It's a scary place for most people. The realm of weight loss or gain. We shy away from all topics weight related after asking someone if she is pregnant in our twenties only to discover she delivered 14 months before. After that we only comment on pregnancy if a woman's water breaks before our very eyes in the checkout line. "Are you kidding? You are pregnant?"
As friends, sisters, cousins, and spouses, however, we can play a valuable role in helping our friends and family to lose weight. It is a long, difficult journey. We need your help. Granted you might feel like you are sticking your hand into a fox trap. But it's really no scarier than your average carnival ride. Climb aboard.
Support us. Notice and acknowledge positive changes in behavior. Use the sportscaster technique. You only need to narrate what's going on. No wisecracks or sarcasm please. "You made such a beautiful healthy salad. It's so colorful. It looks delicious." This is considerably better than jokes about rabbit food.
Notice progress. If clothes are looking loose. If fewer curves are showing. If more curves are apparent, make a polite compliment. Make it something you'd say to your eldest aunt, not your youngest sibling. Keep it kind, neutral, forward looking, and positive. Instead of "the last time you wore that Jimmy Carter was sworn into the White House," try, "That dress looks fantastic on you, you look beautiful."
Be careful about calling someone slender, thin or skinny because she may not see herself as that quite yet. But we all can feel and look beautiful, sexy, wonderful, glamorous, fantastic, or fabulous at any size. You can, however, share observations about weight loss, "I can see progress from all your hard work. I am so proud of you."
The most difficult challenge for significant others of those losing weight is how to react when their partner is falling off the wagon. Commonly, the default is something like this, "Are you sure you want to do that?" This answer to this question might be a cast iron pan with wings.
A better approach might be to start with a compliment, offer affirmation, express concern, and ask an open ended question. "I am so proud of how hard you have been working to lose weight. I know how difficult it is. I am guessing that you might be having trouble tonight. Can you tell me what is going on?" Your next assignment is to listen to whatever that person's co-worker, sister, mother, or automobile is doing to make life difficult without trying to solve it, but just to hear her or him out.
Don't second guess some one's progress. It can be hard to watch someone transform before you eyes from an 18 to an 8. If you have always seen someone as round it is hard to adjust to a shrinking silhouette. Please refrain from telling someone they look gaunt, sickly, tired, too skinny, or anorexic. It is a bad idea to say something like, "Do you have cancer? Is that why you are losing so much weight?"
Don't tell someone to stop losing weight. This is never received well from a successful dieter who may or may not have reached goal weight. This is sometimes offered as advice to women who are sizes 12, 10, or 8. This response negates the progress she has made and plans to make. Know that as an observer of some one's transformation, it is you who is having trouble adjusting to her new body image. If someone is dipping into a danger zone of sizes 4, 2, or 0 and you suspect an eating disorder, you will want to be much more cautious in expressing your concerns for their health. Telling someone with an eating disorder to stop losing weight will most likely not interrupt the behavior. Therefore, if this is your greatest concern, you will need a different approach.
If you are trying to lose weight, tell people what you need, what you want, what helps, and what doesn't. If you love someone who is trying to lose weight, ask what she or he needs and wants, and what is helpful and what is not. If you do, you will find a source of support, courage, and assistance, that will help you to reach your goal together. The reward will be greater than matching track suits...to have conquered the greatest challenge possible together.
Those losing weight
Monday, September 7, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
A Dear John Letter
Dear Donna,
You mean more to me than I can say. But I can not bear the way you treat me. Everything else matters more to you than me—your work, the house, the children.
You don’t listen to me. You don’t try to understand or fulfill my needs. When was the last time you thought about what I want? When will I come first? I am overlooked and ignored every single day. Yet I continue to support you--day in and day out--in all that you do.
But I can’t go on this way. I feel more than mistreated, I am abused. If we continue down this course it will end badly for both of us.
I didn’t want to wait for some kind of crisis to occur before I said these things to you. I don’t want us to hit bottom. So I am drawing a line in the sand TODAY. If you want me to stay around, to stand by you, to care for you, you need to show me that you care. The time has come for you to learn how to love me.
Signed, Your body
You mean more to me than I can say. But I can not bear the way you treat me. Everything else matters more to you than me—your work, the house, the children.
You don’t listen to me. You don’t try to understand or fulfill my needs. When was the last time you thought about what I want? When will I come first? I am overlooked and ignored every single day. Yet I continue to support you--day in and day out--in all that you do.
But I can’t go on this way. I feel more than mistreated, I am abused. If we continue down this course it will end badly for both of us.
I didn’t want to wait for some kind of crisis to occur before I said these things to you. I don’t want us to hit bottom. So I am drawing a line in the sand TODAY. If you want me to stay around, to stand by you, to care for you, you need to show me that you care. The time has come for you to learn how to love me.
Signed, Your body
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Confessions of a Saltaholic
For much of my life, it would of have been chips and dip, my last meal if given the option. My family tells stories. The toddler with the round belly in footed pajamas camped out in front of the chip and dip bowl on coffee table. Why a two-year-old would develop an affinity for sour cream, I can’t tell you. Maybe the formula I was fed had expired.
As a fourth grader I begged to be given the privilege of carrying the chip and dip bowl into the living room. The two tiered frosted glass set, which we probably purchased with S&H Greenstamps, was etched with grape leaves and gold trim. I didn’t get too far before I fell. I cried in front of the company I was serving. Not so much for the destruction of the family’s iconic serving set, but for the waste of all that onion soup mix, Breakstone sour cream, and Ruffles.
It’s not sweets that tempt me. It’s Triscuits, saltines, and pretzels. I learned to do things to Pepperidge Farm Goldfish crackers at a bar on Bourbon Street in New Orleans to take it up another notch. Sprinkle Cajun seasoning on a bowl of the smiling fish before serving. In Ocean City, Maryland, I found Old Bay and Wye River seasonings would give me the same fix. Yes, I was salting salted cracker.
I had never counted sodium before. Then my doctor diagnosed me some kind of inner ear condition that caused vertigo. As a result, I needed to reduce my fluid retention by cutting my sodium intake.
Shattered and empty, I sat at the kitchen table, my chin in my chest. “Please pass the salt,” I asked politely.
“No,” my daughter said. “Your doctor says you can’t have any.”
My food was bland. It was like attending a symphony with no sound. Where was the volume? I bought unsalted pretzels and saltines. Unsuspecting family members who dipped their hands into the boxes spit the snacks into the sink. “Uggh. What is this?” my daughter asked.
“A snack only a meal moth would enjoy,” I said.
Sodium was everywhere. It was in my diet soda, my frozen food lunch, my zero point canned soup, and microwave popcorn packet. I pouted. “I gave up fried food, dairy products, caffeine, and red meat. There’s nothing left. Just put me on an IV drip.”
“Want a slice of watermelon?” my daughter asked as she served herself a piece.
“My Uncle Ronald used to put salt on that you know. My grandfather would salt his beer too,” I replied.
“And they made dandelion wine in the same stainless steel tub they all bathed out of in middle the kitchen, Ma. It was the Great Depression. Get over it,” she said.
“I’m trying to,” I said. “I really am. But if this was my last meal, I’d go to the grave dizzy.”
As a fourth grader I begged to be given the privilege of carrying the chip and dip bowl into the living room. The two tiered frosted glass set, which we probably purchased with S&H Greenstamps, was etched with grape leaves and gold trim. I didn’t get too far before I fell. I cried in front of the company I was serving. Not so much for the destruction of the family’s iconic serving set, but for the waste of all that onion soup mix, Breakstone sour cream, and Ruffles.
It’s not sweets that tempt me. It’s Triscuits, saltines, and pretzels. I learned to do things to Pepperidge Farm Goldfish crackers at a bar on Bourbon Street in New Orleans to take it up another notch. Sprinkle Cajun seasoning on a bowl of the smiling fish before serving. In Ocean City, Maryland, I found Old Bay and Wye River seasonings would give me the same fix. Yes, I was salting salted cracker.
I had never counted sodium before. Then my doctor diagnosed me some kind of inner ear condition that caused vertigo. As a result, I needed to reduce my fluid retention by cutting my sodium intake.
Shattered and empty, I sat at the kitchen table, my chin in my chest. “Please pass the salt,” I asked politely.
“No,” my daughter said. “Your doctor says you can’t have any.”
My food was bland. It was like attending a symphony with no sound. Where was the volume? I bought unsalted pretzels and saltines. Unsuspecting family members who dipped their hands into the boxes spit the snacks into the sink. “Uggh. What is this?” my daughter asked.
“A snack only a meal moth would enjoy,” I said.
Sodium was everywhere. It was in my diet soda, my frozen food lunch, my zero point canned soup, and microwave popcorn packet. I pouted. “I gave up fried food, dairy products, caffeine, and red meat. There’s nothing left. Just put me on an IV drip.”
“Want a slice of watermelon?” my daughter asked as she served herself a piece.
“My Uncle Ronald used to put salt on that you know. My grandfather would salt his beer too,” I replied.
“And they made dandelion wine in the same stainless steel tub they all bathed out of in middle the kitchen, Ma. It was the Great Depression. Get over it,” she said.
“I’m trying to,” I said. “I really am. But if this was my last meal, I’d go to the grave dizzy.”
Monday, August 10, 2009
You don’t make time for healthy living. You take it.
It was a typical Monday, a fresh start at tackling too much to do with too little time, something I hadn’t achieved in any prior weeks. I walked in the door later than normal following a school board meeting.
The girls were busy in the kitchen preparing dinner. “Hello Mom,” they both greeted me with actual eye contact and smiles. “We thought we’d help out by getting dinner started. We are sautéing ground Italian turkey to serve with red sauce on whole wheat noodles,” said Maggie.
“I’m chopping zucchini, red and green bell peppers, sweet onions, and mushrooms,” said Emily so we can sauté them too because I knew you’d want to have some vegetables too.
“Why don’t you take a seat on the patio and listen to some music for a few minutes,” my husband said as he came in from outside carrying an empty garbage can.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “Garbage day is Tuesday, not Monday.”
“I just wanted to get a head start,” he said. “That way we’ll have more time on Tuesday night to take a walk together after dinner. I picked up some salmon by the way. I thought we could grill it. It’s already in a marinade.”
I sat on the porch with an iced diet soda and slice of lime. Finally, after all these years, my family has realized how hard I work and decided to pitch in and help out. I guess all that begging, pleading, and complaining finally paid off. It only took 12 years.
“It’s 6:04 on Monday morning. WKNE staff meteorologist Pat Pagano is calling for a scorcher: hazy, hot and humid with temperatures in the `90s. Sounds like a day for the beach, not for the office,” the radio rattled me awake. I reached for the snooze button.
It’s Monday morning. I have to approve payroll, distribute the minutes, and book the board room.
What a silly dream. Yet for so long that’s exactly what I was hoping would happen. One day my family would recognize all I did for them and start to chip in more around the house so I could have more time for me. That is not how it happened.
I used to think my husband would step over my limp, lifeless body on the floor to get to the remote control after I had, like an obedient mare, worked myself to death.
I tried chore charts, cleaning nights, and smiley stickers. But I still owned all the tasks that way. No one else ever took responsibility for them. I was desperately trying to charm others into doing “my” work. Instead, I just walked away from it all to do what I wanted to do for me. I spend time picking out recipes, shopping for fresh foods, cooking healthy meals, and exercising everyday. I put these as priorities for me, pushing doing other people’s laundry lower on my to-do list.
Messes are patient. They will wait for me to come back. But an amazing thing happened. My husband found where we keep the toilet brush after all those years. My daughters learned how to operate a washer and dryer. And I learned how to accept and appreciate the ways in which they do these things. They aren’t on my timeframe. They aren’t up to my standards. It is hard to even tell the difference before and after a teenager cleans the bathroom. The broom doesn’t seem to reach into corners of the kitchen. The recycling bin spills over before it helps save the planet. But they are finally doing what I always wanted because I didn’t do it for them.
How do I find the time to exercise, eat right, work full time, and lead Weight Watchers groups? I don’t make the time. I take the time. I simply claim it for me before someone else snatches it up.
The girls were busy in the kitchen preparing dinner. “Hello Mom,” they both greeted me with actual eye contact and smiles. “We thought we’d help out by getting dinner started. We are sautéing ground Italian turkey to serve with red sauce on whole wheat noodles,” said Maggie.
“I’m chopping zucchini, red and green bell peppers, sweet onions, and mushrooms,” said Emily so we can sauté them too because I knew you’d want to have some vegetables too.
“Why don’t you take a seat on the patio and listen to some music for a few minutes,” my husband said as he came in from outside carrying an empty garbage can.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “Garbage day is Tuesday, not Monday.”
“I just wanted to get a head start,” he said. “That way we’ll have more time on Tuesday night to take a walk together after dinner. I picked up some salmon by the way. I thought we could grill it. It’s already in a marinade.”
I sat on the porch with an iced diet soda and slice of lime. Finally, after all these years, my family has realized how hard I work and decided to pitch in and help out. I guess all that begging, pleading, and complaining finally paid off. It only took 12 years.
“It’s 6:04 on Monday morning. WKNE staff meteorologist Pat Pagano is calling for a scorcher: hazy, hot and humid with temperatures in the `90s. Sounds like a day for the beach, not for the office,” the radio rattled me awake. I reached for the snooze button.
It’s Monday morning. I have to approve payroll, distribute the minutes, and book the board room.
What a silly dream. Yet for so long that’s exactly what I was hoping would happen. One day my family would recognize all I did for them and start to chip in more around the house so I could have more time for me. That is not how it happened.
I used to think my husband would step over my limp, lifeless body on the floor to get to the remote control after I had, like an obedient mare, worked myself to death.
I tried chore charts, cleaning nights, and smiley stickers. But I still owned all the tasks that way. No one else ever took responsibility for them. I was desperately trying to charm others into doing “my” work. Instead, I just walked away from it all to do what I wanted to do for me. I spend time picking out recipes, shopping for fresh foods, cooking healthy meals, and exercising everyday. I put these as priorities for me, pushing doing other people’s laundry lower on my to-do list.
Messes are patient. They will wait for me to come back. But an amazing thing happened. My husband found where we keep the toilet brush after all those years. My daughters learned how to operate a washer and dryer. And I learned how to accept and appreciate the ways in which they do these things. They aren’t on my timeframe. They aren’t up to my standards. It is hard to even tell the difference before and after a teenager cleans the bathroom. The broom doesn’t seem to reach into corners of the kitchen. The recycling bin spills over before it helps save the planet. But they are finally doing what I always wanted because I didn’t do it for them.
How do I find the time to exercise, eat right, work full time, and lead Weight Watchers groups? I don’t make the time. I take the time. I simply claim it for me before someone else snatches it up.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Never too old to go out and play
It took my husband and I fifteen minutes to get to Goose Pond on our bikes, but I was much farther away than that from dirty laundry, unreconcilled bank accounts, and toothpaste splattered sinks.
I passed through a door when I entered the forested trail around the edge of a round pound. I was no longer a middle aged woman with a to-do list that could occupy a team of six.
I was seven years old. I pranced over exposed tree roots, jumped over puddles, hopped rock to rock across streams.
I was clever. I stalled to contemplate crossing wet, mucky stretches of trail, certain I had found a better route than all who had passed before me.
I was a goddess. I stepped out onto a slanted rock that overlooked the sparkling pond. I was on stage before the reflective water framed in blue sky and green trees. I stretched my arms out to the sky feeling the sun’s warmth on my face. Not tired, burdened, or stressed, I felt alive.
I was brave. I ventured into unchartered ways along the shoreline, discovering a fallen tree across a section of pond. I took a deep breath and stepped on board, placing one foot in front of the other. One-third of the way across, I called out to my husband, “I don’t know if I can do this. I shouldn’t be carrying my new cell phone.”
“It probably wasn’t such a good idea,” he replied. “You do have vertigo.”
“That was not the right answer,” I said. “I can do this. I will do this,” I said. I safely crossed to the other side.
I was an artist. On one of the few wooden bridges over bubbling brooks, I stopped to employ all my senses. My eyes scanned the many shades of green: vibrant glowing mosses, saturated warm maple leaves, and cool blue spruce needles. My skin felt the cool refreshing air rising from the brook. I could even taste the damp, dewy cool. My ears took in the rushing of water over rocks as it hurried past itself to the pond. I wanted to memorize it.
I was a naturalist. Stopping sharply mid-bounce, I landed softly and crouched slowly. A beaver was about a yard away from me chewing a green branch in the water. His big warm brown eyes and wide cheeks made me smile inside and out. His wide flat tail floating behind him, never rising to slap the water in warning, as I slowly passed him.
I was defiant. When we got to the cement damn where water runs across a wide flat stretch, I crossed the shallow flow in a march, purposely splashing as I went.
I was fulfilled. I got back on my bike muddier, sweatier, and wetter than before. The next door I crossed was into my house.
“Emily dropped the big bottle of brand new dishwashing liquid and the top broke off and it is all over the kitchen floor,” Maggie announced. In the same breath, without pausing a millisecond, “Can I go downtown with Min then to Hoffies with her and Grace so we can all go to the movies and sleep over Kelsey’s? Will you give us rides right now?” she asked.
By taking time for me, I was better able to be me.
I passed through a door when I entered the forested trail around the edge of a round pound. I was no longer a middle aged woman with a to-do list that could occupy a team of six.
I was seven years old. I pranced over exposed tree roots, jumped over puddles, hopped rock to rock across streams.
I was clever. I stalled to contemplate crossing wet, mucky stretches of trail, certain I had found a better route than all who had passed before me.
I was a goddess. I stepped out onto a slanted rock that overlooked the sparkling pond. I was on stage before the reflective water framed in blue sky and green trees. I stretched my arms out to the sky feeling the sun’s warmth on my face. Not tired, burdened, or stressed, I felt alive.
I was brave. I ventured into unchartered ways along the shoreline, discovering a fallen tree across a section of pond. I took a deep breath and stepped on board, placing one foot in front of the other. One-third of the way across, I called out to my husband, “I don’t know if I can do this. I shouldn’t be carrying my new cell phone.”
“It probably wasn’t such a good idea,” he replied. “You do have vertigo.”
“That was not the right answer,” I said. “I can do this. I will do this,” I said. I safely crossed to the other side.
