Ok, this morning's protein powder experiment was much better than yesterday's. Still a greenish-gray color, even without the blueberries. Still slightly medicinal, despite the fact that it's organic. This one was even a little bit sand-y. (Tons of fiber!) But the flavor was much, much better than that nasty stuff yesterday. Wish me luck tomorrow. Last one. After that, I think I'm going to go back to my 1/2 cup of non-fat yogurt. I contemplated blending up chunks of tofu, but that doesn't sound remotely tasty.
Why am I doing this? I suppose I'm sort of flailing for a miracle diet. I know I'm not going to go to sleep a frogette and wake up a princess-- unless someone kidnaps me for surprise anniversary liposuction (do they have that??!). But I still feel like I've got to give it one last try.
And then, when I get back, I'm going to take a good hard look at why my recipe journal for the last three years is full of little squares that say "yogurt, nf milk, flax berries, 250 calories," "1 egg, 1 toast, 1 coffee, 225 calories," and yet I weigh exactly the same. Instead of complaining about it, I'm going to do something, and if I'm going to lean back and just enjoy life, I'm going to quit complaining about it. I don't want to be one of those people who is always on one diet or another and always seems to stay the same weight anyway. I don't think anyone currently in my life thinks of me as a chronic dieter. That said, I'm on my way to the gym.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Rain, Rain...
It's raining today. This is pretty typical for us, a long stretch of almost-summer temperatures that reminds us just how hot it's going to get soon, and then a weeks-long dip right down to the frost level just as the tender new leaves and baby grape flowers are reaching out from the vines. Just cold enough to require the use of vineyard fans and heaters. And then we get the obligatory sprinkling of spring rain.
Thank goodness for a well-insulated house, both from the cold, and from the pre-dawn helicopter sounds of the fans. Mike is especially grateful, as he was the one who had to crawl from his warm bed in the frozen darkness to start up those fans at the other property.
I mind the rain just a little bit because I don't like to swim as much in the rain as the sun, but there are plenty of other things to do at home and at the gym. I've got some strawberry-almond-coconut granola baking in the oven right now. Smells fantastic.
I picked up a few different types of protein powder packets at Whole Foods yesterday to try to get a little more protein in the morning. This morning I tried this whey-based protein powder to add to my regular morning smoothie. The color, combined with the blueberries and strawberries that I usually add, was an unappealing greenish-gray. And oh my gosh, the flavor was VILE. The sweetener (stevia?) that they used was sweet at first taste, but the aftertaste made me grimace for minutes afterwards. Medicinal. Gross. Surprisingly, the selection of organic protein powders was very limited there. I'll try one of the two hemp-based packets (reluctantly) tomorrow. I used to pick up an organic pure soybean powder at Trader Joe's that I felt ok about since it was organic and soybeans were the only ingredient. I'll try that when I'm done with these.
In spite of the rain, and the bad taste in my mouth, today is a great day. Because today I am getting my computer back. I have been working on the "craptop"-- an old Dell Latitude (isn't that French for "the attitude"?) still running Windows 2000, while the G5 was in for upgrades and a superdrive replacement. I've remained platform bilingual throughout my career, so it's no trouble for me to pick up a pc or a Mac and just start working. But this screen is so tiny. And it doesn't really offer the portability of a laptop at this point, because the battery won't charge fully, so it just sits here on the desk. I do like the snap of the keyboard keys. The craptop is good for one thing, and that is testing PowerPoint presentations that I create on the Mac. I use it to troubleshoot so that I can deliver problem-free presentations.
On Sunday, I went with my mom and 11-year-old nephew to Berkeley, to celebrate his birthday and visit the Lawrence Hall of Science, a childhood favorite of mine. I've been wanting to go back forever. LHS has hardly changed in 30 years. This is not necessarily a good thing. It is frozen in time, and apparently in budget. A popular destination for local schoolchildren, who are led through demonstrations and math games, it was fairly deserted and spare on a Sunday afternoon. I don't want to dissuade people from going, because they clearly need the funds, but I wouldn't say that it's the most exciting place to be on a Sunday. It is a place to go with little people, where they can touch things and climb on things. If you live nearby, and need something to do, it is something to do.
