Bring on the fat!
I have a sincere love of books, as most people who know me know. However, between the challenges of parenting, working and requiring sleep each night, my love of reading is one of the several things I have practically given up in recent years.
When I signed up for a class on Food and Drink in Cultural Context, I hoped I’d get to finished reading Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle that I received as a Christmas present in 2008 and only made it through the first few pages before life got too hectic again when I put it down. Unfortunately, the rest of life – most notably separating from my husband of 6 years – has gotten in the way of concentrating on school work, although I’ve finally wrapped up my Digital Storytelling class. Now I get to work on finishing Food and Drink and am determined to plow through some enjoyable books in the process.
I’ve started in on In Defense of Food, Michael Pollan’s latest book. I have the large-print version from the library, but will soon be ordering my very own, as this one is now overdue after already being renewed once. (Note to libraries: don’t lend me books. I always bring them back late.)
What struck me this morning as I read while munching some granola and yoghurt for breakfast (that’s my favorite way to read, head stuck in a book, sitting at the table, eating – something you don’t get to do with kids around) was his diatribe on the fallacy of the argument against eating saturated fat as it causes heart disease. Turns out, it’s all a lie. And I knew it! Low-fat diets, also, don’t really help with weight loss.
He writes, “In a recent review of the relevant research called “Types of Dietary Fat and Risk of Coronary Heart Disease: A Critical Review,” the author proceed to calmly remove, one by one, just about every strut supporting the theory that dietary fat causes heart disease.”
In the review’s second paragraph, it says, “It is now increasingly recognized that the low-fat campaign has be based on little scientific evidence and may have caused unintended health consequences.”
I remember, as a child, when my mum steered me away from the brick of butter in the fridge to the margarine – it was “healthier” for me as it didn’t have saturated fat. But it tasted funny. And it had trans fat. (My mum also tried to convince me that brown eggs were more nutritious than white ones and that there was some condensed nutrition in the crust of bread of some kind. I never have liked eating bread crust – and now can’t as I’m gluten-free. Darn.)
But back to Pollan and saturated fats not being the enemy. “The amount of saturated fat in the diet probably may have little if any bearing on the risk of heart disease, and evidence that increasing polyunsaturated fats in the diet will reduce risk is slim to nil.” Dietary cholesterol also doesn’t increase coronary heart disease.
So bring on the cheesy eggs, please. 
In the paper’s conclusion, it reports that although low-fat diets are supposed to have the benefit of weight loss, there’s no medical evidence to actually support that. In contrast, there was some evidence that replacing fat with carbs leads to weight loss.
Haven’t I been saying this for ages? Is this why I magically lose weight when I eat ice cream? Hmmm…so perhaps self-deprivation and being hungry isn’t the way to go?
I have no intention of pigging out on ice cream every day – it’s not filling enough and has way too much sugar to keep my blood sugar levels stable. I’d probably feel a bit sick after that much fat. But it is satisfying. Like whole milk yogurt.
I’ve always felt a bit guilt for loving butter so much. Or the marbled fat in meat. (Local, hormone- and antibiotic-free, humanely raised meat, that is.) Now? No more. I reclaim my heritage passed down to me from my grandmother’s love of cream and all foods delicious. Fortunately, we also love fresh vegetables.
Developing holiday cooking skills
Duncan found the turkey baster in the kitchen drawer and asked what it was for. I explained that it was used to suck up the cooking juices from the turkey to squeeze over them and make it tasty and crispy. He then proceeded to try and suck the juices out of each one of us in turn, including the cat. Then he wanted to practice for real so I set the kids up with two bowls and some water which occupied them for quite a while.
The highlight was Duncan’s realization that a turkey baster moving water around looks a lot like a male peeing. Giggles ensued.
Putting together pieces of the life puzzle
For some people, smells have a strong emotional connection, tuning them into a time, place or person they associate with that smell. For me, there are a few images that have somehow become embedded into my subconscious. I can’t quite remember the memory they’re associated with or put a name on the emotion they evoke. But when they come into my life, they have an impact on me.
One of these images are white sneakers. I don’t know why. I have a vague idea that it has something to do with one of the Ghostbusters movies.