I was an artist. On one of the few wooden bridges over bubbling brooks, I stopped to employ all my senses. My eyes scanned the many shades of green: vibrant glowing mosses, saturated warm maple leaves, and cool blue spruce needles. My skin felt the cool refreshing air rising from the brook. I could even taste the damp, dewy cool. My ears took in the rushing of water over rocks as it hurried past itself to the pond. I wanted to memorize it.
I was a naturalist. Stopping sharply mid-bounce, I landed softly and crouched slowly. A beaver was about a yard away from me chewing a green branch in the water. His big warm brown eyes and wide cheeks made me smile inside and out. His wide flat tail floating behind him, never rising to slap the water in warning, as I slowly passed him.
I was defiant. When we got to the cement damn where water runs across a wide flat stretch, I crossed the shallow flow in a march, purposely splashing as I went.
I was fulfilled. I got back on my bike muddier, sweatier, and wetter than before. The next door I crossed was into my house.
“Emily dropped the big bottle of brand new dishwashing liquid and the top broke off and it is all over the kitchen floor,” Maggie announced. In the same breath, without pausing a millisecond, “Can I go downtown with Min then to Hoffies with her and Grace so we can all go to the movies and sleep over Kelsey’s? Will you give us rides right now?” she asked.
By taking time for me, I was better able to be me.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Last Things First
When I brought my second child home, my good friend Fiona told me, “Last things first. When the baby goes down, don’t do the dishes or vacuum. Those things will get done somehow. Instead, read, write, or call your Mom. Those are things that otherwise might not get done.”
Fiona was wise and right.
It’s Saturday morning. There are piles of laundry, mail, and DVDs. From where I sit in the living room I can see three pairs of my husbands shoes—one resting on a dryer sheet. The floor has a light dusting of microwave popcorn and pretzel crumbs, remnants of someone’s movie fest. Are those movies overdue?
I should pick up. I should sweep. I should mop. No I should walk away.
Why am I obligated to clean up after everyone else? Tragically, my husband can’t see dirt. It’s a common condition associated with the Y chromosome. He walks right by it completely unaware of smears or crumbs. He even tracks in mud, grass, and horse manure without any knowledge that his boots have left a trail of deposits. What doesn’t make sense to me is why he asked me where I had gone in the station wagon to get it so muddy. I told him the living room.
My children are like irresponsible boaters, leaving a massive wake that rocks and tosses other boats without regard. Where ever they’ve been you’ll find evidence: empty cracker boxes, cereal bowls with a quarter inch of milk, flip flops, nail polish, nail polish remover, cotton balls, hair ties, crumpled tissues, gum wrappers, lip gloss…
I’m no one’s Cinderella. My husband and children all have hands and feet. Otherwise why would I be looking at so many of his shoes? What are my teenage girls putting nail polish on?
Cleaning up after themselves isn’t their top priority. Why should it be mine? “Last things first,” I say. “But why am I always last?” I ask. “Not anymore,” I answer.
It’s a beautiful day. I’m going to ride my bike to Goose Pond and hike around it. I’m going to give the horse a bath and groom his tail. I’m going to feed my soul instead of enslaving it in housework. Then I’ll come home and leave dirty tracks across the kitchen floor to see if anyone notices.
Fiona was wise and right.
It’s Saturday morning. There are piles of laundry, mail, and DVDs. From where I sit in the living room I can see three pairs of my husbands shoes—one resting on a dryer sheet. The floor has a light dusting of microwave popcorn and pretzel crumbs, remnants of someone’s movie fest. Are those movies overdue?
I should pick up. I should sweep. I should mop. No I should walk away.
Why am I obligated to clean up after everyone else? Tragically, my husband can’t see dirt. It’s a common condition associated with the Y chromosome. He walks right by it completely unaware of smears or crumbs. He even tracks in mud, grass, and horse manure without any knowledge that his boots have left a trail of deposits. What doesn’t make sense to me is why he asked me where I had gone in the station wagon to get it so muddy. I told him the living room.
My children are like irresponsible boaters, leaving a massive wake that rocks and tosses other boats without regard. Where ever they’ve been you’ll find evidence: empty cracker boxes, cereal bowls with a quarter inch of milk, flip flops, nail polish, nail polish remover, cotton balls, hair ties, crumpled tissues, gum wrappers, lip gloss…
I’m no one’s Cinderella. My husband and children all have hands and feet. Otherwise why would I be looking at so many of his shoes? What are my teenage girls putting nail polish on?
Cleaning up after themselves isn’t their top priority. Why should it be mine? “Last things first,” I say. “But why am I always last?” I ask. “Not anymore,” I answer.
It’s a beautiful day. I’m going to ride my bike to Goose Pond and hike around it. I’m going to give the horse a bath and groom his tail. I’m going to feed my soul instead of enslaving it in housework. Then I’ll come home and leave dirty tracks across the kitchen floor to see if anyone notices.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Heading in Reverse Directions
If every time you backed out your driveway your car bottomed out, you'd take another route, right? Maybe you'd take a sharp left or go much slower. But chances are you wouldn't do the same thing twice, right? If only the same was true for weight management.
Instead of recognizing that we are on a path headed for a loud thud, we forge ahead blindly time and time again, taking the same path we did last time, somehow expecting a different outcome.
Let me paint you a picture. It's Saturday night. We've rented a movie, bought a bottle of wine, have a fridge stocked full of groceries. I know, based on history, that if I open that bottle of wine and that new stick of cheese and box of crackers and they are all placed on the coffee table that things will quickly get out of control.
Yet, I silence that inner voice. Instead, I channel a food network hostess who would always put out an ample supply of snacks and choices for her guests. I imagine parsley garnishes, decorative toothpicks, and smiling friends around a fondue pot. I search for the grapes and a paper doily. Well, it's just me and my husband. He wouldn't notice if I was slicing cheese with my toes, instead of my fingers. I am not entertaining for eight. An entire box of crackers and a brick of cheese, just for two? Who am I kidding? There's no weekly series about that on the food channel, although I think there was a place for us in Dante's Inferno. With a two-hour movie going, we'll do some serious damage to that block of cheddar, way more than we should. Much worse than if I had simply prepared small side plates for each of us.
Is it magical thinking, denial, stupidity, or, worse, self-sabotage? If I am trying to lose or maintain weight, why would I will place myself on a known path of self-destruction? Whether it's a pizza place, all-you-can-eat buffet or ice cream stand--I put myself there with little more than hope and a prayer hoping somehow it will turn out differently. Color me surprised when it doesn't.
It doesn't take but one hit to back end of my vehicle when backing out of the driveway to learn that I need to take a different path. Yet, I can bottom out time and time again in my weight management before I realize I need to bypass that bump with a different approach. Could it be I care more about my car than my own body? Or is it that I am not really ready to change what I need to to accomplish what I want? How can that be? My main carriage is my body and it is taking quite a beating. Last I knew the Cash for Clunkers program didn't apply to me. I don't get to trade this one in. I'm stuck with it.
Instead of recognizing that we are on a path headed for a loud thud, we forge ahead blindly time and time again, taking the same path we did last time, somehow expecting a different outcome.
Let me paint you a picture. It's Saturday night. We've rented a movie, bought a bottle of wine, have a fridge stocked full of groceries. I know, based on history, that if I open that bottle of wine and that new stick of cheese and box of crackers and they are all placed on the coffee table that things will quickly get out of control.
Yet, I silence that inner voice. Instead, I channel a food network hostess who would always put out an ample supply of snacks and choices for her guests. I imagine parsley garnishes, decorative toothpicks, and smiling friends around a fondue pot. I search for the grapes and a paper doily. Well, it's just me and my husband. He wouldn't notice if I was slicing cheese with my toes, instead of my fingers. I am not entertaining for eight. An entire box of crackers and a brick of cheese, just for two? Who am I kidding? There's no weekly series about that on the food channel, although I think there was a place for us in Dante's Inferno. With a two-hour movie going, we'll do some serious damage to that block of cheddar, way more than we should. Much worse than if I had simply prepared small side plates for each of us.
Is it magical thinking, denial, stupidity, or, worse, self-sabotage? If I am trying to lose or maintain weight, why would I will place myself on a known path of self-destruction? Whether it's a pizza place, all-you-can-eat buffet or ice cream stand--I put myself there with little more than hope and a prayer hoping somehow it will turn out differently. Color me surprised when it doesn't.
It doesn't take but one hit to back end of my vehicle when backing out of the driveway to learn that I need to take a different path. Yet, I can bottom out time and time again in my weight management before I realize I need to bypass that bump with a different approach. Could it be I care more about my car than my own body? Or is it that I am not really ready to change what I need to to accomplish what I want? How can that be? My main carriage is my body and it is taking quite a beating. Last I knew the Cash for Clunkers program didn't apply to me. I don't get to trade this one in. I'm stuck with it.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
When Crisis Strikes
I just recently experienced the loss of my father. The first few days he was in the ICU, the rug was pulled out from underneath me. But after a day or two, I began to use what Weight Watchers taught me to get through this difficult time.
Crisis can make it easy to quit a weight management and exercise program. But with a few adjustments, you can get through and—on the other side—have maintained all you worked so hard to achieve.
A crisis can come without warning and turn your world upside down. Crises include death, serious illness, divorce, job loss, financial, and legal problems.
Here are some simple steps to manage your weight and exercise during a crisis.
First do no harm
Re-evaluate your goals for weight loss and exercise. You might need to temporarily loosen the demands on yourself. Focus on continuing with the progress you have made and not backsliding.
Care for yourself
Make sure you are getting the proper rest, hydration, and nutrition. Find daily or weekly time to recharge your batteries with baths, walks, naps, prayer, music, reading, writing, or other soulful activities.
Take kitchen shortcuts
Use your crock pot, frozen meals, plastic plates and forks for a while to minimize the burden of cooking and cleaning. Buy pre-seasoned or prepackaged meats. Use your grill. Make simple meals like subs and salads. Use canned soups as appetizers to minimize prep and clean up. Place a bowl of baby carrots as a side dish on the table. Double up recipes to use leftovers for another meal or lunches.
Multitask
When crisis strikes, we spend a lot of time on the phone with family and friends, sometimes having the same conversation with three people to update them on the latest news. Consider what you can get done while talking on the phone. With a cellular phone and an earpiece you may be able to take a walk, drive a child to a practice, or sit outside in the sun. With a cordless landline phone and earpiece you may be able to chop vegetables, sweep, or fold laundry.
Another way to multitask is to get your physical activity with others. At the hospital, walk and talk with your siblings instead of sitting in a hospital reception room. At home take a walk or bike ride with your spouse or children so your time together is active time for you.
Ask for help
Don’t try to be a superhero. Consider what someone else might be able to do to help you. Reach out to others for help with household or work responsibilities. See if your children, friends, or neighbors can pitch in with lawn work, cleaning, cooking, transporting kids, or grocery shopping.
Ask your spouse, children, family and friends to help you with your eating. Develop a “safe word” like “wagon wheel” that they can say when they see that you may be falling off the wagon.
Watch your triggers
Whatever your triggers--sweets, salt, or alcohol—they will be calling out to you. Consider setting some ground rules for yourself to manage these “hot” foods. For example, making sure you are with someone else when you are eating or drinking these foods or drinks can help you from overdoing it. Also commit yourself to enjoying only one of them portion at the dinner table (not in front of the TV). This framework makes it harder for you to overindulge.
Get the support you need
Keep coming to Weight Watchers meetings for support. It’s also a way to get a break from the crisis. Reach out for help coping with the difficulties you are having. Talk with family and friends. Ask for assistance in your house of worship from a priest, pastor, or rabbi. Visit your family doctor if you are having difficulty keeping up with daily routines. He or she may be able to recommend community resources for counseling and assistance.
Prepare an emergency kit
When crisis strikes it is easy to get caught unprepared when you are urgently called to the hospital. Have a box or bag of snacks and foods that are ready to go. Consider even keeping it in the car. Have it include healthy nonperishable foods you could enjoy just about anywhere, like tea bags, granola bars, can of three bean salad, can of soup, tuna/crackers combos, popcorn packets, protein drinks, or foil packaged heatable meals. This way you won’t be forced to visit a drive through or a hospital vending machine if the cafeteria is closed. Most hospital units can point you to a microwave oven you can use to reheat something and provide you with plastic spoons, etc. You’ll also find family and friend will benefit from your emergency kit.
Know this too shall pass
Remember that time heals all wounds. Take it a day at a time. It may seem like it will never end. But it will. Use your anchors to get you through difficult time. Breathe and take breaks when emotional eating urges set it.
Crisis can make it easy to quit a weight management and exercise program. But with a few adjustments, you can get through and—on the other side—have maintained all you worked so hard to achieve.
A crisis can come without warning and turn your world upside down. Crises include death, serious illness, divorce, job loss, financial, and legal problems.
Here are some simple steps to manage your weight and exercise during a crisis.
First do no harm
Re-evaluate your goals for weight loss and exercise. You might need to temporarily loosen the demands on yourself. Focus on continuing with the progress you have made and not backsliding.
Care for yourself
Make sure you are getting the proper rest, hydration, and nutrition. Find daily or weekly time to recharge your batteries with baths, walks, naps, prayer, music, reading, writing, or other soulful activities.
Take kitchen shortcuts
Use your crock pot, frozen meals, plastic plates and forks for a while to minimize the burden of cooking and cleaning. Buy pre-seasoned or prepackaged meats. Use your grill. Make simple meals like subs and salads. Use canned soups as appetizers to minimize prep and clean up. Place a bowl of baby carrots as a side dish on the table. Double up recipes to use leftovers for another meal or lunches.
Multitask
When crisis strikes, we spend a lot of time on the phone with family and friends, sometimes having the same conversation with three people to update them on the latest news. Consider what you can get done while talking on the phone. With a cellular phone and an earpiece you may be able to take a walk, drive a child to a practice, or sit outside in the sun. With a cordless landline phone and earpiece you may be able to chop vegetables, sweep, or fold laundry.
Another way to multitask is to get your physical activity with others. At the hospital, walk and talk with your siblings instead of sitting in a hospital reception room. At home take a walk or bike ride with your spouse or children so your time together is active time for you.
Ask for help
Don’t try to be a superhero. Consider what someone else might be able to do to help you. Reach out to others for help with household or work responsibilities. See if your children, friends, or neighbors can pitch in with lawn work, cleaning, cooking, transporting kids, or grocery shopping.
Ask your spouse, children, family and friends to help you with your eating. Develop a “safe word” like “wagon wheel” that they can say when they see that you may be falling off the wagon.
Watch your triggers
Whatever your triggers--sweets, salt, or alcohol—they will be calling out to you. Consider setting some ground rules for yourself to manage these “hot” foods. For example, making sure you are with someone else when you are eating or drinking these foods or drinks can help you from overdoing it. Also commit yourself to enjoying only one of them portion at the dinner table (not in front of the TV). This framework makes it harder for you to overindulge.
Get the support you need
Keep coming to Weight Watchers meetings for support. It’s also a way to get a break from the crisis. Reach out for help coping with the difficulties you are having. Talk with family and friends. Ask for assistance in your house of worship from a priest, pastor, or rabbi. Visit your family doctor if you are having difficulty keeping up with daily routines. He or she may be able to recommend community resources for counseling and assistance.
Prepare an emergency kit
When crisis strikes it is easy to get caught unprepared when you are urgently called to the hospital. Have a box or bag of snacks and foods that are ready to go. Consider even keeping it in the car. Have it include healthy nonperishable foods you could enjoy just about anywhere, like tea bags, granola bars, can of three bean salad, can of soup, tuna/crackers combos, popcorn packets, protein drinks, or foil packaged heatable meals. This way you won’t be forced to visit a drive through or a hospital vending machine if the cafeteria is closed. Most hospital units can point you to a microwave oven you can use to reheat something and provide you with plastic spoons, etc. You’ll also find family and friend will benefit from your emergency kit.
Know this too shall pass
Remember that time heals all wounds. Take it a day at a time. It may seem like it will never end. But it will. Use your anchors to get you through difficult time. Breathe and take breaks when emotional eating urges set it.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Marinated Vegetable Salad
I’ve had a few requests for this. It's hard to capture because it’s different every time I make it. So consider these guidelines, not a recipe.
Marinated vegetable salad is hard crunchy veggies with a vinaigrette. I also add olives, artichokes and/or capers and legumes. It’s best to make it the night before so the flavors can settle. Some people blanch the veggies first. I’m too lazy. They probably absorb more flavor it you do.
Choose a combination of the following hard veggies you have on hand:
• Celery
• Broccoli
• Cauliflower
• Zucchini
• Summer squash
• Green beans
• Wax beans
• Asparagus
• Red onion
• Sweet onion
• Carrots (shredded or sliced)
• Cabbage (red, green, or savoy) sliced
• Green bell pepper
• Red bell pepper
• Cherry tomatoes
• Fresh corn (removed from cobb)
Consider frozen veggies if you need to:
• Green peas
• Lima beans
• Corn
Choose one or two marinated items
• Green olives
• Black olives
• Capers
Chose one or two legumes
• Kidney beans
• Chick peas
• Canelli beans
• Fava beans
Dressing
Assemble dressing in measuring cup by mixing all ingredients together.
• 1/3 cup olive oil
• 1/3 cup of red wine vinegar
• Juice of one lemon
• Juice of one orange
• 2-3 cloves of garlic crushed
• 1 teaspoon of salt
• 1 teaspoon mustard
• Plenty of fresh ground pepper
• 2 tablespoons dried oregano
* Red pepper flakes (optional)
Combine vegetables, marinated ingredients, and legumes into a large plastic bowl. I use the huge Thatsa Bowl from Tupperware. So this is a large recipe. If you go smaller, scale back your oil. Drizzle combined veggies with dressing. (Instead of making your own dressing, you can use a bottle of store bought Italian. This is a great option to reduce fat grams). Stir to coat. Cover bowl. Shake to coat. Let marinate overnight in refrigerator.
This receipe travels well to parties. It can sit in the sun without wilting. It can be made in advance. There's rarely another one on the buffet. It's a convenient lunch for work. At dinner, it can be served on the side with any grilled items, pasta items, or even pizza. To make it a meal, consider serving on a bed of lettuce or spinach topped with feta cheese, sliced grilled chicken, or sliced chicken sausage.
Marinated vegetable salad is hard crunchy veggies with a vinaigrette. I also add olives, artichokes and/or capers and legumes. It’s best to make it the night before so the flavors can settle. Some people blanch the veggies first. I’m too lazy. They probably absorb more flavor it you do.