I remembered being dazzled by all of the animals in the Biology Lab at nine, as our class peered into tank after tank, led by the perky lab staff, learning about and petting each and every creature. I loved reptiles and amphibians. And crustaceans. And mammals- especially the rats. They used to have a three-level ratquarium with at least a dozen rats in it that you were allowed to take out and hold. The ratquarium is still there, but the extended rat family has moved to the suburbs. Mama and Papa rat watch TV by themselves in the evening and have hobbies to keep them busy when they're not napping. The dwelling sits in a quiet corner downstairs across from the math puzzles and around the corner from the cockroach tank, inexplicably cordoned off like a precious museum bust. The crayfish tank was another highlight. I remember it as a sparkling man-made creek with glass sides, running the entire length of one wall. The crayfish lived in a naturalistic environment, pumped water creating a burbling current across shiny multicolored river rocks from one end of the tank to the other. This time, it took us a while to locate the tiny crawdads, hiding under (intentionally) broken flowerpots in a plexiglass tank full of large goldfish.
I think everything seemed so big and so cool because I was so small. Maybe everything seemed so big and so cool because there was more of it then. Or because the volunteers were a little less... bland back then than they were on Sunday. We did see a cool Bearded Dragon (I'll post a picture later when my computer is back online), an Axotl named Goldilocks, and we petted a chinchilla that was so soft you almost couldn't tell you were touching him. My nephew and I worked on a wooden puzzle together that we thought was really fun, and played a game of tossing colored sticks. He made a paper helicopter. I think we enjoyed spending the time together as much as anything else. He's a nice boy, very easy going. Next time maybe I'll take him to the comic book shop.
Thank goodness for a well-insulated house, both from the cold, and from the pre-dawn helicopter sounds of the fans. Mike is especially grateful, as he was the one who had to crawl from his warm bed in the frozen darkness to start up those fans at the other property.
I mind the rain just a little bit because I don't like to swim as much in the rain as the sun, but there are plenty of other things to do at home and at the gym. I've got some strawberry-almond-coconut granola baking in the oven right now. Smells fantastic.
I picked up a few different types of protein powder packets at Whole Foods yesterday to try to get a little more protein in the morning. This morning I tried this whey-based protein powder to add to my regular morning smoothie. The color, combined with the blueberries and strawberries that I usually add, was an unappealing greenish-gray. And oh my gosh, the flavor was VILE. The sweetener (stevia?) that they used was sweet at first taste, but the aftertaste made me grimace for minutes afterwards. Medicinal. Gross. Surprisingly, the selection of organic protein powders was very limited there. I'll try one of the two hemp-based packets (reluctantly) tomorrow. I used to pick up an organic pure soybean powder at Trader Joe's that I felt ok about since it was organic and soybeans were the only ingredient. I'll try that when I'm done with these.
In spite of the rain, and the bad taste in my mouth, today is a great day. Because today I am getting my computer back. I have been working on the "craptop"-- an old Dell Latitude (isn't that French for "the attitude"?) still running Windows 2000, while the G5 was in for upgrades and a superdrive replacement. I've remained platform bilingual throughout my career, so it's no trouble for me to pick up a pc or a Mac and just start working. But this screen is so tiny. And it doesn't really offer the portability of a laptop at this point, because the battery won't charge fully, so it just sits here on the desk. I do like the snap of the keyboard keys. The craptop is good for one thing, and that is testing PowerPoint presentations that I create on the Mac. I use it to troubleshoot so that I can deliver problem-free presentations.
On Sunday, I went with my mom and 11-year-old nephew to Berkeley, to celebrate his birthday and visit the Lawrence Hall of Science, a childhood favorite of mine. I've been wanting to go back forever. LHS has hardly changed in 30 years. This is not necessarily a good thing. It is frozen in time, and apparently in budget. A popular destination for local schoolchildren, who are led through demonstrations and math games, it was fairly deserted and spare on a Sunday afternoon. I don't want to dissuade people from going, because they clearly need the funds, but I wouldn't say that it's the most exciting place to be on a Sunday. It is a place to go with little people, where they can touch things and climb on things. If you live nearby, and need something to do, it is something to do.