The other are puzzle pieces. I’ve loved puzzles ever since I could hold them in my chubby baby hands. I’m not sure what it is about them that appeals to much — perhaps it’s taking seemingly disconnected pieces and figuring out how they fit, making the whole picture come together to reveal something new.
The last few days, I’ve had a feeling of homesickness when I think about life in Rochester. The days go by quickly with work and school and home life and I’ve fallen into a familiar and reassuring routine. But even as weeks, then months, roll by, this new place isn’t as familiar as Rochester came to be. After all, I was there almost 9 years. I’ve been in Eugene since Aug. 1 – about 17 weeks.
What does this have to do with puzzle pieces? We had some furniture delivered to our office today — previously enjoyed from another location in the organization. Inside a cabinet I found these 4 puzzle pieces. Seemingly random, disconnected pieces. Are they even from the same puzzle? I don’t know. I suspect at least 2 of them may be.
In relation to my life, I feel like I’m dealing with new puzzle pieces that I haven’t seen before. I had years to work on the pieces of my life in Rochester, trying to fit them into place. And now it’s a new experience, with new pieces to incorporate into the puzzle – new people, new places, a new job, new doctors and dentists, and friends. Some things feel more familiar and resonate better than others. In essence, they are a better fit in the puzzle of my current life.
What will the final picture be? I don’t know. I’m still filling in the corners and edges, building the foundation and boundaries of my life before the middle of the picture can be completed.
Being in the musical moment
I’m not sure how to explain the experience I just had.
I went to a folksinging song circle this evening held by the Eugene Folklore Society. I had a vague idea of what to expect, having gone to some Golden Link Folk Singing Society and festival singarounds in Rochester. But, still, you never know.
So I toted my guitar and songbook and followed the directions to a strangers house. (Don’t worry, it all turns out well.)
As I walked in the door, a woman was sitting in the stairway, tuning her guitar. I was in the right place. Good. In the living room, a dozen people sat around in a circle – only two with guitars, which surprised me. I quickly realized I was bereft of a copy of Rise Up Singing, which everyone else had. Ah, so it’s a sing out of the song book song circle, not a bring your stuff and we’ll join in if we can song circle. Which is fine. Someone had an extra copy to lend me.
I’m terrible at guessing people’s ages and heights. But I think it’s fairly safe to say I was the youngest in the room by a good two decades. Don’t other 30-something-year-old women like folk music?
We took turns going around the circle, picking songs from the book, everyone singing them together and the guitars all chiming in. With two song leaders across the room, I quietly strummed away on the songs with chords that I remembered.
I managed to pick a song each time it came around to me (from the book I was unfamiliar with). Fortunately, the Beatles were in it. And I found myself singing songs I didn’t know. Or didn’t know I knew.
As the evening went on, there came a point where I found myself singing and playing a song I’d never heard before — as if I knew it somehow. I don’t even remember what the song was now. But I noticed, in that moment, that all that existed was that moment, that song, all our voices moving together in the same direction.
It was like I found my way inside the music, into the notes and melody and rhythm of it. I stopped questioning it, stopped mentally critiquing my performance, stopped worrying and doing anything other than just being. Right then. Right for that moment.
It’s been a while since I’ve become so absorbed in something that times stops and flows by at the same time. I think I’ll go back next month. And get my own copy of the song book.
Digital storytelling: the stories behind artifacts in my life
Each one of us carries objects that hold cherished memories. Here are a few of mine.
Sleep sleep, baby, sleep
When Duncan was a newborn baby, it seemed he was impossible to get to sleep. I heard about friends just laying their babies in the crib and them sweetly falling asleep, no assistance required. Not Duncan. At least not for me. He would fuss and wriggle and fuss and fuss and fuss. Eventually he’d start crying, not sleeping.
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| From Baby Duncan |
Duncan liked movement to go to sleep. For a while he went through a phase where he’d wake up at 3 a.m. and not fall back asleep until 4:30 a.m. I took the advice on sleeping when the baby slept so I could deal with it. Kevin worked nights so it was just me and Duncan during those times and somehow we had to figure it out together.