Choose a combination of the following hard veggies you have on hand:
• Celery
• Broccoli
• Cauliflower
• Zucchini
• Summer squash
• Green beans
• Wax beans
• Asparagus
• Red onion
• Sweet onion
• Carrots (shredded or sliced)
• Cabbage (red, green, or savoy) sliced
• Green bell pepper
• Red bell pepper
• Cherry tomatoes
• Fresh corn (removed from cobb)
Consider frozen veggies if you need to:
• Green peas
• Lima beans
• Corn
Choose one or two marinated items
• Green olives
• Black olives
• Capers
Chose one or two legumes
• Kidney beans
• Chick peas
• Canelli beans
• Fava beans
Dressing
Assemble dressing in measuring cup by mixing all ingredients together.
• 1/3 cup olive oil
• 1/3 cup of red wine vinegar
• Juice of one lemon
• Juice of one orange
• 2-3 cloves of garlic crushed
• 1 teaspoon of salt
• 1 teaspoon mustard
• Plenty of fresh ground pepper
• 2 tablespoons dried oregano
* Red pepper flakes (optional)
Combine vegetables, marinated ingredients, and legumes into a large plastic bowl. I use the huge Thatsa Bowl from Tupperware. So this is a large recipe. If you go smaller, scale back your oil. Drizzle combined veggies with dressing. (Instead of making your own dressing, you can use a bottle of store bought Italian. This is a great option to reduce fat grams). Stir to coat. Cover bowl. Shake to coat. Let marinate overnight in refrigerator.
This receipe travels well to parties. It can sit in the sun without wilting. It can be made in advance. There's rarely another one on the buffet. It's a convenient lunch for work. At dinner, it can be served on the side with any grilled items, pasta items, or even pizza. To make it a meal, consider serving on a bed of lettuce or spinach topped with feta cheese, sliced grilled chicken, or sliced chicken sausage.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Pity Party Poopers
Nothing ruins sensible, healthy eating like pity. This toxic momentum gathers you into a downward spiral like the flush of a toilet bowl.
Don't let me interrupt your pity party if you are having one. After all, it's your party you can cry if you want to. Or, if you want to ,you can consume a jar of peanuts, carton of ice cream, or box of pizza. As the guest of honor, you choose.
Pity gives us permission to overeat, indulge, and binge. It magnifies life's normal little struggles into mammoth, insurmountable obstacles faced by no other human being at any point in history.
When my kids were little, we read "Little House on the Prairie" books out loud. Pa would strap snow shoes to his feet and hike days and nights in freezing weather into town to buy bacon, flour, and thread.
But, hey, my husband came home late for work today and the scallops were cold. Plus the city is tearing up the road in front of my office and I have to leave 4 minutes earlier for work. My doctor says I have to drink decaf, which means I don't get to have real Starbucks coffee anymore...
Our foremothers had children die in their arms in canoes as they headed for a doctor's house and had to place their stiff children's bodies into the ground themselves. They lived in houses without insulation, heat, windows, air conditioning, or central vacuums. Not sure they'd buy into our explosive rant that the kitchen disposal isn't working. You'd have to first explain the whole running water and plumbing deal. After that, you'd have no case whatsoever.
Our lives are so privileged, so convenienced, so easy, we should celebrate nonstop. Yet we find reasons everyday to lament. I pout like the best of them. I will work myself up into a hormonal cocktail of female mania that sends my husband running for the first baseball game he can find on TV.
If my foremothers from 100 years ago were standing outside my window watching my pity party over exaggerated slights and minor inconveniences to justify excessive amounts of cheese, crackers, and chardonnay, how would I explain my plight to someone who has snow landing on her knees while she lays in bed with no birth control and a man who hasn't bathed since August?
"I've seen that front loading washer and dryer in your basement Dear," she'd say, "You've got nothing to complain about. So stop your bitching and shut your mouth. Maybe then you won't eat so much."
Find time today, instead of doing kegal exercises at a stop light, to summon the strength and perseverance of the enduring spirit of our foremothers. They didn't give in. They fought back. You can too.
Don't let me interrupt your pity party if you are having one. After all, it's your party you can cry if you want to. Or, if you want to ,you can consume a jar of peanuts, carton of ice cream, or box of pizza. As the guest of honor, you choose.
Pity gives us permission to overeat, indulge, and binge. It magnifies life's normal little struggles into mammoth, insurmountable obstacles faced by no other human being at any point in history.
When my kids were little, we read "Little House on the Prairie" books out loud. Pa would strap snow shoes to his feet and hike days and nights in freezing weather into town to buy bacon, flour, and thread.
But, hey, my husband came home late for work today and the scallops were cold. Plus the city is tearing up the road in front of my office and I have to leave 4 minutes earlier for work. My doctor says I have to drink decaf, which means I don't get to have real Starbucks coffee anymore...
Our foremothers had children die in their arms in canoes as they headed for a doctor's house and had to place their stiff children's bodies into the ground themselves. They lived in houses without insulation, heat, windows, air conditioning, or central vacuums. Not sure they'd buy into our explosive rant that the kitchen disposal isn't working. You'd have to first explain the whole running water and plumbing deal. After that, you'd have no case whatsoever.
Our lives are so privileged, so convenienced, so easy, we should celebrate nonstop. Yet we find reasons everyday to lament. I pout like the best of them. I will work myself up into a hormonal cocktail of female mania that sends my husband running for the first baseball game he can find on TV.
If my foremothers from 100 years ago were standing outside my window watching my pity party over exaggerated slights and minor inconveniences to justify excessive amounts of cheese, crackers, and chardonnay, how would I explain my plight to someone who has snow landing on her knees while she lays in bed with no birth control and a man who hasn't bathed since August?
"I've seen that front loading washer and dryer in your basement Dear," she'd say, "You've got nothing to complain about. So stop your bitching and shut your mouth. Maybe then you won't eat so much."
Find time today, instead of doing kegal exercises at a stop light, to summon the strength and perseverance of the enduring spirit of our foremothers. They didn't give in. They fought back. You can too.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Red Bliss Potato Salad
This is the easiest, quickest, tastiest potato salad out there.
5 pound bag of red bliss potatoes
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
4 tablespoons fresh chopped rosemary
1-2 teaspoons of salt
Fresh ground pepper
Boil potatoes till tender. Let cool in colander. Quarter when cool enough to handle. Add to potatoes to large storage bowl mix with remaining ingredients.
5 pound bag of red bliss potatoes
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
4 tablespoons fresh chopped rosemary
1-2 teaspoons of salt
Fresh ground pepper
Boil potatoes till tender. Let cool in colander. Quarter when cool enough to handle. Add to potatoes to large storage bowl mix with remaining ingredients.
Friday, July 31, 2009
If I cold go back in time, I'd exercise
I left a little late for work today. Two moms were walking by in sneakers pushing strollers as I clipped down the driveway in heals pressing car keys. I asked myself, “Why didn’t I do that?”
I spent ten years working out of the home when my kids were younger. I didn’t exercise at all, unless you count swatting black flies while standing at the school bus stop. I told myself--and anyone else that got into a minivan with me--that I didn’t have time to exercise. I ran my own consulting agency. I had two little kids, a house, and husband. I had to be in my home office during the business day if a client called. I only had the hours between the morning and afternoon school buses to work anything done. There absolutely was no time to do it.
Exercise meant one thing to me—-an aerobics class. In my days before houses, children, and husbands that’s what I did. Not once in that decade of days did I realize I had to redefine how to get exercise into my daily life as a mother, wife, and indpendent contractor.
The 9 AM aerobics class wasn’t going to work, nor the one at 6:30 PM. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t walk around the neighborhood, bike, or do an aerobics tape in my basement.
This is how I get my exercise now. I do aerobics tapes at 5:30 AM. I had a basement in 1998. I could have descended those stairs before or after the morning school bus and moved my body. And if by chance a client called, I even had a phone in my basement.
It is one of my greatest regrets. The time in my life when I had the most flexibility in my schedule I had the least flexibility in my thinking. If I could go back in time, I’d kick myself in the behind.
I spent ten years working out of the home when my kids were younger. I didn’t exercise at all, unless you count swatting black flies while standing at the school bus stop. I told myself--and anyone else that got into a minivan with me--that I didn’t have time to exercise. I ran my own consulting agency. I had two little kids, a house, and husband. I had to be in my home office during the business day if a client called. I only had the hours between the morning and afternoon school buses to work anything done. There absolutely was no time to do it.
Exercise meant one thing to me—-an aerobics class. In my days before houses, children, and husbands that’s what I did. Not once in that decade of days did I realize I had to redefine how to get exercise into my daily life as a mother, wife, and indpendent contractor.
The 9 AM aerobics class wasn’t going to work, nor the one at 6:30 PM. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t walk around the neighborhood, bike, or do an aerobics tape in my basement.
This is how I get my exercise now. I do aerobics tapes at 5:30 AM. I had a basement in 1998. I could have descended those stairs before or after the morning school bus and moved my body. And if by chance a client called, I even had a phone in my basement.
It is one of my greatest regrets. The time in my life when I had the most flexibility in my schedule I had the least flexibility in my thinking. If I could go back in time, I’d kick myself in the behind.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Got Hunger?
I have a child that eats when she is hungry and stops when she is full. I have no idea where she came from. She's not from my side or my husband's.
Our people eat when it is meal time, don't stop till our plates are clean (pots and pans too), and are deeply concerned about starving children in a range of third world countries. Why just the next street over there are naked, malnourished, children being pestered by flies holding cups of muddy water waiting to see if we finish our rice.
Our people never forget to eat. You will not hear, "Oh I got so busy I just forget to eat lunch."
You may hear, "Fifteen minutes till the 10:30 AM snack." Immediately followed by, "I wonder what's for lunch?"
We are like a gas nozzle pumping fuel into our bellies. But we don't stop when our engine's tank is full. No. We stop pumping gas into our bellies when the underground tank is empty.
If there is still a piece of chicken on the platter or a Cheez-It in the box then the job is not done.
Sure I came from a big family. Yes there were many hands reaching for pork chops, rice pilaf, and peas. But we were not lions fighting over the last weak zebra in the herd. There was always more food on the table and plenty in the cupboards. I didn't know hunger. I went years, possibly decades without even so much as experiencing a mild pang.
After I joined Weight Watchers and started monitoring what I ate, I felt a strange fluttering in my belly. I paused, placed my palm on my stomach. "We're having another baby, Honey!," I announced to my husband.
There is a sports commentator who says, "The meal isn't over when I am full. It's not over until I hate myself."
Yes this was how I was raised. Eat until you can't breathe. It's a compulsion from deep within, manifested as a fear, anxiety, a fight for survival. The mere idea of stopping when one is satisfied is scary, like driving with your eyes closed. Who would even try that?
Well I did. I stopped eating before I was uncomfortable. I was simply satisfied. I pushed the plate away, put down my fork, and talked. No bony children cried at my door. I didn't starve. Our family didn't end up in the poor house. Something absolutely unpredictable occured. I ate again, next time I was hungry. Who would have guessed?
Our people eat when it is meal time, don't stop till our plates are clean (pots and pans too), and are deeply concerned about starving children in a range of third world countries. Why just the next street over there are naked, malnourished, children being pestered by flies holding cups of muddy water waiting to see if we finish our rice.
Our people never forget to eat. You will not hear, "Oh I got so busy I just forget to eat lunch."
You may hear, "Fifteen minutes till the 10:30 AM snack." Immediately followed by, "I wonder what's for lunch?"
We are like a gas nozzle pumping fuel into our bellies. But we don't stop when our engine's tank is full. No. We stop pumping gas into our bellies when the underground tank is empty.
If there is still a piece of chicken on the platter or a Cheez-It in the box then the job is not done.
Sure I came from a big family. Yes there were many hands reaching for pork chops, rice pilaf, and peas. But we were not lions fighting over the last weak zebra in the herd. There was always more food on the table and plenty in the cupboards. I didn't know hunger. I went years, possibly decades without even so much as experiencing a mild pang.
After I joined Weight Watchers and started monitoring what I ate, I felt a strange fluttering in my belly. I paused, placed my palm on my stomach. "We're having another baby, Honey!," I announced to my husband.
There is a sports commentator who says, "The meal isn't over when I am full. It's not over until I hate myself."
Yes this was how I was raised. Eat until you can't breathe. It's a compulsion from deep within, manifested as a fear, anxiety, a fight for survival. The mere idea of stopping when one is satisfied is scary, like driving with your eyes closed. Who would even try that?
Well I did. I stopped eating before I was uncomfortable. I was simply satisfied. I pushed the plate away, put down my fork, and talked. No bony children cried at my door. I didn't starve. Our family didn't end up in the poor house. Something absolutely unpredictable occured. I ate again, next time I was hungry. Who would have guessed?
Monday, July 27, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Food: A Wonderful Escape
When I was a kid my Great Uncle Albert told his wife Antoinette that he was going to the hardware store. Instead he got on a bus to Concord, NH. He lived in New York City.
I used to run away as a kid. I would go to Memorial Field and stretch out in the dugouts until I calmed down or it started to get dark. As an adult, I escape into the cabinets.
What a warm, welcoming place to dive into. There are salty snacks and sweet treats. Whatever my mood--savory, spicy, sour, or tangy--I can concoct a solution.
In my cabinets, there are no bosses, bills, or laundry. It's quiet. A calm refuge that opens to me like the tender, loving arms of a grandmother. Soft burritos with sour cream understand that he hurt my feelings, how hard I work, and all that I truly deserve.
The temptation is so great. When life gets tough: take a tub of Ben and Jerry's ice cream into the tub.
The reality is I'm lost. Just like when I am in the car, it's time to pull over, assess the situation, and plan a way out.
I don't need another raspberry scone. I need a walk, a bunny in my lap, a call to my mother, a ride on my bike, a relaxing CD, or a trip to an art gallery.
Running away into the cabinets offers only a brief reward. Eventually Great Aunt Antoinette is going to find you and ask where you are and what you have been doing. I can hear the phone ringing right now.
I used to run away as a kid. I would go to Memorial Field and stretch out in the dugouts until I calmed down or it started to get dark. As an adult, I escape into the cabinets.
What a warm, welcoming place to dive into. There are salty snacks and sweet treats. Whatever my mood--savory, spicy, sour, or tangy--I can concoct a solution.
In my cabinets, there are no bosses, bills, or laundry. It's quiet. A calm refuge that opens to me like the tender, loving arms of a grandmother. Soft burritos with sour cream understand that he hurt my feelings, how hard I work, and all that I truly deserve.
The temptation is so great. When life gets tough: take a tub of Ben and Jerry's ice cream into the tub.
The reality is I'm lost. Just like when I am in the car, it's time to pull over, assess the situation, and plan a way out.
I don't need another raspberry scone. I need a walk, a bunny in my lap, a call to my mother, a ride on my bike, a relaxing CD, or a trip to an art gallery.
Running away into the cabinets offers only a brief reward. Eventually Great Aunt Antoinette is going to find you and ask where you are and what you have been doing. I can hear the phone ringing right now.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Berry Picking
Summer is short in New England. We acknowledge it light heartily, “Last summer was beautiful—sunny, hot, and dry—it was on a Thursday I think.”
When it arrives, you have to leap to embrace it because it will be gone before you know it. I wrapped my arms around summer last weekend by picking 15 pounds of berries.
The Troy, NH, orchard is at the base of Mount Monadnock. I had a full view of the mountain as I reached for ripe warm raspberries, which is a fragile berry to pick. The stem stays on the bush, the hollow casing of round red bubbles easily collapses with too much pressure.
I have a very poor safety record. My berry breakage rate meant I ate more than I kept.
I love the pleasure of popping a warm juicy berry into my mouth. A great accomplishment, I was the only one to ever think of it. Bright sun, high puffy clouds, and a light breeze transported me as I walked through rows and rows of bushes.
The blueberries branches, weighted down with clusters of massive berries, hung low into the paths. I imagined them to be grapes. I set myself in Italy, France, then the Sonoma Valley. Laughing voices tinkled from a balcony overlooking the orchard.
We captured buckets and buckets of berries: 14 pounds of blueberries, 5 pounds of raspberries. Driving home from pick-your-own orchards—no matter what the crop—it’s always the same response. “What am I going to do with all these …..?
A week later we are down to a half a pint of blueberries. I’ve scattered them on cereal, smoothies, yogurt parfaits, oatmeal pancakes, buttermilk pancakes, and our favorite blueberry coffee cake. I brought some into work, sent some to summer camp, and gave away a few quarts. Now we’re planning our next trip to Monadnock Berries.
Summer might be short, but I’m going to make sure I stain my shirt with evidence of its arrival.
When it arrives, you have to leap to embrace it because it will be gone before you know it. I wrapped my arms around summer last weekend by picking 15 pounds of berries.
The Troy, NH, orchard is at the base of Mount Monadnock. I had a full view of the mountain as I reached for ripe warm raspberries, which is a fragile berry to pick. The stem stays on the bush, the hollow casing of round red bubbles easily collapses with too much pressure.
I have a very poor safety record. My berry breakage rate meant I ate more than I kept.
I love the pleasure of popping a warm juicy berry into my mouth. A great accomplishment, I was the only one to ever think of it. Bright sun, high puffy clouds, and a light breeze transported me as I walked through rows and rows of bushes.
The blueberries branches, weighted down with clusters of massive berries, hung low into the paths. I imagined them to be grapes. I set myself in Italy, France, then the Sonoma Valley. Laughing voices tinkled from a balcony overlooking the orchard.
We captured buckets and buckets of berries: 14 pounds of blueberries, 5 pounds of raspberries. Driving home from pick-your-own orchards—no matter what the crop—it’s always the same response. “What am I going to do with all these …..?
A week later we are down to a half a pint of blueberries. I’ve scattered them on cereal, smoothies, yogurt parfaits, oatmeal pancakes, buttermilk pancakes, and our favorite blueberry coffee cake. I brought some into work, sent some to summer camp, and gave away a few quarts. Now we’re planning our next trip to Monadnock Berries.
Summer might be short, but I’m going to make sure I stain my shirt with evidence of its arrival.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Family Time
By Emily Grussing
Billy bursts through the door, dropping his equipment bag in the mud room and taking a swig from his water bottle, simultaneously kicking off his cleats and proceeding into the kitchen. He walks to the dishwasher to put in his now empty water bottle as his sister.