I remembered being dazzled by all of the animals in the Biology Lab at nine, as our class peered into tank after tank, led by the perky lab staff, learning about and petting each and every creature. I loved reptiles and amphibians. And crustaceans. And mammals- especially the rats. They used to have a three-level ratquarium with at least a dozen rats in it that you were allowed to take out and hold. The ratquarium is still there, but the extended rat family has moved to the suburbs. Mama and Papa rat watch TV by themselves in the evening and have hobbies to keep them busy when they're not napping. The dwelling sits in a quiet corner downstairs across from the math puzzles and around the corner from the cockroach tank, inexplicably cordoned off like a precious museum bust. The crayfish tank was another highlight. I remember it as a sparkling man-made creek with glass sides, running the entire length of one wall. The crayfish lived in a naturalistic environment, pumped water creating a burbling current across shiny multicolored river rocks from one end of the tank to the other. This time, it took us a while to locate the tiny crawdads, hiding under (intentionally) broken flowerpots in a plexiglass tank full of large goldfish.
I think everything seemed so big and so cool because I was so small. Maybe everything seemed so big and so cool because there was more of it then. Or because the volunteers were a little less... bland back then than they were on Sunday. We did see a cool Bearded Dragon (I'll post a picture later when my computer is back online), an Axotl named Goldilocks, and we petted a chinchilla that was so soft you almost couldn't tell you were touching him. My nephew and I worked on a wooden puzzle together that we thought was really fun, and played a game of tossing colored sticks. He made a paper helicopter. I think we enjoyed spending the time together as much as anything else. He's a nice boy, very easy going. Next time maybe I'll take him to the comic book shop.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
The Second Rule of Self-Effacement Spanish
Dialogue from a dream
I'm driving in a car with my niece Kayleigh, after visiting a young friend of ours, Laura, whom I babysat when I was a teenager. Kayleigh is pretty (which she is) and wearing pink lip-gloss.
So how is Laura doing?
Kayleigh laughs.
I know, I'm pouncing on you in the car, where you can't get away, sorry.
It's ok.
It's just, I didn't know things were that bad. If I had known that she wasn't doing well, I would have wanted to be there for her.
Well, it's like The Second Rule of Self-Effacement Spanish.
The what? (I've always meant to learn more Spanish, I think.)
Whatever, it doesn't matter, The Second Rule of Self-Effacement Spanish: "The void creates the chaos."
That makes me feel very sad, I say, and raise my cupped hand to hide the ugly shape of my mouth as I start to cry.
It doesn't matter, she says in a matter-of-fact, slightly joking way, to try to make me feel better. We're all going to die in fifty years anyway, right?
I just wanted... I can't say it through the tears, but I'm thinking, I just wanted to lead a good life, to do the best I could. It didn't occur to me that my conscious absence was part of why things went so badly.
I'm driving in a car with my niece Kayleigh, after visiting a young friend of ours, Laura, whom I babysat when I was a teenager. Kayleigh is pretty (which she is) and wearing pink lip-gloss.
So how is Laura doing?
Kayleigh laughs.
I know, I'm pouncing on you in the car, where you can't get away, sorry.
It's ok.
It's just, I didn't know things were that bad. If I had known that she wasn't doing well, I would have wanted to be there for her.
Well, it's like The Second Rule of Self-Effacement Spanish.
The what? (I've always meant to learn more Spanish, I think.)
Whatever, it doesn't matter, The Second Rule of Self-Effacement Spanish: "The void creates the chaos."
That makes me feel very sad, I say, and raise my cupped hand to hide the ugly shape of my mouth as I start to cry.
It doesn't matter, she says in a matter-of-fact, slightly joking way, to try to make me feel better. We're all going to die in fifty years anyway, right?