My solution–pop him in a pouch sling and go and do chores. Sure, it was harder to empty the dishwasher and do laundry with a baby strapped to me. But the movement and closeness to my body would lull him to sleep and soon enough I was able to ease him back into his crib and get back to sleep myself. Plus, I got chores done. I did a lot of laundry in the middle of the night for a while.
He also liked to bounce. So I did a lot of bouncing on the exercise ball. Anything to achieve that sweet state of sleep–for him and then for me. Perhaps that’s why I still like to sit in my office and bounce at times.
As he got a little older and settled more into his baby body, naps got a bit easier. But there were so many hours spent rocking and nursing, rocking and nursing, until he relaxed into sleep. When we began potty training and read books that talked about getting bigger and being able to do things by himself–dressing himself, feeding himself and even getting into bed and going to sleep by himself when he was tired–well, I skipped that last part. There was none of that happening in our house.
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| From Baby Duncan |
And now, as a little kid, he still needs those nighttime cuddles. It’s part of how he relaxes into sleep and lets go of the troubles of the day. Duncan has always slept in his own bed (except for a couple of vacations where his cold feet always found their way onto my belly during the night), so once he’s asleep, he’s good for the night (unless he pees in bed). But at times getting him there is a little frustrating.
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| From Starred Photos |
These days, I lay down with him and cuddle him until he tells me he’s “full of cuddles” and that it’s OK if I go. Tonight he told me to bring my computer in his room so I could stay with him and do homework. He also declared that he’ll only be full of cuddles when the sun comes up in the morning. Fortunately, during the writing of this post, I think he’s fallen asleep. Let’s hope there are no 3 a.m. wake-up calls from a wet bed.
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| From Picnics and canoes in Genesee Valley Park |
Storytelling: a love song for Duncan
This is an animoto short film that I created for a digital storytelling class I’m taking this semester. Had I more time, I’d edit a few things and possibly change the soundtrack. But, I guess Duncan and I do need each other, in a mother-child way, as opposed to the song’s romantic intentions.
Anyway, here it is. I have to feed children and get to work.
The end cuts off. It’s supposed to say, “No matter how big you get, you’ll always be my sweet boy.” Awwww….
My hairytale story
Sometimes the things you stumble upon as a child affect you in surprising ways. When I found my mother’s container of henna powder, I felt a thrill as I opened it up and inhaled its earthy tones. When I asked her what it was, she said it gave her hair some shine and a red tint. Immediately, I wanted that! When would I get to do that?
As a 10-year-old, I remember standing behind my mother’s head, plucking the gray hairs from her scalp, one by one, while she applied makeup in the mirror. As the years went by, she told me to give up. The bottles of color came out then, reeking of ammonia. Didn’t the henna work anymore? Still, it was pretty cool.
I was obsessed with the one long strand of white hair that grew on the left side of my head, back behind my ear. I would search and search for it–the needle in the haystack of my mane–and then, when I’d finally found it, I’d fondle it and wind it around my fingers, then yank it from my head. Always with immediate regret. Because then it was gone.
It always grew back.
When I was 15, my mum let me dye my hair. I don’t know why she gave in so easily. Perhaps she had been worn down by the years of battles of begging to buy bras, shave my legs and get my ears pierced. Only henna was allowed at first. But that sneaked its way to “wash out” color and quickly onto the permanent stuff. The Christmas we went to France when I was 16, I’d unfortunately tried the black-hair look. Oh, it wasn’t my color. By the time I was a junior in high school, after attempting every available option to turn my hair purple (without first stripping it of all it’s color) it had developed into a stunning shade of maroon. It was ironic that was my high school’s color. I could have been a human pom-pom at a football game–had I ever deigned to go to one.
My obsession with purple hair faded to red. And it seemed that during every life change, stress or breakup, I became compelled to dye it red. I even wrote a song about it. But it was a lot of work to keep it up. When you have really dark hair, it’s hard to get it to take much hair color. You have to use a lot of developer to first take your natural color off the hair strand to make the new color show up. Which meant dyeing my hair every 3 weeks–or suffer with black roots.