Jennie, walks in yelling her thanks and “see ya later” to a minivan full of third grade girl scouts in green vests and sashes through the door. The sound of the minivan driving away is met with the sound of a car door shutting in the driveway.
Bob enters his bustling home dropping his briefcase on a nearby chair in the mudroom, taking off his loafers and the light coat his wife advised him to wear as she kissed him goodbye this morning on the very same threshold.
As Bob walks in he strolls over to his wife, Martha, who was taking lemon-dill marinated chicken out of the oven and placing it on the table along with the rice pilaf, washed red grapes, and asparagus.
Padding down the stairs comes Maddie, texting fiercely on her sliding keyboard, then, with a look from her mother, turning it off and taking her spot at the large table in the blue dining room along with her brother, in soccer uniform, her younger sister in a green vest with patches describing many accomplishments of a girl scout, a father exhaling and seeming to relax and let go all the stresses of the workplace as he joins his family whom he deeply adores, lastly, at the head of the six person table, sat down Martha, a stay-at-home, devoted wife and mother, and also, on the side of her busy life, an accomplished comedy writer about the life of now-a-days moms and the struggles they face daily. Some, even called her a modern day Erma Bombeck.
The sound of plates , “can you pass the----" and milk pouring into glasses and knifes hitting plates, cutting the chicken and spoons lifting rice into the hungry mouths of a modern day family. This scenario may be hectic, unorderly at times, and impossible to master but in the end, everyone ends up at the table, joining together, even for just 30 minutes to share stories of crazy days to math tests, what Laurie said at lunch today, or talk of promotions available after a co-worker had to relocate for another family member.
You see, in families like these, where each member has their own separate life and such, these dinners are extremely essential. When you find yourself frustrated, and immersed in your own problems it helps to sit down, sharing delicious food and kinship, bonding you all together. Imagine if instead, this family didn’t have this special time to share and instead they were all left with their own problems and schedules.
Now, they all form relationships and can empathize with each other and discuss logistics for the weekend camping trip in Maine. It’s so important to have this time, to not only establish relationships, but healthy eating habits and portions for real-life experiences, not just pizza and ice cream at birthday parities. What most children don’t understand is that there’s so much more beyond that! Its not just junk food, but real food, healthy, succulent, food that you can enjoy so much more, and with these healthy family meals, hopefully kids and parents will understand all the importance they have to offer on so many different levels.
This is why you should try to achieve at least 3 family dinners weekly where everyone in the family can sit, and share, and learn healthy eating with great food. And maybe, just maybe, you will then, like our friend Martha, pull off raising a healthy, happy, and connected family that loves and helps each other through all the hard times, and helps celebrate the good.
Billy bursts through the door, dropping his equipment bag in the mud room and taking a swig from his water bottle, simultaneously kicking off his cleats and proceeding into the kitchen. He walks to the dishwasher to put in his now empty water bottle as his sister.
Jennie, walks in yelling her thanks and “see ya later” to a minivan full of third grade girl scouts in green vests and sashes through the door. The sound of the minivan driving away is met with the sound of a car door shutting in the driveway.
Bob enters his bustling home dropping his briefcase on a nearby chair in the mudroom, taking off his loafers and the light coat his wife advised him to wear as she kissed him goodbye this morning on the very same threshold.
As Bob walks in he strolls over to his wife, Martha, who was taking lemon-dill marinated chicken out of the oven and placing it on the table along with the rice pilaf, washed red grapes, and asparagus.
Padding down the stairs comes Maddie, texting fiercely on her sliding keyboard, then, with a look from her mother, turning it off and taking her spot at the large table in the blue dining room along with her brother, in soccer uniform, her younger sister in a green vest with patches describing many accomplishments of a girl scout, a father exhaling and seeming to relax and let go all the stresses of the workplace as he joins his family whom he deeply adores, lastly, at the head of the six person table, sat down Martha, a stay-at-home, devoted wife and mother, and also, on the side of her busy life, an accomplished comedy writer about the life of now-a-days moms and the struggles they face daily. Some, even called her a modern day Erma Bombeck.
The sound of plates , “can you pass the----" and milk pouring into glasses and knifes hitting plates, cutting the chicken and spoons lifting rice into the hungry mouths of a modern day family. This scenario may be hectic, unorderly at times, and impossible to master but in the end, everyone ends up at the table, joining together, even for just 30 minutes to share stories of crazy days to math tests, what Laurie said at lunch today, or talk of promotions available after a co-worker had to relocate for another family member.
You see, in families like these, where each member has their own separate life and such, these dinners are extremely essential. When you find yourself frustrated, and immersed in your own problems it helps to sit down, sharing delicious food and kinship, bonding you all together. Imagine if instead, this family didn’t have this special time to share and instead they were all left with their own problems and schedules.
Now, they all form relationships and can empathize with each other and discuss logistics for the weekend camping trip in Maine. It’s so important to have this time, to not only establish relationships, but healthy eating habits and portions for real-life experiences, not just pizza and ice cream at birthday parities. What most children don’t understand is that there’s so much more beyond that! Its not just junk food, but real food, healthy, succulent, food that you can enjoy so much more, and with these healthy family meals, hopefully kids and parents will understand all the importance they have to offer on so many different levels.
This is why you should try to achieve at least 3 family dinners weekly where everyone in the family can sit, and share, and learn healthy eating with great food. And maybe, just maybe, you will then, like our friend Martha, pull off raising a healthy, happy, and connected family that loves and helps each other through all the hard times, and helps celebrate the good.
So many decisions
It's exhausting, truly, watching what you eat. You have so many decisions, every day, about what to eat.
It's not just about whether to have pancakes or All Bran(TM). It's how much cereal. How much milk? One percent? Two percent? Skim? Will I eat my cereal in a soup bowl or coffee mug? Banana? Sugar? Honey? Is it naked or not?
Combine the multiple decisions at every snack,meal, and beverage opportunity with the onslaught of media messages....it's surprising we even have time to make sure our underwear face the right direction.
With all those carbs, sugars, and fat grams to worry about.
How do you strike the balance between being knowledgeable, informed, and obsessed? I'm waiting for your answers...
It's not just about whether to have pancakes or All Bran(TM). It's how much cereal. How much milk? One percent? Two percent? Skim? Will I eat my cereal in a soup bowl or coffee mug? Banana? Sugar? Honey? Is it naked or not?
Combine the multiple decisions at every snack,meal, and beverage opportunity with the onslaught of media messages....it's surprising we even have time to make sure our underwear face the right direction.
With all those carbs, sugars, and fat grams to worry about.
How do you strike the balance between being knowledgeable, informed, and obsessed? I'm waiting for your answers...
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Who am I kidding?
As a lifetime member of Weight Watchers, I'm being good, watching what I eat. My diet consists of whole grains, fresh fruits, and vegetables. I only eat when I'm hungry and stop when I am satisfied. And everyone believes it but me.
Me? I know better. I saw the before and after images of the packages for saltines, hummus, and almonds. I was the only one in the kitchen with the coffee cake. I cleaned up the pasta pot after dinner.
It's a dark dirty dieters secret. If no one else sees you eat it, it doesn't count.
My metabolism, however, never got the memo. It doesn't realize the crackers and cheese in front of me are not to be digested or stored. That, they are in in effect null, void, nonexistent.
Cheating on a diet is like stealing from your own wallet. Who am I kidding? Me? I don't think so. I was there. That makes it hard to deny.
Unless I have multiple personalities. One alter personality has no control, knowledge, or influence over the other. Gluttina was out at the time. Rigidita has no ability to reign her in. Desperata is the one trembling in front of the scale.
Sounds reasonable, doesn't it? I switch personalities when I'm hungry, tempted, or experiencing a craving. These alter personalities take over my body and eat even though I don't want to. Therefore, I am not accountable or responsible for their choices.
Maybe my tendency to dissociate should be reported to my physician. Just in case there's a problem...
I made a visit with my primary care provider. "Doctor, I sometimes eat things I shouldn't in amounts that are excessive. I'm not in control of my behavior at the time. I appear to be in a dissociative state under the control of an alter personality who doesn't seem to understand I am watching my diet."
"Really?" my doctor said. "Then I suggest your alter personality a membership to Weight Watchers and make sure she is there when you weigh in."
Me? I know better. I saw the before and after images of the packages for saltines, hummus, and almonds. I was the only one in the kitchen with the coffee cake. I cleaned up the pasta pot after dinner.
It's a dark dirty dieters secret. If no one else sees you eat it, it doesn't count.
My metabolism, however, never got the memo. It doesn't realize the crackers and cheese in front of me are not to be digested or stored. That, they are in in effect null, void, nonexistent.
Cheating on a diet is like stealing from your own wallet. Who am I kidding? Me? I don't think so. I was there. That makes it hard to deny.
Unless I have multiple personalities. One alter personality has no control, knowledge, or influence over the other. Gluttina was out at the time. Rigidita has no ability to reign her in. Desperata is the one trembling in front of the scale.
Sounds reasonable, doesn't it? I switch personalities when I'm hungry, tempted, or experiencing a craving. These alter personalities take over my body and eat even though I don't want to. Therefore, I am not accountable or responsible for their choices.
Maybe my tendency to dissociate should be reported to my physician. Just in case there's a problem...
I made a visit with my primary care provider. "Doctor, I sometimes eat things I shouldn't in amounts that are excessive. I'm not in control of my behavior at the time. I appear to be in a dissociative state under the control of an alter personality who doesn't seem to understand I am watching my diet."
"Really?" my doctor said. "Then I suggest your alter personality a membership to Weight Watchers and make sure she is there when you weigh in."
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
The Naked Truth
Most women aren't good naked. We do our best to avoid it. Like my mother who was instructed by nuns in Catholic school to bath with her eyes closed so she wouldn't see herself in the nude, women avoid being seen in the skin by everyone.
It usually results in a barrage of blows to the head. "My hips are so huge. My but is enormous. I have National Geographic tits. When's this belly flapper thing going to go away? My youngest is 5 foot 7 inches. When did I get a wing span? I could parachute with these triceps."
The cruelty of nakedness results in lights off rules in the bedroom and triple locks in the bathroom. Men, of course, don't respond the same way to women's nakedness. While we are obsessing about the length of our armpit hair. They are thinking, "Yeah boobs!"
In terms of men being naked amongst themselves. Just think of all those open shower stalls in men's locker rooms. Urinals? We would have to be serving 10-20 years in minimum security to learn how to put up with that.
My husband just hung up a mirror above the couch in the basement. I work out in the basement. I actually wanted him to do this because I thought it would help me with my form when lifting weights. Little did I know how distracting it would be. From my chin to my calves, I have criticisms. The form I end up watching is not a bicep curl, it's a stomach bulge.
It's very kangarooish actually. Fitting since it housed a couple of kids. They came out of a slit in the stomach too.
My kids and husband make fun of me for sucking in my cheeks when I comb my hair. They've clearly never seen what I suck in when I am lifting weights. I'm surprised I don't pass out. The EMTs from the ambulance announce upon arrival, "Another perimenopausal abdominal reflection hyperventilation during exertion--happens everyday. Nothing goes down faster than a Boomer doing Hip Hop Abs."
It was hot in the basement. No one was home. I was doing my exercise tape, concentrating hard not to pee during jumping jacks, when I whipped off my t-shirt. It was an automatic response, like swatting a mosquito. Then it hit me--me in the mirror.
I was not posing with vacuum packed cheeks and abs, I was jumping. It was jiggling. I was mesmerized by the movement. A wave of white flesh echoing with each jump. My scientific curiosity moved from my stomach to my thighs. It was like something you see flowing in artifical current in the Boston Aquarium. "Yup that's me in motion, half naked. Haven't seen that before."
It ended up being a real inspiration to my workout, a fire under my feet.
I pledged to never eat another carb again. That lasted until lunch.
So I wrote with lipstick on my mirror, "Don't make promises to yourself you can't keep or eat." Then I hung up my "before" picture. It might not be perfect, but it is progress. Does my husband notice that "inch he can pinch?"
No. He sees one thing. "Hey boobs."
It usually results in a barrage of blows to the head. "My hips are so huge. My but is enormous. I have National Geographic tits. When's this belly flapper thing going to go away? My youngest is 5 foot 7 inches. When did I get a wing span? I could parachute with these triceps."
The cruelty of nakedness results in lights off rules in the bedroom and triple locks in the bathroom. Men, of course, don't respond the same way to women's nakedness. While we are obsessing about the length of our armpit hair. They are thinking, "Yeah boobs!"
In terms of men being naked amongst themselves. Just think of all those open shower stalls in men's locker rooms. Urinals? We would have to be serving 10-20 years in minimum security to learn how to put up with that.
My husband just hung up a mirror above the couch in the basement. I work out in the basement. I actually wanted him to do this because I thought it would help me with my form when lifting weights. Little did I know how distracting it would be. From my chin to my calves, I have criticisms. The form I end up watching is not a bicep curl, it's a stomach bulge.
It's very kangarooish actually. Fitting since it housed a couple of kids. They came out of a slit in the stomach too.
My kids and husband make fun of me for sucking in my cheeks when I comb my hair. They've clearly never seen what I suck in when I am lifting weights. I'm surprised I don't pass out. The EMTs from the ambulance announce upon arrival, "Another perimenopausal abdominal reflection hyperventilation during exertion--happens everyday. Nothing goes down faster than a Boomer doing Hip Hop Abs."
It was hot in the basement. No one was home. I was doing my exercise tape, concentrating hard not to pee during jumping jacks, when I whipped off my t-shirt. It was an automatic response, like swatting a mosquito. Then it hit me--me in the mirror.
I was not posing with vacuum packed cheeks and abs, I was jumping. It was jiggling. I was mesmerized by the movement. A wave of white flesh echoing with each jump. My scientific curiosity moved from my stomach to my thighs. It was like something you see flowing in artifical current in the Boston Aquarium. "Yup that's me in motion, half naked. Haven't seen that before."
It ended up being a real inspiration to my workout, a fire under my feet.
I pledged to never eat another carb again. That lasted until lunch.
So I wrote with lipstick on my mirror, "Don't make promises to yourself you can't keep or eat." Then I hung up my "before" picture. It might not be perfect, but it is progress. Does my husband notice that "inch he can pinch?"
No. He sees one thing. "Hey boobs."
Monday, July 20, 2009
Mocha Fudge Pie
from Cooking Light
This is what I serve as birthday, anniversary, and party cakes. I love it.
Featuring a thick brownie crust, a filling made of creamy mocha pudding, and--for the crowning touch--a coffee-and-Kahlúa whipped topping, it's hard to believe this pie could be light. The September 1994 cover story.
1/3 cup hot water
4 teaspoons instant coffee granules, divided
1/2 (20.5-ounce) box light fudge brownie mix (about 2 cups)
2 teaspoons vanilla extract, divided
2 large egg whites
Cooking spray
3/4 cup 1% low-fat milk
3 tablespoons Kahlúa or other coffee-flavored liqueur, divided
1 (3.9-ounce) package chocolate-flavored instant pudding mix or 1 (1.4-ounce) package sugar-free chocolate-flavored instant pudding mix
3 cups frozen reduced-calorie whipped topping, thawed and divided
Chocolate curls (optional)Preheat oven to 325°.
Combine hot water and 2 teaspoons coffee granules in a bowl; stir well. Add 2 cups brownie mix, 1 teaspoon vanilla, and egg whites; stir until well-blended. Pour mixture into a 9-inch pie plate coated with cooking spray. Bake at 325° for 22 minutes (brownie will be fudgy when tested with a wooden pick). Let cool completely on a wire rack.
Combine milk, 2 tablespoons Kahlúa, 1 teaspoon coffee granules, 1 teaspoon vanilla, and pudding mix in a bowl; beat at medium speed of a mixer 30 seconds. Gently fold in 1 1/2 cups whipped topping. Spoon pudding mixture into brownie crust; spread evenly.
Combine 1 tablespoon Kahlúa and 1 teaspoon coffee granules in a bowl; stir well.
Gently fold in 1 1/2 cups whipped topping. Spread whipped topping mixture evenly over pudding mixture. Garnish with chocolate curls, if desired. Serve immediately or store loosely covered in refrigerator.
Note: Nonalcoholic Mocha Version: When making the pudding mixture, substitute 2 tablespoons 1% low-fat milk for the Kahlúa. In the topping omit the Kahlua and dissolve the instant coffee granules in 1 tablespoon water.
Note: Store remaining brownie mix in a heavy-duty, zip-top plastic bag in refrigerator; use mix to make another pie or a small pan of brownies. To make brownies, combine about 2 cups mix, 1/4 cup water, and 1 lightly beaten egg white in a bowl. Stir just until combined. Spread in an 8-inch square pan coated with cooking spray. Bake at 350° for 23 to 25 minutes. Yield: 8 servings
CALORIES 297 (20% from fat); FAT 6.5g (sat 3g,mono 0.1g,poly 1.6g); PROTEIN 4.9g; CHOLESTEROL 1mg; CALCIUM 50mg; SODIUM 399mg; FIBER 1.2g; IRON 1.4mg; CARBOHYDRATE 51.6g Cooking Light, APRIL 1997
This is what I serve as birthday, anniversary, and party cakes. I love it.
Featuring a thick brownie crust, a filling made of creamy mocha pudding, and--for the crowning touch--a coffee-and-Kahlúa whipped topping, it's hard to believe this pie could be light. The September 1994 cover story.
1/3 cup hot water
4 teaspoons instant coffee granules, divided
1/2 (20.5-ounce) box light fudge brownie mix (about 2 cups)
2 teaspoons vanilla extract, divided
2 large egg whites
Cooking spray
3/4 cup 1% low-fat milk
3 tablespoons Kahlúa or other coffee-flavored liqueur, divided
1 (3.9-ounce) package chocolate-flavored instant pudding mix or 1 (1.4-ounce) package sugar-free chocolate-flavored instant pudding mix
3 cups frozen reduced-calorie whipped topping, thawed and divided
Chocolate curls (optional)Preheat oven to 325°.
Combine hot water and 2 teaspoons coffee granules in a bowl; stir well. Add 2 cups brownie mix, 1 teaspoon vanilla, and egg whites; stir until well-blended. Pour mixture into a 9-inch pie plate coated with cooking spray. Bake at 325° for 22 minutes (brownie will be fudgy when tested with a wooden pick). Let cool completely on a wire rack.