I just wanted... I can't say it through the tears, but I'm thinking, I just wanted to lead a good life, to do the best I could. It didn't occur to me that my conscious absence was part of why things went so badly.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
The Last Swimsuit You'll Ever Own
Ok, it's time to fess up. I haven't been writing much lately because a) I've been working a lot, and b) I've been obsessing about my weight. I didn't want to admit it, because it's such an, oh, I don't know, ordinary thing to write about. It's boring. It's banal. It's so... common. There isn't a magazine on the stands this time of year that doesn't have a bright headline hawking the latest fad diet or product or exercise. And although I feel that the latest fad is as good as dead the minute it hits the stands, I can't help but skim the articles to see if there is some useful and heretofore unknown diet secret that will free me from my angst.
For me, the feeling that I should be just a little bit thinner has followed on my heels, lurking as lightly and as closely as a shadow, my entire life. No matter how thin I have been, I've always felt I could do better. My very thinnest college weight is a number that is seared onto my brain forever. That weight was achieved by swimming 2 hours a day, 5 days a week, and eating very little besides plain popcorn and diet coke. Maybe a little tuna. I have always dreamed of, and from time to fleeting time I have experienced, the feeling of to eating and being joyous at the same time, instead of mentally calculating the calories and where they might land, pushing the guilt back to a dark little corner of my mind, to be exhumed and worried over later in private.
Every year, about this time, like everyone else in America, I contemplate my big white self in a bathing suit and I'm overcome with guilt and dread. Sure, my clothes from last summer still fit, and I have lost ten pounds from the all-time high I hit for the second time. But I'm still not there. I have never considered myself a yo-yo dieter. I feel like I'm almost there most of the time. And I never do fad diets (ok, I tried the Atkins diet once) or starve myself (anymore). But I'm still not thin. And I still don't know if I should be.
At the beginning of the year, I sought to avoid this state. I checked my BMI online and at the doctor's. The BMI indicated that my college weight would be a better weight for me, basically. But dude, that is a lot of weight to lose! That is half a Back Street Boy, as Mike would say. It didn't seem right, and it didn't seem healthy. Or even remotely possible. So, when I got a new strength training routine from Susan, the trainer at the gym, I also had my body fat measured. That indicated a less drastic recommended weight loss of 15-20 lbs. I counted off the weeks until our upcoming Hawai'ian anniversary trip and decided it was completely do-able. It really was.
Then I panicked. Which is what I do. Every time this happens, it makes me think of Seventeen magazine, a staple for me during high school. Sometime in the spring, they'd always publish a "Countdown to Prom" issue, complete with a detailed diet plan and suggestions for what to do each week and month to look my absolute prettiest (and thinnest) by the time that special day came around. I'd read the diet, maybe start that, or if it seemed too daunting (who whips up custom diet fruit smoothies every morning at eighteen?), I'd embark on my own starvation diet of Diet Coke and fill in the blank. Diet Coke and raisins, Diet Coke and popcorn. Diet Coke and tuna. Diet Coke and Diet Coke. And of course, cafeteria food at lunch, or nothing. My crash diet would quickly crash and burn, and I'd watch the remaining days count down on the calendar, feeling like a failure.
The phrase that always comes to mind is a line from the "Wear Sunscreen" piece that was mistakenly attributed to Kurt Vonnegut years ago (but was actually written by Mary Schmich):
Thin equals pretty, pretty equals happy, therefore fail at thin equals fail at happy. Right? So here I am, less than 30 days from take-off, with a theoretical 10-15 more lbs to go. And worse, I'm struggling with how I can be happy and have fun on my vacation if I'm fat. Because I failed at reaching a goal that I thought about once in January, that got closer and more impossible as each day went by. It's embarrassing to admit.
I find myself in a battle. Wanting to lose weight and not being successful at it means that I believe fat is bad and thin is good, and that I am not good until I am thin. I don't believe that. I fight against it. It seems to me that wanting so desperately to be something different, whatever it is, means that I don't think what I am is good enough. In general, that is not true, but when it comes to weight, how can it not be true?
I have said before that I don't want to be at war with food. I want to be healthy. And I am. Recently, I had an EKG, tests for diabetes and a cardiac "stress test". Because of my family's history of heart disease and diabetes, I wanted to establish a healthy baseline so that I know what's going on with my heart over time. Secretly, I suppose I wanted to be told that I could be healthy without having to go on the dreaded diet. That for once, I could relax.