On the morning of my 24th birthday, I was horrified to find that a true white hair had sprouted from my head, seemingly overnight. I was 24 years old and the mantle of aging pressed down upon me. I’d also just broken up with a boyfriend. We were still living together. It was awkward and I’d had to go out and buy my own bed. I went into work, bemoaning my white hair, and coworkers laughed at me. I was the young one, the unaged. Had I no idea of what was to surely come?
I was 28 when my son was born. After 2 hours of pushing (he was 9 lbs 3 oz) before I could hold my baby boy, I got up to pee and saw myself in the mirror–broken blood vessels on my face and, I swear, a white hair sticking straight up from my scalp. Had I pushed that out, too?
The last two years haven’t been kind to me in the stress department–you can tell by my hair. I stopped coloring it for a while. I figured it was my last chance to not worry about it before I had to chose whether to age “gracefully” or not. I’ve never been accused of having too much grace, certainly not the physical kind. On my wedding day, as it poured with rain and I ran around happy in my muddy white dress, my brother-in-law complimented me on my grace. I remember that so distinctly because it’s not something I’ve often heard about myself.
I’ve gone back to henna these last few months, as the white hairs make themselves more apparent. Of course, no one else sees them. But I know they’re there, slowly greying me into oblivion. I know that plucking them out, even as they taunt me, is futile. Yet still…I can’t quite resist. And perhaps one day I will go back to highlights and salon color. Or not. Maybe I will find my inner grace again.
Update: I found a selection of my red hair photos to illustrate the many shades of red I once sported. I miss the red highlights…maybe I’ll get into them again.
Self-involved ponderings on the meaning of life
Something has been bugging me lately. I wasn’t sure what–and I’m still not entirely sure I’ve put my finger on it–but it’s been enough that I found myself crying as I drove home from work on Friday*.
I don’t get enough sleep during the week and by Friday am experiencing accumulated sleep deprivation. Plus I pushed myself too hard at the gym on Thursday (got my heart rate up too high which ends up doing something funky to my blood pressure). And, frankly, I’m still adjusting to working full-time again.
But it was more than that.
It struck me sitting in church this morning–which also involved crying in getting there as I was, for unexplained reasons, determined to change the license plates over to our Oregon plates making us later than we already were. I’m disappointed. Disappointed that this is all my life is. That this is how I am here to serve. Wife. Mother. Daughter. Worker. Cook. Cleaner. Poopy bottom wiper. Financial planner. Accountant. Disciplinarian. Person who gets up in the night to assess the cause of the screaming. Friend–though not yet to anyone local.
I keep thinking I’m supposed to be more, do more, say more, lead more. But perhaps I am just here to practice living as my divine self in all of those small ways.
It’s fair to say that we moved to Oregon with high expectations about our new life. And now that we’re here and living that new life–while I am very grateful for all that we have–I can’t help but look around and thing, “This is it?” My days are jam packed full, every day, of mothering, working, exercising, studying. Yet somehow they seem empty of something.
That’s the thing I can’t quite put my finger on. How and why is this not enough and what more is it that I want out of my experience here?
*Hello boss, co-workers and HR. I do like my job. It’s not making me cry. I also happen to like all of you, too. And I tend to keep the at-work crying to a minimum.
You can’t get any fresher than this
Wow, the garden has grown. Everything settled in really well and has just taken off.
While I really enjoy eating food from our CSA, the Saturday Market or Creswell Farmer’s Market (what can I say, I can’t resist a farmer’s market), there’s something special about eating food from our own garden.
The most prolific producer so far is kale. I wasn’t sure about planting it — it’s not something we tend to eat a lot of. But I know it’s good stuff and I like to put it in soups. And I figure in the fall and winter we’ll be eating a decent amount of soup. So in the ground they went. And have since gone insane.
I took this picture when I first harvested it. Tonight we ate some more. And yet you still can barely tell I’ve been cutting it. After dinner, Kevin and the kids decided to eat it straight from the growing plant. You can’t get any fresher than that.
The idea came about after I told Duncan the story of going grocery shopping with him and buying kale for soup. He wanted to hold the bunch of kale and then started munching on it while sitting in the cart. I initially balked (as it hadn’t been washed) but then let him go for it. He wasn’t sure about that story, but decided to try it out again.