Combine milk, 2 tablespoons Kahlúa, 1 teaspoon coffee granules, 1 teaspoon vanilla, and pudding mix in a bowl; beat at medium speed of a mixer 30 seconds. Gently fold in 1 1/2 cups whipped topping. Spoon pudding mixture into brownie crust; spread evenly.
Combine 1 tablespoon Kahlúa and 1 teaspoon coffee granules in a bowl; stir well.
Gently fold in 1 1/2 cups whipped topping. Spread whipped topping mixture evenly over pudding mixture. Garnish with chocolate curls, if desired. Serve immediately or store loosely covered in refrigerator.
Note: Nonalcoholic Mocha Version: When making the pudding mixture, substitute 2 tablespoons 1% low-fat milk for the Kahlúa. In the topping omit the Kahlua and dissolve the instant coffee granules in 1 tablespoon water.
Note: Store remaining brownie mix in a heavy-duty, zip-top plastic bag in refrigerator; use mix to make another pie or a small pan of brownies. To make brownies, combine about 2 cups mix, 1/4 cup water, and 1 lightly beaten egg white in a bowl. Stir just until combined. Spread in an 8-inch square pan coated with cooking spray. Bake at 350° for 23 to 25 minutes. Yield: 8 servings
CALORIES 297 (20% from fat); FAT 6.5g (sat 3g,mono 0.1g,poly 1.6g); PROTEIN 4.9g; CHOLESTEROL 1mg; CALCIUM 50mg; SODIUM 399mg; FIBER 1.2g; IRON 1.4mg; CARBOHYDRATE 51.6g Cooking Light, APRIL 1997
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Bikini or not?
Which way to the beach? Will I go in one or two piece? I did 339 ab exercises yesterday. Not joking this time. But there's still a little too much left to pinch, that wasn't there last summer.
Last time I went to the beach with the family, my husband said, "I don't know what some of these women are thinking. They should not be appearing in public in bikinis at this point in their lives."
Well I'm at the halfway point, actually maybe a little past it, unless I live into my 90s. "I can wear a one piece next time," I said.
"I didn't mean you," my husband said.
Great recovery, honey. I feel so much better, white and fleshy and exposed for the first time this summer.
Checking out at the grocery store yesterday, I learned that Demi Moore is showing off a new $500,000 bikini body. She's about my age. Even though I've been called a cougar.(I had to Google it to find out what it meant.) It's not a title I can claim. I don't have to keep up with Ashton Kutcher or anyone else half my age. My hope is to keep up with those I begat at one-quarter my age.
At what point does a woman have to hide or be ashamed of her body? Is it middle age? Post pregnancy? Retirement? How about never. We may not always be Demilike, but a woman should always feel comfortable, sexy, and confident in her skin.
At the breakfast table this morning, we debated which beach to go to. I was only partially involved because I had the Sunday paper out in front of me. "Hey look at that. I can get a full wet suit for $500 in a size 8," I announced.
"You could wear that to Maine today," my husband said.
"Excuse me," I said.
"Because the water will be cold," he said.
Well that's one solution to the one or two-piece solution--one very large piece of full body neophrene.
To impose judgement, standards, on women lead to declining body image and self-worth. If you don't like your body, you don't like yourself. I celebrate a woman who can feel sexy and attractive in sizes above 0 to 4. If those are our standards, once a woman can drive, she can't wear a two-piece bathing suit.
If you've got it, flaunt it. Even if it's at your knees. I'm sure you've got great legs.
Last time I went to the beach with the family, my husband said, "I don't know what some of these women are thinking. They should not be appearing in public in bikinis at this point in their lives."
Well I'm at the halfway point, actually maybe a little past it, unless I live into my 90s. "I can wear a one piece next time," I said.
"I didn't mean you," my husband said.
Great recovery, honey. I feel so much better, white and fleshy and exposed for the first time this summer.
Checking out at the grocery store yesterday, I learned that Demi Moore is showing off a new $500,000 bikini body. She's about my age. Even though I've been called a cougar.(I had to Google it to find out what it meant.) It's not a title I can claim. I don't have to keep up with Ashton Kutcher or anyone else half my age. My hope is to keep up with those I begat at one-quarter my age.
At what point does a woman have to hide or be ashamed of her body? Is it middle age? Post pregnancy? Retirement? How about never. We may not always be Demilike, but a woman should always feel comfortable, sexy, and confident in her skin.
At the breakfast table this morning, we debated which beach to go to. I was only partially involved because I had the Sunday paper out in front of me. "Hey look at that. I can get a full wet suit for $500 in a size 8," I announced.
"You could wear that to Maine today," my husband said.
"Excuse me," I said.
"Because the water will be cold," he said.
Well that's one solution to the one or two-piece solution--one very large piece of full body neophrene.
To impose judgement, standards, on women lead to declining body image and self-worth. If you don't like your body, you don't like yourself. I celebrate a woman who can feel sexy and attractive in sizes above 0 to 4. If those are our standards, once a woman can drive, she can't wear a two-piece bathing suit.
If you've got it, flaunt it. Even if it's at your knees. I'm sure you've got great legs.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Haunted Cabinets
I can hear crackers. They talk to me.
Shhh. Listen. "I'm here for you, just waiting," three thousand little Pepperidge Farm Goldfish tease from behind a closed kitchen cabinet. "We are salty and crispy. Pair us with a nice cold Chardonnay. Don't forget about that cajun spice you bought in New Orleans. Sprinkle a little on top"
I put yellow post-it notes on this troublesome kitchen cabinet where crackers, pretzels, and cereals are stored. Little hopeful messages like "Nothing tastes as good as thin feels. You can do it. Celebrate your success."
The Goldfish counter the messages. "Cheddar crackers taste better than celery sticks. You lost the weight. What's the worry? Celebrate with a little snack. You earned it."
"Stop it!" I shout to the plump orange happy fish. Why did they have to imprint smiles on them?
"Did you see that we are now made with whole wheat flour? It's a whole grain. You know you love those," they reply.
These are cunning Goldfish. Slipping into the weaknesses of my psyche with the long red nozzle of a can of WD-40.
How did they get into the house? Who let them in? Oh. I did. I had to buy a snack for nature summer camp. Good. They must be presented in tack--the over-sized square carton sealed and secure. That's my solution.
Hopefully, the teacher won't comment about the duct tape and bungee cord I wrapped around the box.
If she's got ears, or hips, she'll understand.
Shhh. Listen. "I'm here for you, just waiting," three thousand little Pepperidge Farm Goldfish tease from behind a closed kitchen cabinet. "We are salty and crispy. Pair us with a nice cold Chardonnay. Don't forget about that cajun spice you bought in New Orleans. Sprinkle a little on top"
I put yellow post-it notes on this troublesome kitchen cabinet where crackers, pretzels, and cereals are stored. Little hopeful messages like "Nothing tastes as good as thin feels. You can do it. Celebrate your success."
The Goldfish counter the messages. "Cheddar crackers taste better than celery sticks. You lost the weight. What's the worry? Celebrate with a little snack. You earned it."
"Stop it!" I shout to the plump orange happy fish. Why did they have to imprint smiles on them?
"Did you see that we are now made with whole wheat flour? It's a whole grain. You know you love those," they reply.
These are cunning Goldfish. Slipping into the weaknesses of my psyche with the long red nozzle of a can of WD-40.
How did they get into the house? Who let them in? Oh. I did. I had to buy a snack for nature summer camp. Good. They must be presented in tack--the over-sized square carton sealed and secure. That's my solution.
Hopefully, the teacher won't comment about the duct tape and bungee cord I wrapped around the box.
If she's got ears, or hips, she'll understand.
Friday, July 17, 2009
I don't know, where do you want to go
We got Chinese last night. What about Indian? Mexican? Italian--that new pasta place?
We've all been there. The United Nations of family conflicts. One wants pizza. The other a steak and cheese. Me? Vegetarian. When is Moosewood Cafe going to open up a satellite here?
It's Friday night. I am tired from my eyeballs to my toe nails. I looked for Visine when I got out of the shower this morning even though I had gone to bed at 8:30 last night. I'd burn my sandals and dance around the smoldering heap if my feet didn't hurt so much.
How do you reconcile it? The "I'm too tired to cook but too fat to go out to eat syndrome."
First, it's important to be a pain in the butt at the restaurant. Waitresses and cooks have an easy job; they don't mind. Ask for everything separate. "I'll have the Fettuccine Alfredo with whole wheat noodles, nondairy sauce on the side. Instead of bread with that, I'd like a shrimp cocktail with one-quarter of a head of iceberg lettuce, one lemon sliced thin and cocktail sauce with no horseradish."
You can also order a la carte. If you order only sides--baked potato, corn, broccoli, and veggie mix--you will get four or five bread plates with one cup sized servings. But you need another plate. Be prepared to pay for it. On your big plate, place your potato and pile up your sides on top. Then ask,"Oh Miss can I have a side of fat free sour cream?" When that comes, ask for fresh ground pepper...no ground white pepper, then duck.
I order ice cubes for my wine. I ask for rice pilaf to be rinsed. I send back the bread basket. Dressing on the side? No way. Let's make someone search for the balsamic vinegar instead.
Can you use olive oil instead of butter to prepare that? No Parmesan cheese in my risotto either. Can I get fresh herbs instead of dried?
You can't be too careful you know when you are on a special diet. I've gotten food poisoning a number of times while eating out. I wonder why?
We've all been there. The United Nations of family conflicts. One wants pizza. The other a steak and cheese. Me? Vegetarian. When is Moosewood Cafe going to open up a satellite here?
It's Friday night. I am tired from my eyeballs to my toe nails. I looked for Visine when I got out of the shower this morning even though I had gone to bed at 8:30 last night. I'd burn my sandals and dance around the smoldering heap if my feet didn't hurt so much.
How do you reconcile it? The "I'm too tired to cook but too fat to go out to eat syndrome."
First, it's important to be a pain in the butt at the restaurant. Waitresses and cooks have an easy job; they don't mind. Ask for everything separate. "I'll have the Fettuccine Alfredo with whole wheat noodles, nondairy sauce on the side. Instead of bread with that, I'd like a shrimp cocktail with one-quarter of a head of iceberg lettuce, one lemon sliced thin and cocktail sauce with no horseradish."
You can also order a la carte. If you order only sides--baked potato, corn, broccoli, and veggie mix--you will get four or five bread plates with one cup sized servings. But you need another plate. Be prepared to pay for it. On your big plate, place your potato and pile up your sides on top. Then ask,"Oh Miss can I have a side of fat free sour cream?" When that comes, ask for fresh ground pepper...no ground white pepper, then duck.
I order ice cubes for my wine. I ask for rice pilaf to be rinsed. I send back the bread basket. Dressing on the side? No way. Let's make someone search for the balsamic vinegar instead.
Can you use olive oil instead of butter to prepare that? No Parmesan cheese in my risotto either. Can I get fresh herbs instead of dried?
You can't be too careful you know when you are on a special diet. I've gotten food poisoning a number of times while eating out. I wonder why?
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Broken Traditions
My sisters and I were padding around nervously in circles barefoot. My mother shouting instructions from the kitchen as she popped corn and mixed lemonade. “Make sure you go to the bathroom.” We were changing into our flame retardant fleece pajamas, finding our favorite pillow.
We’d stretch out in the back of the 1970 Pontiac Catalina station wagon. A spiral insect repellant burned next to the crackling speaker. We were lucky to go to ehe drive-in theater maybe once a summer. My younger sister never stayed up for the whole movie. We saw Disney princess movies like Cinderella and Snow White, back when they were fresh from the vault not digitally restored.
There were dancing hot dogs, acrobatic hot dogs frankly. Parading popsicles. Popcorn boxes that juggled. French fries that conversed with soda pop. Hamburgers that did backflips by themselves on the griddle. Smiling brunettes with white aprons and paper hats mixed ice cream floats, milkshakes, and cotton candy.
Oil, fat, and sugar. Oh my.
“It was good enough for you then,” my father would say if he was alive. “Why isn’t it now?” “What do you expect a portabella mushroom burger with soy cheese, chopped salad, and quinoa?
“Ahh, yeah.” I would say…”and so should you.”
He died just a few months ago from colon cancer, weeks after turning 70 years old. He had type II diabetes, heart disease, and other chronic dieases. I think he could have benefited from a few more veggie burgers and a few less French fries.
Like many people today, he died too early, because of what he ate and how little he moved.
It was April 2006 when I realized I was slowly killing myself. Dr. William Castelli, co-founder of the Framingham Heart Study was presenting at Grand Rounds, a continuing medical education seminar at the hospital where I worked.
He had rock-star status among the physicians. I could have booked Mick Jaggar with no less fanfare and excitement. Our medical staff leaned forward in their chairs as if trying to get closer to this world class physician, the man whose emerging research they studied in medical school, the researcher crediting with discovering the connection between heart disease and cholesterol. Their mouths half open in awe, half smiling is silly glee. It was one of those moments in life when you think every few minutes, “This is important. I have to remember this forever.”
Dr. Castelli lectured on all the medical problems caused by obesity, particularly when a person carries his or her weight in the belly. At the time, I was a stand-in model for the prenatal ultrasound program, even though my “fetus” could walk, talk, and empty the dishwasher.
He reviewed the complications of obesity: hypertension, diabetes, osteoporosis, heart disease, stroke, colon cancer, esophageal cancer, breast cancer…. The list went on and on, slide after slide. The blue blur of lapis frames with violet letters and bar graphs began swirl and dance, like hot dogs and hamburgers. Each diagnosis sent my chin flailing from one shoulder to the next. The truth was being beaten into me. I was a dizzy boxer on her way down.
“I’m killing myself,” I realized. The space around me thickened and stiffened. “I am slowly putting myself into an early grave.”
The excuses no longer mattered. And I had a long list, children, middle age, hormones, depression, marital stress, unemployment, housework, isolation…
As Castelli wrapped up his lecture for questions he quickly added, “I recommend Weight Watches to my patients. It’s the best way to lose weight, keep it off, and learn proper eating habits. It’s the best program out there.”
That’s all I needed.
Now I am sitting in a minivan at the drive-in movies with a Tupperware full of butterless popcorn and a cooler full of diet soda. The dancing dogs should be on the big screen any moment. But I will only go to snack bar to pee.
We’d stretch out in the back of the 1970 Pontiac Catalina station wagon. A spiral insect repellant burned next to the crackling speaker. We were lucky to go to ehe drive-in theater maybe once a summer. My younger sister never stayed up for the whole movie. We saw Disney princess movies like Cinderella and Snow White, back when they were fresh from the vault not digitally restored.
There were dancing hot dogs, acrobatic hot dogs frankly. Parading popsicles. Popcorn boxes that juggled. French fries that conversed with soda pop. Hamburgers that did backflips by themselves on the griddle. Smiling brunettes with white aprons and paper hats mixed ice cream floats, milkshakes, and cotton candy.
Oil, fat, and sugar. Oh my.
“It was good enough for you then,” my father would say if he was alive. “Why isn’t it now?” “What do you expect a portabella mushroom burger with soy cheese, chopped salad, and quinoa?
“Ahh, yeah.” I would say…”and so should you.”
He died just a few months ago from colon cancer, weeks after turning 70 years old. He had type II diabetes, heart disease, and other chronic dieases. I think he could have benefited from a few more veggie burgers and a few less French fries.
Like many people today, he died too early, because of what he ate and how little he moved.
It was April 2006 when I realized I was slowly killing myself. Dr. William Castelli, co-founder of the Framingham Heart Study was presenting at Grand Rounds, a continuing medical education seminar at the hospital where I worked.
He had rock-star status among the physicians. I could have booked Mick Jaggar with no less fanfare and excitement. Our medical staff leaned forward in their chairs as if trying to get closer to this world class physician, the man whose emerging research they studied in medical school, the researcher crediting with discovering the connection between heart disease and cholesterol. Their mouths half open in awe, half smiling is silly glee. It was one of those moments in life when you think every few minutes, “This is important. I have to remember this forever.”
Dr. Castelli lectured on all the medical problems caused by obesity, particularly when a person carries his or her weight in the belly. At the time, I was a stand-in model for the prenatal ultrasound program, even though my “fetus” could walk, talk, and empty the dishwasher.
He reviewed the complications of obesity: hypertension, diabetes, osteoporosis, heart disease, stroke, colon cancer, esophageal cancer, breast cancer…. The list went on and on, slide after slide. The blue blur of lapis frames with violet letters and bar graphs began swirl and dance, like hot dogs and hamburgers. Each diagnosis sent my chin flailing from one shoulder to the next. The truth was being beaten into me. I was a dizzy boxer on her way down.
“I’m killing myself,” I realized. The space around me thickened and stiffened. “I am slowly putting myself into an early grave.”
The excuses no longer mattered. And I had a long list, children, middle age, hormones, depression, marital stress, unemployment, housework, isolation…
As Castelli wrapped up his lecture for questions he quickly added, “I recommend Weight Watches to my patients. It’s the best way to lose weight, keep it off, and learn proper eating habits. It’s the best program out there.”
That’s all I needed.
Now I am sitting in a minivan at the drive-in movies with a Tupperware full of butterless popcorn and a cooler full of diet soda. The dancing dogs should be on the big screen any moment. But I will only go to snack bar to pee.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Over the Hill
Hurricane Road is a long, steep, hill past farms, fields, and stone walls that ends in Westmoreland, the next town over. I started biking to the top in May when I got my bike cleats for Mother’s Day. I hadn’t yet gone over the other side, with my feet secured to the bike that is.
I have been trying to gain the skills and the strength. The last time I went over Hurricane hill was last fall on my new bike, which has much thinner tires than my old mountain bike, I got going too fast and lost control. I yelled to my husband who was behind me. As if he could do anything to help a careening out of control bicycle 50 yards in front of him.
He told me brake. Why hadn’t I thought of that? I had. Just a little too late. I came skidding to a stop on a sandy shoulder of the road. It scared me. The last time I lost control of my bike was on Ferncliff Road in Franklin in third grade.
The bike cleats were a surprise. I have been getting more and more serious about biking at this point in life. It puts less stress on the joints, is a good cardiovascular workout, and a way to whittle away those hips and thighs. I tried a potato peeler…too much blood.
