprinkling of chives to each bowl.

“I don’t know if I’m lost or not,” Mom said as walked in the city. We were holding hands, the sun gracing us with warmth, the sheltering sky bright and blue.

I keep wondering what it’s like to feel that everything around you lacks substance, that what you knew a minute ago is now no longer familiar. What happens when your depth perception goes, and the general hubbub of the city becomes not just loud, but physically overwhelming? Or when you’re constantly feeling like something is missing—your bag, a shoe, your young child—but you don’t remember what it was or how to explain it.

The other day as I was driving aound town, I suddenly realized I didn’t know where I was going. I could not remember how to navigate from point A to point B. The information I relied on was missing; it felt utterly blank inside my head.

Compared to some, Mom is doing great. She can still function in the world, to a lesser extent. We had a strange conversation at lunch where she asked me if my mother sang to me as a child. Who was I in her eyes, I wondered? Not her daughter. Not her sister. Who could I have been?

Sometimes it is enough to know that she enjoys my company. As I enjoy hers. As I leave my house each Tuesday and set out on my journey, I start narrowing my day’s focus. I put aside other thoughts, other chores, other aspects of me. I pack away my ego. I steel myself to the mystery, delight, and heartache of being with my child mother.

As we light the fourth candle of Chanukah tonight, let the light that shines so brightly from our individual flames light the darkness that is Alzheimer’s. Let us bring our precious loved ones into the light with us and treat them as kindly as we can.

I couldn’t let Chanukah pass by without making doughnuts. I love those ubiquitous fried dough balls. But who needs 600 calories every time you eat one! It’s not really about need, I know, but there are alternatives if you want to indulge without theshemen,oil, making youshamen,fat.

No-fry Doughnuts

These doughnuts are nearly as good as the real thing—sweet and light, and a whole lot fewer calories. Makes 12-16 bite-size doughnuts.

1 cup soy milk

¼ cup oil

¼ cup date honey

½ Tbsp yeast

1 tsp salt

2-3 cups flour

Coffee Glaze:

1 cup powdered sugar

2 Tbsp prepared coffee

Chocolate Glaze:

½ cup chocolate chips

½ tsp vanilla

½ tsp water

Directions:

Heat soy milk, oil and honey in a small saucepan. Bring to a boil then let cool. In a large bowl, mix flour, yeast and salt, and form a small hollow in the flour. Pour warm milk mixture into bowl with flour and mix. Knead, adding flour if needed, until dough is springy to the touch but not sticky. Form dough into small round balls and place on baking sheet, making sure to leave room for them to rise. Let rise in warm room for up to 1 hour. Bake at 350° for 10 minutes. For toppings: Coffee—Mix 2 Tbsp prepared coffee with 1 cup powdered sugar. Stir to remove lumps. Chocolate—Combine ingredients in a microwave-safe bowl and cook on high for 40 seconds. Stir to melt all the chips. Dip rounded top of doughnuts into one or both mixtures, then let sit so glaze will harden.