Clamping my feet onto the bike forced me to learn how to bike again. The first time on them, I fell scraping my knee badly. I was a few miles out on a bike trail on Cape Cod. It was raining. I had to pee. I was bleeding. Like Curt Schilling, I came home with a bloody sock.
You have to learn how to snap your feet in and out of pedal clamps. It’s supposed to be a quick click. But for me it’s more of a desperate scramble, kind like if you had a snake in your sleeping bag. Clicking and shifting gears has to be done ahead of time. Instead of checking out people’s landscaping, I have to keep my eyes on the road.
I need to build confidence and skill before taking the new bike and shoes over the other side of Hurricane. The way up is a long, steady climb. I had been working on just going to the top, then turning around and heading back home. The other side of the hill is a steep descent translating into a tough climbing back up the hill.
The cleats connect you to your bike, giving a much more intense workout. I feel it in my core as wall as my quads. I’ve even get sore pects from maintaining the low stance on this touring bike.
But today I was ready. The weather was perfect: low seventies, sunny, and breezy. I had done six consecutive days of P90X so I was in the zone. Not to mention the fact, that I had been watching my husband watch the Tour de France on television for the last 9 days.
I was secretly wishing I had on elbow and knee pads, just in case. Like spider veins aren’t bad enough. I don’t want scars to explain. “I was climbing a hill when I got too tired to pedal any longer so I fell over sideways.” Secret confession: that’s how I fell on Cape Cod. Double secret confession: I even fell over last week when I had one foot on the ground, the other clamped in, at a stop sign, in front of my house.
No matter. I am woman hear me roar. I was on a mission. I passed a woman my age walking a beagle. A woman with a long gray pony tail riding a motorcycle. A frail, tiny woman on a porch of a large white farmhouse. For all these woman, I would go over the hill today.
I took it easy coming down the other side, never enjoying any of my momentum, but still able to hear, above the sound of Mary J. Blige on my iPod above my Blue Cross/Blue Shield insurance card flapping from my zippered sweatshirt where I had attached it for the convenience of the ER staff.
With the descent behind me, I took a long drink of water, and set my pace for the climb back up. In the lowest gear, I was actually able to discover a recovery zone, where I could catch my breath a bit while still climbing in between standing climbing stints.
As I approached the sign marker for Keene, I could see the top of the hill on the horizon. I collected myself for one last push. Failing wasn’t an option. It was like childbirth. I was going to find a focal point and breathe my way through it. At the top, I expected Queen to blare out “We are the champions of the world,” clapping lines of people to cheer, and a pit crew to approach me in a small car to hand me a sports drink like a relay baton.
Instead, a small gray squirrel with an acorn in its mouth was beginning to pass from the other side. He examined me for a moment, no doubt to gauge how quickly I was approaching, in order to determine whether he had time to cross before I arrived. He turned back. “Yes my little friend,” I said, “I’m faster than you are.”
I have been trying to gain the skills and the strength. The last time I went over Hurricane hill was last fall on my new bike, which has much thinner tires than my old mountain bike, I got going too fast and lost control. I yelled to my husband who was behind me. As if he could do anything to help a careening out of control bicycle 50 yards in front of him.
He told me brake. Why hadn’t I thought of that? I had. Just a little too late. I came skidding to a stop on a sandy shoulder of the road. It scared me. The last time I lost control of my bike was on Ferncliff Road in Franklin in third grade.
The bike cleats were a surprise. I have been getting more and more serious about biking at this point in life. It puts less stress on the joints, is a good cardiovascular workout, and a way to whittle away those hips and thighs. I tried a potato peeler…too much blood.
Clamping my feet onto the bike forced me to learn how to bike again. The first time on them, I fell scraping my knee badly. I was a few miles out on a bike trail on Cape Cod. It was raining. I had to pee. I was bleeding. Like Curt Schilling, I came home with a bloody sock.
You have to learn how to snap your feet in and out of pedal clamps. It’s supposed to be a quick click. But for me it’s more of a desperate scramble, kind like if you had a snake in your sleeping bag. Clicking and shifting gears has to be done ahead of time. Instead of checking out people’s landscaping, I have to keep my eyes on the road.
I need to build confidence and skill before taking the new bike and shoes over the other side of Hurricane. The way up is a long, steady climb. I had been working on just going to the top, then turning around and heading back home. The other side of the hill is a steep descent translating into a tough climbing back up the hill.
The cleats connect you to your bike, giving a much more intense workout. I feel it in my core as wall as my quads. I’ve even get sore pects from maintaining the low stance on this touring bike.
But today I was ready. The weather was perfect: low seventies, sunny, and breezy. I had done six consecutive days of P90X so I was in the zone. Not to mention the fact, that I had been watching my husband watch the Tour de France on television for the last 9 days.
I was secretly wishing I had on elbow and knee pads, just in case. Like spider veins aren’t bad enough. I don’t want scars to explain. “I was climbing a hill when I got too tired to pedal any longer so I fell over sideways.” Secret confession: that’s how I fell on Cape Cod. Double secret confession: I even fell over last week when I had one foot on the ground, the other clamped in, at a stop sign, in front of my house.
No matter. I am woman hear me roar. I was on a mission. I passed a woman my age walking a beagle. A woman with a long gray pony tail riding a motorcycle. A frail, tiny woman on a porch of a large white farmhouse. For all these woman, I would go over the hill today.
I took it easy coming down the other side, never enjoying any of my momentum, but still able to hear, above the sound of Mary J. Blige on my iPod above my Blue Cross/Blue Shield insurance card flapping from my zippered sweatshirt where I had attached it for the convenience of the ER staff.
With the descent behind me, I took a long drink of water, and set my pace for the climb back up. In the lowest gear, I was actually able to discover a recovery zone, where I could catch my breath a bit while still climbing in between standing climbing stints.
As I approached the sign marker for Keene, I could see the top of the hill on the horizon. I collected myself for one last push. Failing wasn’t an option. It was like childbirth. I was going to find a focal point and breathe my way through it. At the top, I expected Queen to blare out “We are the champions of the world,” clapping lines of people to cheer, and a pit crew to approach me in a small car to hand me a sports drink like a relay baton.
Instead, a small gray squirrel with an acorn in its mouth was beginning to pass from the other side. He examined me for a moment, no doubt to gauge how quickly I was approaching, in order to determine whether he had time to cross before I arrived. He turned back. “Yes my little friend,” I said, “I’m faster than you are.”
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Spicy Greek Pasta
An amazingly colorful, zesty, spicy quick low-fat whole grain dish bursting with veggies that can be eaten hot or cold. It can be made with sausage, chicken, or vegetarian.
I threw this together for dinner tonight because I hadn’t gone grocery shopping and my picky eater was away at camp. I picked up the lean sausages and local squash at the local deli on my way home. If I had the time, I would have grilled the red peppers too. But, I took the shortcut and used as much as possible from the cans/jars in my larder.
1 can mushrooms
1 jar pitted kalamata olives
1 can chick peas
1 jar artichoke hearts
½ cup of peperoncini or banana peppers
1 jar roasted red peppers
½ jar of capers
4 oz of feta cheese cubes
3 summer squash grilled
3 zucchini squash grilled
3 hot lean chicken or turkey sausages or 2 boneless chicken breasts (optional)
1 cup shredded carrots (or sliced)
2 cans diced tomatoes with Italian spices
½ cup Pantene crushed peppers (in vinegar)
Plenty of dried or fresh oregano
Salt and pepper
1 box of whole wheat penne pasta
1 bag of baby spinach
Start water to boil for pasta.
Place colander in sink and start opening and draining all the cans/jars of their juice, except the diced tomatoes. Empty colander into large pasta storage bowl, add tomatoes, feta cheese, oregano, salt/pepper.
Slice squash in half, place skin side up on grill. Put sausage on grill.
Add pasta to boiling water. One to two minutes before done, add carrots to pasta. Drain in colander that’s now empty. Then add to other ingredients.
Let squash and sausage cool. Quarter and slice add to other ingredients. Fold in bag of baby spinach. Add wet or dry crushed red peppers to taste. Serve from the stove. If you put this on the table, you’ll be tempted to have seconds or thirds.
I threw this together for dinner tonight because I hadn’t gone grocery shopping and my picky eater was away at camp. I picked up the lean sausages and local squash at the local deli on my way home. If I had the time, I would have grilled the red peppers too. But, I took the shortcut and used as much as possible from the cans/jars in my larder.
1 can mushrooms
1 jar pitted kalamata olives
1 can chick peas
1 jar artichoke hearts
½ cup of peperoncini or banana peppers
1 jar roasted red peppers
½ jar of capers
4 oz of feta cheese cubes
3 summer squash grilled
3 zucchini squash grilled
3 hot lean chicken or turkey sausages or 2 boneless chicken breasts (optional)
1 cup shredded carrots (or sliced)
2 cans diced tomatoes with Italian spices
½ cup Pantene crushed peppers (in vinegar)
Plenty of dried or fresh oregano
Salt and pepper
1 box of whole wheat penne pasta
1 bag of baby spinach
Start water to boil for pasta.
Place colander in sink and start opening and draining all the cans/jars of their juice, except the diced tomatoes. Empty colander into large pasta storage bowl, add tomatoes, feta cheese, oregano, salt/pepper.
Slice squash in half, place skin side up on grill. Put sausage on grill.
Add pasta to boiling water. One to two minutes before done, add carrots to pasta. Drain in colander that’s now empty. Then add to other ingredients.
Let squash and sausage cool. Quarter and slice add to other ingredients. Fold in bag of baby spinach. Add wet or dry crushed red peppers to taste. Serve from the stove. If you put this on the table, you’ll be tempted to have seconds or thirds.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Woe is me
They brought out a mounded trap of warm chocolate chip cookies. The children were running for the table as the magical smell expanded. It was check-in day at summer camp for my daughter. Suitcases, footlockers, and laundry bags all larger than the lanky teenage girls toting them. We arrived at exactly ten o’clock in the morning after a hectic early morning of preparation. A rich and gooey oversized chocolate chip cookie seemed like the ideal mid-morning snack, once it was paired with another cup of coffee. A reward for getting Maggie organized, packed, and transported for her two week hiatus of horseback riding.
As everyone else clamored for cookies, including a tall, tan blonde, clearly the younger second wife, I started to feel sorry for myself.
“Ohhh, they are still warm,” she cooed coddling the cookie in a napkin.
I begin to sour like milk in the hot sun. All I do is get to pay the bills for this place. God Forbid, I get a free cookie out of the deal. When was the last time I had a chocolate chip cookie? Whoever was president I’m sure he’s dead by now.
Prisoners of war don’t have it as bad as me. What ultimate deprivation I endure to remain a size eight. I suffer. Yes, suffer, I convince myself, like no one else.
Those enjoying the warm sweet treats have better marriages, drive better cars, make more money, have cleaner house, and smarter children. I, on the other hand, have transformed myself into the woman in Angela’s Ashes during the Irish potato famine. Remind me to buy a chamber pot on the way home. I don’t deserve plumbing.
How can I not be able to eat anything I want anytime I want? Why do I have to make choices? Limit quantities? I am the only one. Surely, every other American is eating anything and everything to their heart’s delight…
I am entitled to everything I want. I deserve a break. Madison Avenue and McDonalds have told me so for years and years and I accepted this message wholeheartedly. I am not supposed to go without anything. I should not bear any negative feelings whatsoever in life. Disappointment. Fatigue. Frustration. All solvable by purchasing various products and services. Calgon take me away.
Accepting the fact that I cannot eat whatever I want , whenever I want, in whatever quantity I want is why I pack Kashi bars in my purse. Did you try the new chewy dark mocha? It’s no chocolate chip cookie, but for 130 calories and four grams of fiber, it's a bargain. Those fiber grams will make my stomach a lot happier than eggs, butter, and sugar.
I plopped myself down to unwrap my snack. The cookie courting younger woman sat down beside me. “Good move,” she said as she crushed three-quarters of the cookie in her napkin and tossed it into the trash. “Mine is a South Beach Bar,” she said as she pulled her purse stash into view.
We enjoyed ten bites of whole grains together, as children dropped sweatshirts, room keys, and cell phones on our laps. Maybe everyone else is not much different than I am after all.
As everyone else clamored for cookies, including a tall, tan blonde, clearly the younger second wife, I started to feel sorry for myself.
“Ohhh, they are still warm,” she cooed coddling the cookie in a napkin.
I begin to sour like milk in the hot sun. All I do is get to pay the bills for this place. God Forbid, I get a free cookie out of the deal. When was the last time I had a chocolate chip cookie? Whoever was president I’m sure he’s dead by now.
Prisoners of war don’t have it as bad as me. What ultimate deprivation I endure to remain a size eight. I suffer. Yes, suffer, I convince myself, like no one else.
Those enjoying the warm sweet treats have better marriages, drive better cars, make more money, have cleaner house, and smarter children. I, on the other hand, have transformed myself into the woman in Angela’s Ashes during the Irish potato famine. Remind me to buy a chamber pot on the way home. I don’t deserve plumbing.
How can I not be able to eat anything I want anytime I want? Why do I have to make choices? Limit quantities? I am the only one. Surely, every other American is eating anything and everything to their heart’s delight…
I am entitled to everything I want. I deserve a break. Madison Avenue and McDonalds have told me so for years and years and I accepted this message wholeheartedly. I am not supposed to go without anything. I should not bear any negative feelings whatsoever in life. Disappointment. Fatigue. Frustration. All solvable by purchasing various products and services. Calgon take me away.
Accepting the fact that I cannot eat whatever I want , whenever I want, in whatever quantity I want is why I pack Kashi bars in my purse. Did you try the new chewy dark mocha? It’s no chocolate chip cookie, but for 130 calories and four grams of fiber, it's a bargain. Those fiber grams will make my stomach a lot happier than eggs, butter, and sugar.
I plopped myself down to unwrap my snack. The cookie courting younger woman sat down beside me. “Good move,” she said as she crushed three-quarters of the cookie in her napkin and tossed it into the trash. “Mine is a South Beach Bar,” she said as she pulled her purse stash into view.
We enjoyed ten bites of whole grains together, as children dropped sweatshirts, room keys, and cell phones on our laps. Maybe everyone else is not much different than I am after all.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Who me?
The to-do list is long. Change sheets. Put away laundry. Do bills. Balance checking account. Go groceries. Read report from work. E-mail arts committee I volunteered to chair as a community service. Clean Emily’s room. Scour upstairs bathroom. Weed herb garden. Water window boxes. And there’s fine washables and sewing, plus my sister’s birthday is tomorrow.
It’s July and I just changed into my summer handbag yesterday. I think the Christmas wrapping paper got put away at Easter. At least I don’t have homework anymore because I finally finished graduate school.
It’s a daily dilemma. How am I going to get half of this list accomplished plus find time to exercise?
I’m in the corner in the yoga child pose position holding the white flag. I surrender. I’m not the only one in the family with arms and legs capable of transporting a dirty plate into the dishwasher. Sadly, I am the only one with the ability to see dirt. Everyone else’s vision appears to be too poor to spot dust, fingerprints, and soap scum.
I used to own it all—run myself ragged everyday like a nervous gerbil on a wheel running as fast as I could, not realizing I wasn’t getting anywhere but exhausted and exploited. My husband would have stepped over my limp lifeless body on the floor to reach the remote control.
Now I protect myself. I got selfish. Put myself first. You’ll never guess where I learned how. Just observe.
My husband and children come home, drop their bags in the doorway, leave their coat on a kitchen chair and head right to the TV room where they put their feet up. Not a care in the world. Garbage day? Since when. Dinner time? No way. Out of toilet paper? Not.
As long as I owned it all. They didn’t have to. So I started dropping all the burdens in my arms, one at a time. Laundry. Sweeping. Dishes. Cleaning. With each deposit, I found precious time for me.
My children are 12 and 14. If they were Laura and Mary Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie, they would have milked the cows for the butter they were churning by 7AM. My two? They have fought over the one Chi hair straightener in the house, left the milk out, and sent sixteen text messages by 7 AM.
Me? I’ve just finished exercising in the basement, where I had to walk past flip flops, magic markers, and empty soda cans. Thankfully, my vision gets poorer each year. Not like I need bifocals to see the debris.
But in my house, you are responsible for your own wake. I’m not going to drown in your mess. Thankfully, I’m wearing a life preserver. It’s the insight that I am the only one who can take care of me. Unlike housework, no one else can do it. Me is my first responsibility.
It’s July and I just changed into my summer handbag yesterday. I think the Christmas wrapping paper got put away at Easter. At least I don’t have homework anymore because I finally finished graduate school.
It’s a daily dilemma. How am I going to get half of this list accomplished plus find time to exercise?
I’m in the corner in the yoga child pose position holding the white flag. I surrender. I’m not the only one in the family with arms and legs capable of transporting a dirty plate into the dishwasher. Sadly, I am the only one with the ability to see dirt. Everyone else’s vision appears to be too poor to spot dust, fingerprints, and soap scum.
I used to own it all—run myself ragged everyday like a nervous gerbil on a wheel running as fast as I could, not realizing I wasn’t getting anywhere but exhausted and exploited. My husband would have stepped over my limp lifeless body on the floor to reach the remote control.
Now I protect myself. I got selfish. Put myself first. You’ll never guess where I learned how. Just observe.
My husband and children come home, drop their bags in the doorway, leave their coat on a kitchen chair and head right to the TV room where they put their feet up. Not a care in the world. Garbage day? Since when. Dinner time? No way. Out of toilet paper? Not.
As long as I owned it all. They didn’t have to. So I started dropping all the burdens in my arms, one at a time. Laundry. Sweeping. Dishes. Cleaning. With each deposit, I found precious time for me.
My children are 12 and 14. If they were Laura and Mary Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie, they would have milked the cows for the butter they were churning by 7AM. My two? They have fought over the one Chi hair straightener in the house, left the milk out, and sent sixteen text messages by 7 AM.
Me? I’ve just finished exercising in the basement, where I had to walk past flip flops, magic markers, and empty soda cans. Thankfully, my vision gets poorer each year. Not like I need bifocals to see the debris.
But in my house, you are responsible for your own wake. I’m not going to drown in your mess. Thankfully, I’m wearing a life preserver. It’s the insight that I am the only one who can take care of me. Unlike housework, no one else can do it. Me is my first responsibility.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Facing the Bathroom Scale
It measures the effect gravity has on our bodies. But we let it also measure our self-worth, sexiness, and success.
The scale has an aura. The zone around it in the bathroom becomes sacred like an alter in church, a place to be avoided. Don’t step over there. It’s where the scale is.
I’ve occasionally faltered in my bathroom grabbing for different hair appliances with opposite hands. Swaying off balance, a foot steps into the scale zone. I expect a black and white striped man with a whistle and red flag to appear from the shower, announcing, “Out of bounds foot placement. Penalty: plus two pounds.”
You can not enter the bathroom scale zone, unless you’ve earned it. First, you must be absolutely naked and dry. If you have showered, you must be air dried with the force and suction of the vacuum that descends on your automobile’s hood in a car wash. Not a smidgen of moisture on one’s skin or hair. I even spit before stepping on the scale. Hey, saliva is a very dense liquid. We won’t get into any of the other organic evacuation methods employed before weighing in.
No jewelry either. Earrings, watches, wedding rings are eagerly removed and tossed into the most treacherous place possible—the bathroom sink.
I’ve known women to shave and tweeze beforehand. I try to book 6 AM haircuts for the same reason. And what’s the first thing a woman does after having her ovaries or appendix removed? You got it, weigh herself. If you ever get joint replacement surgery, make sure to go titanium, you can loose about 8 ounces per limb compared to the weight of actual bone.
There’s other criteria too. You must not be within 7 days before or after a menstrual cycle. It cannot be a full moon, eclipse, or waxing gibbous. You cannot have eaten or drunken anything for roughly the last 72 hours. However, you can have an oven fresh blueberry muffin waiting for you on the toilet tank. My husband didn’t understand why I moved a mug tree and the coffee maker into the upstairs master bath.
You cannot have consumed anything with sodium at any point since women received the vote from the 19th Amendment, which includes among other things: anything that came from a can (soup, broth, soda, and tuna), anything that comes from a bag (pretzels, crackers, cookies, and cereal), and anything that comes from a bottle (gin, vodka, wine, beer, and any other spirits). The body’s ability to retain water is magnified eight fold within the scale zone.
The bathroom doors and windows must be locked tight and tripled sealed. Ideally everyone else should be asleep or out of the house. Why New Jersey puts public scales in their turnpike rest rooms, I don’t know. Who, after the dog pukes and the kids ask “Are we there yet” for the 3,028 time, thinks, at the next rest stop I want to hop on a scale just to pick my spirits up.
With these complex criteria fulfilled, I exhale deeply forcing air out of my diaphragm to the point I engage a pelvic tilt, hold my breath like a scuba diver, and step on the device. What will it tell me... Whether I have been good or not? Whether I can wear fat or skinny clothes today? Actually I knew those answers already.
As the digital numbers begin to settle on a reading, I squeeze my eyes, lips, and anus, in hopeful anticipation, like I was watching a roulette table. "Pleeeeeeease." It lands on number .2 above yesterday. I turn around and pour myself a cup of coffee toasting my naked self in the mirror. “Good deal. Here’s to keeping it on an even keel.”
The scale has an aura. The zone around it in the bathroom becomes sacred like an alter in church, a place to be avoided. Don’t step over there. It’s where the scale is.
I’ve occasionally faltered in my bathroom grabbing for different hair appliances with opposite hands. Swaying off balance, a foot steps into the scale zone. I expect a black and white striped man with a whistle and red flag to appear from the shower, announcing, “Out of bounds foot placement. Penalty: plus two pounds.”
You can not enter the bathroom scale zone, unless you’ve earned it. First, you must be absolutely naked and dry. If you have showered, you must be air dried with the force and suction of the vacuum that descends on your automobile’s hood in a car wash. Not a smidgen of moisture on one’s skin or hair. I even spit before stepping on the scale. Hey, saliva is a very dense liquid. We won’t get into any of the other organic evacuation methods employed before weighing in.
No jewelry either. Earrings, watches, wedding rings are eagerly removed and tossed into the most treacherous place possible—the bathroom sink.
I’ve known women to shave and tweeze beforehand. I try to book 6 AM haircuts for the same reason. And what’s the first thing a woman does after having her ovaries or appendix removed? You got it, weigh herself. If you ever get joint replacement surgery, make sure to go titanium, you can loose about 8 ounces per limb compared to the weight of actual bone.
There’s other criteria too. You must not be within 7 days before or after a menstrual cycle. It cannot be a full moon, eclipse, or waxing gibbous. You cannot have eaten or drunken anything for roughly the last 72 hours. However, you can have an oven fresh blueberry muffin waiting for you on the toilet tank. My husband didn’t understand why I moved a mug tree and the coffee maker into the upstairs master bath.
You cannot have consumed anything with sodium at any point since women received the vote from the 19th Amendment, which includes among other things: anything that came from a can (soup, broth, soda, and tuna), anything that comes from a bag (pretzels, crackers, cookies, and cereal), and anything that comes from a bottle (gin, vodka, wine, beer, and any other spirits). The body’s ability to retain water is magnified eight fold within the scale zone.
The bathroom doors and windows must be locked tight and tripled sealed. Ideally everyone else should be asleep or out of the house. Why New Jersey puts public scales in their turnpike rest rooms, I don’t know. Who, after the dog pukes and the kids ask “Are we there yet” for the 3,028 time, thinks, at the next rest stop I want to hop on a scale just to pick my spirits up.
With these complex criteria fulfilled, I exhale deeply forcing air out of my diaphragm to the point I engage a pelvic tilt, hold my breath like a scuba diver, and step on the device. What will it tell me... Whether I have been good or not? Whether I can wear fat or skinny clothes today? Actually I knew those answers already.
As the digital numbers begin to settle on a reading, I squeeze my eyes, lips, and anus, in hopeful anticipation, like I was watching a roulette table. "Pleeeeeeease." It lands on number .2 above yesterday. I turn around and pour myself a cup of coffee toasting my naked self in the mirror. “Good deal. Here’s to keeping it on an even keel.”
Thursday, July 9, 2009
A cure for all ills and evils?
A grandmother gives her 7-year-old granddaughter a plate of fresh baked cookies after being chased home from school by bullies. A mother gives a broken hearted 8th grader a candy bar from her own private stash when her first “crush” announces he wants to break up to go out with the girl’s best friend. A roommate brings in a bag of microwavable burritos to survive finals week.
Fear, abandonment, stress…are they all treatable with sugar, carbs, and salt?
Your boss imposes a ridiculous deadline, denies you a promotion, or puts you in charge of a massive computer system upgrade. Your main romantic squeeze is seeing someone else on the side and, as painful as that is, you still can’t bear to let go. Your insolent teen spits and swears in your face, then tears off into the night, leaving you shaking in the dark in anger.
Tears are for whimps. Doritos® are for survivors of life, love, and trauma. Why experience an emotion that can be dulled with chicken wings and blue cheese dressing? Let someone else eat the carrot and celery sticks. In childbirth they offered me medications to “take the edge off.” If life, I self-medicated with snack food.
It’s a predictable pattern. I go over and over the scenarios in my mind. What my boss, husband, or daughter said. What I should have said. The venom of the exchange seems to bubble up from deep inside, becoming worse with each rendition. The only thing to do is to block its egress by stuffing my mouth and my stomach. I might as well be pushing a cork into a bottle of soda and shaking it up.
It’s a ritual of repetition. The hand to plate to mouth over and over again. Inside phrases echo over and over again. “I give, give, give…and what do I get?.” “I gave up everything for those kids.” “He’ll never find another woman that loves him like I do.”
Like a dog chewing on its own stitches, it’s a way to gnaw and stew on your own wounds. If humans had more stomachs, I could just get a cud. The sour regurgitation I salivate over is there because I am unable to digest or fully swallow it.
A bit of crackers and cheese will cheer me up. How about a few pretzels? Maybe something sweet? The pursuit is endless. Limited only by what remains in the cupboards, fridge, and freezer.
For those precious moments of consumption, the pain is squelched. But as soon as the pity party ends, it comes back like an unexpected wave as the tide comes in from behind you. Crashing over your backside without warning, leaving you wet, cold, and shaking.
What have I solved? What have I done? I doubled the pain and tripled the damage. Take this box of Cheez-Its away from me. I cannot be trusted with them.
Fear, abandonment, stress…are they all treatable with sugar, carbs, and salt?
Your boss imposes a ridiculous deadline, denies you a promotion, or puts you in charge of a massive computer system upgrade. Your main romantic squeeze is seeing someone else on the side and, as painful as that is, you still can’t bear to let go. Your insolent teen spits and swears in your face, then tears off into the night, leaving you shaking in the dark in anger.
Tears are for whimps. Doritos® are for survivors of life, love, and trauma. Why experience an emotion that can be dulled with chicken wings and blue cheese dressing? Let someone else eat the carrot and celery sticks. In childbirth they offered me medications to “take the edge off.” If life, I self-medicated with snack food.
It’s a predictable pattern. I go over and over the scenarios in my mind. What my boss, husband, or daughter said. What I should have said. The venom of the exchange seems to bubble up from deep inside, becoming worse with each rendition. The only thing to do is to block its egress by stuffing my mouth and my stomach. I might as well be pushing a cork into a bottle of soda and shaking it up.
It’s a ritual of repetition. The hand to plate to mouth over and over again. Inside phrases echo over and over again. “I give, give, give…and what do I get?.” “I gave up everything for those kids.” “He’ll never find another woman that loves him like I do.”
Like a dog chewing on its own stitches, it’s a way to gnaw and stew on your own wounds. If humans had more stomachs, I could just get a cud. The sour regurgitation I salivate over is there because I am unable to digest or fully swallow it.
A bit of crackers and cheese will cheer me up. How about a few pretzels? Maybe something sweet? The pursuit is endless. Limited only by what remains in the cupboards, fridge, and freezer.
For those precious moments of consumption, the pain is squelched. But as soon as the pity party ends, it comes back like an unexpected wave as the tide comes in from behind you. Crashing over your backside without warning, leaving you wet, cold, and shaking.
What have I solved? What have I done? I doubled the pain and tripled the damage. Take this box of Cheez-Its away from me. I cannot be trusted with them.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
I'll get around to it sometime
There are things that are worse to think about than to do. Childbirth is not one of them. Women fondly look forward to this magical experience and are surprised when they fantasize about performing their own cesarean section with a plastic knife left on a cafeteria hospital tray to circumvent a slow moving cervix. Your child’s band concert is another. You buy the instrument, pester the child to practice, circle the day on the calendar for the concert. You pack the camera, arrive early so you can sit up front…and as grade after grade performs song after song, you think I should have packed a magazine but settle on making a grocery list on an envelope.
No. The things that are worse to think about than to do mostly involve weight loss and exercise. If these thoughts were movies they’d have dim lights, long shadows, fog, and scary music. They aren’t surrounded by friendly forest animals, singing blue birds, and peppy Disney princesses. They are dark, dreadful things to be avoided at all costs.
For this reason, I hit the pause button four times this morning. It was raining. I had no choice. The plan was to head directly into the basement to do Tony Horton’s plyometrics tape. But this is not something you look forward to. It’s torture, actually marketed as such in infomercials. It’s like income taxes, blue jean or bathing suit shopping. Something that requires mental preparation and surplus inner strength.
I made coffee. Checked e-mail. Put a load of laundry in. When I started addressing Christmas cards, I realized I was procrastinating.
I bought a self-help book about procrastination by Dr. Bill Knaus about 15 years ago. I was a single professional living in Washington, D.C. What I had to put off in those days I don’t know—shopping, talking on the phone, eating cold Chinese food in bed.
I was surprised to discover six months ago that the good Dr. Knaus had a summer house nearby. He volunteered to give a free lecture at my workplace. I brought my book in to show him. I figured it was first edition. I planned to have him autograph it. The pages were yellowed and brittle, like old paperbacks from college. As he thumbed through it telling stories of his famous co-author Albert Ellis, he asked me what I thought of it.
I pawed the ground with my new pumps, lowered my chin, and mumbled, “I haven’t read it yet.”
I always put things off to the last minute. Office work. School work. House work. See a pattern? I have never, however, delayed eating, drinking, or sleeping. Those jobs rise to the top of my to-do list as if they were inflated with helium.
I finally tired of my own stalling tactics. I have limits. I was acting like a 9-year-old fighting bedtime. I am supposed be to work by 8 AM and I was rapidly wasting whatever prep time I had. I was going to have to pony tail dirty hair and show up without makeup if I didn’t get a move on.
I descended the basement stairs and mechanically put in the exercise DVD. Before I knew it, I was squatting, lunging, and jumping in circles. It wasn’t so bad. I used to teach aerobics in high school and college. I can do this. It’ll be over before I know it. I was working in my target heart zone, a place I hadn’t been in a while. I could feel the calories burning. I imagined myself shoveling carbs into a coal stove like a locomotive engine. For the next move, Tony explained we had to swing our legs, first right, then left, over a chair or stool for 60 seconds. I readied myself, steadying my hands on my sides for the challenge. Much to my surprise, I felt a hip bone. I could cup either side with one hand. It was hard and protruding. I poked and wiggled at my flesh. Yes, an actual bone in my hip. Who would have guessed?
Maybe Dr. Bill Knaus. He signed my book, “Just do it.”
No. The things that are worse to think about than to do mostly involve weight loss and exercise. If these thoughts were movies they’d have dim lights, long shadows, fog, and scary music. They aren’t surrounded by friendly forest animals, singing blue birds, and peppy Disney princesses. They are dark, dreadful things to be avoided at all costs.
For this reason, I hit the pause button four times this morning. It was raining. I had no choice. The plan was to head directly into the basement to do Tony Horton’s plyometrics tape. But this is not something you look forward to. It’s torture, actually marketed as such in infomercials. It’s like income taxes, blue jean or bathing suit shopping. Something that requires mental preparation and surplus inner strength.
I made coffee. Checked e-mail. Put a load of laundry in. When I started addressing Christmas cards, I realized I was procrastinating.
I bought a self-help book about procrastination by Dr. Bill Knaus about 15 years ago. I was a single professional living in Washington, D.C. What I had to put off in those days I don’t know—shopping, talking on the phone, eating cold Chinese food in bed.
I was surprised to discover six months ago that the good Dr. Knaus had a summer house nearby. He volunteered to give a free lecture at my workplace. I brought my book in to show him. I figured it was first edition. I planned to have him autograph it. The pages were yellowed and brittle, like old paperbacks from college. As he thumbed through it telling stories of his famous co-author Albert Ellis, he asked me what I thought of it.
I pawed the ground with my new pumps, lowered my chin, and mumbled, “I haven’t read it yet.”
I always put things off to the last minute. Office work. School work. House work. See a pattern? I have never, however, delayed eating, drinking, or sleeping. Those jobs rise to the top of my to-do list as if they were inflated with helium.
I finally tired of my own stalling tactics. I have limits. I was acting like a 9-year-old fighting bedtime. I am supposed be to work by 8 AM and I was rapidly wasting whatever prep time I had. I was going to have to pony tail dirty hair and show up without makeup if I didn’t get a move on.
I descended the basement stairs and mechanically put in the exercise DVD. Before I knew it, I was squatting, lunging, and jumping in circles. It wasn’t so bad. I used to teach aerobics in high school and college. I can do this. It’ll be over before I know it. I was working in my target heart zone, a place I hadn’t been in a while. I could feel the calories burning. I imagined myself shoveling carbs into a coal stove like a locomotive engine. For the next move, Tony explained we had to swing our legs, first right, then left, over a chair or stool for 60 seconds. I readied myself, steadying my hands on my sides for the challenge. Much to my surprise, I felt a hip bone. I could cup either side with one hand. It was hard and protruding. I poked and wiggled at my flesh. Yes, an actual bone in my hip. Who would have guessed?
Maybe Dr. Bill Knaus. He signed my book, “Just do it.”
Monday, July 6, 2009
Kübler-Ross gets takeout
I didn’t see it coming. I was headed to the frame store after work, which was closed, so I had to try on dresses next door at a sidewalk sale, when the text came in. “Mommy can have pizza for dinner…Pleeeeaaaase.”
My 12-year-old daughter was home sick again. It started with a virus and moved into an acute asthma episode. I had been home with her for three days, but today was the first day she was home alone.
My response to this request matched the five stages of grief outlined by Kubler-Ross in 1969.
Denial
How could this be the end of my day? I was up at 5:30 AM exercising for 90 minutes. I ate nothing but marinated vegetables and legumes for lunch. My 10:30 AM snack was a hard boiled egg and celery sticks. This was Fresh Start Monday after the long weekend. This is not the dinner I planned. I don’t want to deal with pizza. She can't be asking this of me.
Anger
As I got the steaming hot boxes into the enclosed car, I entered the next phase. Why can’t I have pizza? Am I supposed to spend the rest of my life living on baby carrots? Can’t I live like a normal person? I went to work today. I didn't extend my holiday weekend like everyone else I know. And it was sunny. I wasn't at the beach or the lake. No Not me. I went to work. And I got absolutely nothing done. My life stinks. My job sucks. The only thing I will ever to have to look forward to is pizza.
Bargaining
If I have one piece, I can follow it up with a salad. I promise to eat it slowly. I’ll enjoy every bite. I won’t eat half the pie. I’ll have just a sliver. I’ll blot it with a napkin. I’ll use a knife and fork, maybe even chopsticks…or tweezers. I'll put an ice cube on it so it's less appetizing. I’ll take a walk after dinner, maybe do an exercise tape too. I know I can earn this pizza it if I’m extra good elsewhere.
Depression
I have never eaten before. I will never eat again. There is no other food in the universe other than those two pizza boxes on the passenger side seat. If I don’t eat at least one slice of each, I will die of starvation. I’m really, really hungry. I can even feel the pangs. It is 5:53 PM. It's been more than four hours since I've eaten. If I don’t eat this pizza, I may not make it. Because no one cares about feeding me. God forbid I be able to get takeout and not slave in the kitchen tonight. I am the one that has to do all the shopping and cooking every day. I’m like a lioness having to hunt for an entire herd. And it won’t be antelope migrating season again until November. How am I to survive if I don’t hunt down this juicy creature right now?
Acceptance
I can have pizza. But I can’t eat the whole thing or even half. It won’t make me evil or bad. It will not ruin my day or my life. I will pair it with a green salad and some more of those marinated veggies I had at lunch. I can enjoy it if I just exercise some control and moderation. How about if I actually put down my piece of pizza at some point to talk to my family about their day? It's worth a try.
I ate one and a half pieces of veggie topped pizza and had a bowl of salad greens. I can prove it because I had the second half of the second piece notarized. You can see the seal impression right there on the top. I stopped when I should. I'm so proud.
My 12-year-old daughter was home sick again. It started with a virus and moved into an acute asthma episode. I had been home with her for three days, but today was the first day she was home alone.
My response to this request matched the five stages of grief outlined by Kubler-Ross in 1969.
Denial
How could this be the end of my day? I was up at 5:30 AM exercising for 90 minutes. I ate nothing but marinated vegetables and legumes for lunch. My 10:30 AM snack was a hard boiled egg and celery sticks. This was Fresh Start Monday after the long weekend. This is not the dinner I planned. I don’t want to deal with pizza. She can't be asking this of me.
Anger
As I got the steaming hot boxes into the enclosed car, I entered the next phase. Why can’t I have pizza? Am I supposed to spend the rest of my life living on baby carrots? Can’t I live like a normal person? I went to work today. I didn't extend my holiday weekend like everyone else I know. And it was sunny. I wasn't at the beach or the lake. No Not me. I went to work. And I got absolutely nothing done. My life stinks. My job sucks. The only thing I will ever to have to look forward to is pizza.
Bargaining
If I have one piece, I can follow it up with a salad. I promise to eat it slowly. I’ll enjoy every bite. I won’t eat half the pie. I’ll have just a sliver. I’ll blot it with a napkin. I’ll use a knife and fork, maybe even chopsticks…or tweezers. I'll put an ice cube on it so it's less appetizing. I’ll take a walk after dinner, maybe do an exercise tape too. I know I can earn this pizza it if I’m extra good elsewhere.
Depression
I have never eaten before. I will never eat again. There is no other food in the universe other than those two pizza boxes on the passenger side seat. If I don’t eat at least one slice of each, I will die of starvation. I’m really, really hungry. I can even feel the pangs. It is 5:53 PM. It's been more than four hours since I've eaten. If I don’t eat this pizza, I may not make it. Because no one cares about feeding me. God forbid I be able to get takeout and not slave in the kitchen tonight. I am the one that has to do all the shopping and cooking every day. I’m like a lioness having to hunt for an entire herd. And it won’t be antelope migrating season again until November. How am I to survive if I don’t hunt down this juicy creature right now?
Acceptance
I can have pizza. But I can’t eat the whole thing or even half. It won’t make me evil or bad. It will not ruin my day or my life. I will pair it with a green salad and some more of those marinated veggies I had at lunch. I can enjoy it if I just exercise some control and moderation. How about if I actually put down my piece of pizza at some point to talk to my family about their day? It's worth a try.
I ate one and a half pieces of veggie topped pizza and had a bowl of salad greens. I can prove it because I had the second half of the second piece notarized. You can see the seal impression right there on the top. I stopped when I should. I'm so proud.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
I'm not in the mood.
It happens from time to time. I'm not in the mood to exercise. When it does occur, I try to uncover the cause. Am I coming down with something? Have the kids been sniffling, sneezing, or coughing? Was I out drinking and dancing all night and watching the sunrise at the beach with sailors again? None of the above. I may have just actually stayed up for Saturday Night Live.
I found myself wearily climbing Hurricane Road on my bike today, feeling like I was pumping through molasses. It was about 10:00 AM, but I was yawning. My hamstrings were tight and sore from yesterday's ride. Usually, I attack this five-mile hill with a vengeance. Today I was ready to surrender quietly. This is problem, because my husband bought me bike cleats that clamp into the pedals. If I lack the strength to keep pushing uphill, I fall sideways like a rotten tree, feet still strapped to the bike.
I am exercising for energy. But what if I don't have the energy to exercise? It's a tough predicament. I've learned a few things about my mind and body that help me deal with this challenge.
First, I get rid of the black-and-white thinking. Just because I don't feel like huffing and puffing up a mountain until my knees collapse under me the next morning when I get out of bed doesn't mean I get to spend the day on the couch listening to grown white men whispering about Tiger's swing. I need to do something, anything, enjoyable to fit my mood.
I have a number of exercise tapes that don't leave my muscles quivering--pilates, yoga, and hip hop dance routines. They offer a mild to moderate workout. But it keeps my exercise routine on schdule.
As soon as I miss a workout or two, my mind starts to play tricks on me. "You don't need to workout everyday. Listen to your body. You deserve a little break. You can always start over tommorrow." These thoughts aren't too bad if they were isolated to a single lazy Sunday afternoon, but after a few days or a week, they win out. Then I find myself in a real slump and my comeback seems impossible, overwhelming...kind of like the Republican Party.
I've learned that I must keep the rhymthm going. Do something. Anything. Just move. My body is like a dog that needs walking. Even if it is rainy, cold, or dark, it has be taken out or the consquences can be messy. I didn't make it the the top of Hurricane Road today. But I made it three-quarters of the way. And that is good enough for me. Now I wonder if there's any golf on...
I found myself wearily climbing Hurricane Road on my bike today, feeling like I was pumping through molasses. It was about 10:00 AM, but I was yawning. My hamstrings were tight and sore from yesterday's ride. Usually, I attack this five-mile hill with a vengeance. Today I was ready to surrender quietly. This is problem, because my husband bought me bike cleats that clamp into the pedals. If I lack the strength to keep pushing uphill, I fall sideways like a rotten tree, feet still strapped to the bike.
I am exercising for energy. But what if I don't have the energy to exercise? It's a tough predicament. I've learned a few things about my mind and body that help me deal with this challenge.
First, I get rid of the black-and-white thinking. Just because I don't feel like huffing and puffing up a mountain until my knees collapse under me the next morning when I get out of bed doesn't mean I get to spend the day on the couch listening to grown white men whispering about Tiger's swing. I need to do something, anything, enjoyable to fit my mood.
I have a number of exercise tapes that don't leave my muscles quivering--pilates, yoga, and hip hop dance routines. They offer a mild to moderate workout. But it keeps my exercise routine on schdule.
As soon as I miss a workout or two, my mind starts to play tricks on me. "You don't need to workout everyday. Listen to your body. You deserve a little break. You can always start over tommorrow." These thoughts aren't too bad if they were isolated to a single lazy Sunday afternoon, but after a few days or a week, they win out. Then I find myself in a real slump and my comeback seems impossible, overwhelming...kind of like the Republican Party.
I've learned that I must keep the rhymthm going. Do something. Anything. Just move. My body is like a dog that needs walking. Even if it is rainy, cold, or dark, it has be taken out or the consquences can be messy. I didn't make it the the top of Hurricane Road today. But I made it three-quarters of the way. And that is good enough for me. Now I wonder if there's any golf on...
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Hold the Mayo
How did Independence Day became a mayonnaise holiday? Our Founding Fathers cross a sea and create a new country and all we can come up with some egg yolks and oil?
Potato salad, macaroni salad, and cole slaw—dripping in ooey gooeyness—all at the same table? We aren’t in The Fifties anymore. Poodle skirts and bouffant hairdos are long gone. Children are secured in car seats, not propped in the back of a station wagon. We recycle instead of littering. No one can smoke at their desks any longer. They have to go outside and freeze. But are we still cooking like our grandmothers.
Let’s think about this for a minute. What was the motivation for bringing multiple mayonnaise-based salads out into the sun for a few hours in July? I’m thinking it was a woman in a very unhappy marriage hoping a foodborne illness might solve the situation. Divorce was a taboo, but salmonella poisoning was simply a tragedy.
My beef, however, isn’t about food safety. It’s about bargains. I’m looking to eat foods that don’t take a half a day to work off on a treadmill. Ever see a calories burned readout of 104 calories after twenty minutes of working out like a rodent on a hamster wheel? That means I burned a fudgsicle, not a cheeseburger.
A half cup of any of our favorite Fourth of July mayonnaise-based salads is equivalent to about a half a day's worth of calories. If I have a serving of all three, I’ve eaten a day and a half worth of food, without even tasting a hamburger, hot dog, or potato chips.
If I am going to use that may calories in one sitting, I’m thinking it ends with raspberry crème brûlée at a five star restaurant, not Aunt Nora’s potato salad on a paper plate at a picnic table.
It took a little effort to expand my barbeque repertoire, but I like looking for recipes in cookbooks, magazines, and on the Internet. It was not without backlash. The first holiday I had at which I didn’t serve chips and onion dip my brother left to go to a convenience store to buy some.
Nowadays, I roast and grill vegetables, make potato, macaroni, and carrot slaw with vinaigrettes for barbeques. Last summer, I discovered marinated vegetable salads, which are quick and easy to make with reduced fat and keep well for hours in warm weather. The only person I make a traditional creamy potato salad for is my dear husband of too many years.
Potato salad, macaroni salad, and cole slaw—dripping in ooey gooeyness—all at the same table? We aren’t in The Fifties anymore. Poodle skirts and bouffant hairdos are long gone. Children are secured in car seats, not propped in the back of a station wagon. We recycle instead of littering. No one can smoke at their desks any longer. They have to go outside and freeze. But are we still cooking like our grandmothers.
Let’s think about this for a minute. What was the motivation for bringing multiple mayonnaise-based salads out into the sun for a few hours in July? I’m thinking it was a woman in a very unhappy marriage hoping a foodborne illness might solve the situation. Divorce was a taboo, but salmonella poisoning was simply a tragedy.
My beef, however, isn’t about food safety. It’s about bargains. I’m looking to eat foods that don’t take a half a day to work off on a treadmill. Ever see a calories burned readout of 104 calories after twenty minutes of working out like a rodent on a hamster wheel? That means I burned a fudgsicle, not a cheeseburger.
A half cup of any of our favorite Fourth of July mayonnaise-based salads is equivalent to about a half a day's worth of calories. If I have a serving of all three, I’ve eaten a day and a half worth of food, without even tasting a hamburger, hot dog, or potato chips.
If I am going to use that may calories in one sitting, I’m thinking it ends with raspberry crème brûlée at a five star restaurant, not Aunt Nora’s potato salad on a paper plate at a picnic table.
It took a little effort to expand my barbeque repertoire, but I like looking for recipes in cookbooks, magazines, and on the Internet. It was not without backlash. The first holiday I had at which I didn’t serve chips and onion dip my brother left to go to a convenience store to buy some.
Nowadays, I roast and grill vegetables, make potato, macaroni, and carrot slaw with vinaigrettes for barbeques. Last summer, I discovered marinated vegetable salads, which are quick and easy to make with reduced fat and keep well for hours in warm weather. The only person I make a traditional creamy potato salad for is my dear husband of too many years.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Who me? I am not worthy.
In junior high I completed an assignment where we had to describe ourselves. I wrote that I was of average looks, intelligence, and ability. My teacher’s red pen said I was too harsh on myself. And so the tradition was born.
If, at the time, they had bullying programs, I could have classified as my own if my inner voice had been audible. Its play-by-play was merciless, “You shouldn’t have said that, you’re so stupid.” “Your bangs look queer.” “Your jeans are cheap and ugly.” “You can’t do math, don’t even try.”
Putting myself down, elevating others, continued into adulthood. That small inner insecurity that could stop me from raising my hand in class can now prevent me from voicing an opinion in meetings.
In order to lose weight, I had to first believe in my ability to do it. I lost weight in high school, college, and after my first child. But at some level I never considered it permanent. I kept my fat clothes. I still started off searching clothing racks in the large sizes. I was afraid to invest in smaller sizes. I doubted my ability to keep it off. Inside, I still saw myself as fat. Inside, I still called myself fat.
Today, it’s a different story. I didn’t go on a diet. I joined Weight Watchers and changed how I ate for good. I rediscovered exercise as part of my daily life. Inside, I see myself as thin and healthy. My identity changed. The larger sizes are gone for good. I have no intention of going back to them.
That critical, picky voice that has haunted and taunted me for so long is wrong. I am smart, strong, and capable. By setting my mind to it, I can accomplish anything and be who I want to be. And I choose to be healthy. Finally, at 45, I've graduated from junior high. Why did it take so long?
If, at the time, they had bullying programs, I could have classified as my own if my inner voice had been audible. Its play-by-play was merciless, “You shouldn’t have said that, you’re so stupid.” “Your bangs look queer.” “Your jeans are cheap and ugly.” “You can’t do math, don’t even try.”
Putting myself down, elevating others, continued into adulthood. That small inner insecurity that could stop me from raising my hand in class can now prevent me from voicing an opinion in meetings.
In order to lose weight, I had to first believe in my ability to do it. I lost weight in high school, college, and after my first child. But at some level I never considered it permanent. I kept my fat clothes. I still started off searching clothing racks in the large sizes. I was afraid to invest in smaller sizes. I doubted my ability to keep it off. Inside, I still saw myself as fat. Inside, I still called myself fat.
Today, it’s a different story. I didn’t go on a diet. I joined Weight Watchers and changed how I ate for good. I rediscovered exercise as part of my daily life. Inside, I see myself as thin and healthy. My identity changed. The larger sizes are gone for good. I have no intention of going back to them.
That critical, picky voice that has haunted and taunted me for so long is wrong. I am smart, strong, and capable. By setting my mind to it, I can accomplish anything and be who I want to be. And I choose to be healthy. Finally, at 45, I've graduated from junior high. Why did it take so long?
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Man cannot live on bread alone. Wanna bet?
My 15-year-old nephew was absorbing the bread with his eyes, nose, and mouth. Stopping to breathe, he said, “This bread is immaculate.”
It wasn’t his Catholic school education speaking. It was the purity of the love for carbohydrates. What it is about bread, pasta, and crackers? Why does the body crave them like other essentials such as water, sleep, and sex?
I am a carbohydrate lover. My idea of swimming with the fishes involves taking a carton of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish into the tub with me. As long as you keep the bubbles at your feet there is very little soapy flavor involved.
Fresh bread? The French have it right. Who needs a plastic bag? There will be nothing left to store.
Before I joined Weight Watchers, I went on a low-carbohydrate diet. If I remember accurately, it limited my daily carbohydrate intake to three daily servings and one of them was a protein bar. I was dizzy and light headed before noon, crawling to the vending machine for a bag of pretzels.
Carbs are our country's claim to fame, commanding the second line of America the Beautiful: O beautiful for spacious skies, For amber waves of grain…” The only reason the skies got first billing is that the sun is needed to grow the wheat.
And now wheat it is. It wasn’t always an easy transition, but we are now a whole grain family. When we started buying whole wheat bread, I had to offer my PB&J eating children a soft, white alternative. But now, three years later, I am proud to report my children are exclusively eating wheat and whole grain breads by choice. And they survived. They can pass for healthy, shallow teenagers in any mall in the nation without a trace of patchouli, tofu, or gauze.
It was an uphill battle for a while. Let’s face it, while I grew up wearing bread bags inside my galoshes, I can’t get my own children to even eat the heal of a loaf of bread. Do you know my grandparents would have done for the end piece of bread? Besides stack wood to warm the bathtub, which was a bucket used to make dandelion wine placed in the center of the kitchen and filled with recycled water and used by all five members of the family…it’s hard to say. After all, only one of them could leave the house at a time because they shared the same pair of shoes. But I'm sure they would have walked five miles uphill in the snow for a crusty bread end.
In my weight loss journey, I’ve discovered many wonderful new carbohydrates-—all of which are whole grain--couscous, polenta, quinoa, barley, and bulgar to name a few. The kids loved the couscous the first time I served it and didn’t hesitate to eat polenta. The quinoa passed for couscous so that wasn’t a struggle. They didn’t even spot the barley and bulgar I slip into soups and chili.
The most popular carb in my house, however, is probably roasted sweet potatoes. With some olive oil, garlic, and fresh rosemary tossed onto peeled and sliced strips cooked in a hot oven for 10-15 minutes, we go wild, eating these sweet potato style fries warm or cold.
I don’t live on bread alone. But I don’t think I could live without it. I don’t believe carbs are evil. I too think they are inherently immaculate.
It wasn’t his Catholic school education speaking. It was the purity of the love for carbohydrates. What it is about bread, pasta, and crackers? Why does the body crave them like other essentials such as water, sleep, and sex?
I am a carbohydrate lover. My idea of swimming with the fishes involves taking a carton of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish into the tub with me. As long as you keep the bubbles at your feet there is very little soapy flavor involved.
Fresh bread? The French have it right. Who needs a plastic bag? There will be nothing left to store.
Before I joined Weight Watchers, I went on a low-carbohydrate diet. If I remember accurately, it limited my daily carbohydrate intake to three daily servings and one of them was a protein bar. I was dizzy and light headed before noon, crawling to the vending machine for a bag of pretzels.
Carbs are our country's claim to fame, commanding the second line of America the Beautiful: O beautiful for spacious skies, For amber waves of grain…” The only reason the skies got first billing is that the sun is needed to grow the wheat.
And now wheat it is. It wasn’t always an easy transition, but we are now a whole grain family. When we started buying whole wheat bread, I had to offer my PB&J eating children a soft, white alternative. But now, three years later, I am proud to report my children are exclusively eating wheat and whole grain breads by choice. And they survived. They can pass for healthy, shallow teenagers in any mall in the nation without a trace of patchouli, tofu, or gauze.
It was an uphill battle for a while. Let’s face it, while I grew up wearing bread bags inside my galoshes, I can’t get my own children to even eat the heal of a loaf of bread. Do you know my grandparents would have done for the end piece of bread? Besides stack wood to warm the bathtub, which was a bucket used to make dandelion wine placed in the center of the kitchen and filled with recycled water and used by all five members of the family…it’s hard to say. After all, only one of them could leave the house at a time because they shared the same pair of shoes. But I'm sure they would have walked five miles uphill in the snow for a crusty bread end.
In my weight loss journey, I’ve discovered many wonderful new carbohydrates-—all of which are whole grain--couscous, polenta, quinoa, barley, and bulgar to name a few. The kids loved the couscous the first time I served it and didn’t hesitate to eat polenta. The quinoa passed for couscous so that wasn’t a struggle. They didn’t even spot the barley and bulgar I slip into soups and chili.
The most popular carb in my house, however, is probably roasted sweet potatoes. With some olive oil, garlic, and fresh rosemary tossed onto peeled and sliced strips cooked in a hot oven for 10-15 minutes, we go wild, eating these sweet potato style fries warm or cold.
I don’t live on bread alone. But I don’t think I could live without it. I don’t believe carbs are evil. I too think they are inherently immaculate.
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