It was so very gratifying to hear the doctor tell the nurse that my heart slowed down so fast after the exercise because "She's fit. That's why." In the follow up, she said my heart looked great, that I was very healthy. I asked about weight, and told her about my BMI and my body fat percentage. We talked about statistics concerning fit, slightly overweight people and thin people who don't exercise. I'll live longer. I said I have always felt fat and I wanted to know if I really needed to lose weight. What she finally said was that I would probably "feel better" if I lost 10 to 15 lbs.
The same night, I went to a belly-dancing class with my friend Lisa. There were two very thin women, and two very not-so-thin women, and me in the middle. The instructor was telling us at the end that we'd feel the workout if we weren't used to exercise. She looked at the two thin women and said, "I'm sure you exercise, and I'm sure you exercise, and...," she looked at me, "do you exercise regularly?" Of course, I just said, "yes." But what I wanted to say was, "I probably exercise more than anyone in this room. I do six hours of cardio a week, including my daily dog walks, and I lift weights twice a week. How fast can you run a mile? Because I bet I can beat you. I'm fit, dammit." And then I would prove it by kicking her belly-dancing ass.
That made me examine the fact that I don't just want to be fit, I want to look fit. I want people to look at me and think that I'm strong. That I must work out. That I'm... I hardly dare to say it... attractive. Pretty. And the desire to be pretty, combined with the fear that I may never get there, is a scary thing. If anyone knows me, you'll probably want to reassure me at this point, telling me that I AM pretty, and I AM desirable. If you're my husband, you'll tell me that I'm sexy, because that's the kind of great person that you are. (Thanks for the "For Doing the Taxes" flowers, too, by the way.) But I'll never see it in any way but that you are trying to be nice to me. Until I'm thin. Or at least, thinner.
Don't worry, I'm going to be ok. I feel better already. In a week or so, things will look rosier. I'll get over this hump, and maybe even shave off 5 more lbs before I go to the islands. Writing has helped me get to the (wide, lumpy) bottom of this, and I know that it's more important to be happy and healthy than thin. I really do seek a healthy state of mind and body on a daily basis. I'm not afraid of, or at war with, food. (As evidenced by the 102 posts on my blog about it!) I am going to continue to slog toward weight loss, and I'll get there eventually, but if I don't get there with my sanity and health intact, weight ain't nothing but a number.
For me, the feeling that I should be just a little bit thinner has followed on my heels, lurking as lightly and as closely as a shadow, my entire life. No matter how thin I have been, I've always felt I could do better. My very thinnest college weight is a number that is seared onto my brain forever. That weight was achieved by swimming 2 hours a day, 5 days a week, and eating very little besides plain popcorn and diet coke. Maybe a little tuna. I have always dreamed of, and from time to fleeting time I have experienced, the feeling of to eating and being joyous at the same time, instead of mentally calculating the calories and where they might land, pushing the guilt back to a dark little corner of my mind, to be exhumed and worried over later in private.
Every year, about this time, like everyone else in America, I contemplate my big white self in a bathing suit and I'm overcome with guilt and dread. Sure, my clothes from last summer still fit, and I have lost ten pounds from the all-time high I hit for the second time. But I'm still not there. I have never considered myself a yo-yo dieter. I feel like I'm almost there most of the time. And I never do fad diets (ok, I tried the Atkins diet once) or starve myself (anymore). But I'm still not thin. And I still don't know if I should be.
At the beginning of the year, I sought to avoid this state. I checked my BMI online and at the doctor's. The BMI indicated that my college weight would be a better weight for me, basically. But dude, that is a lot of weight to lose! That is half a Back Street Boy, as Mike would say. It didn't seem right, and it didn't seem healthy. Or even remotely possible. So, when I got a new strength training routine from Susan, the trainer at the gym, I also had my body fat measured. That indicated a less drastic recommended weight loss of 15-20 lbs. I counted off the weeks until our upcoming Hawai'ian anniversary trip and decided it was completely do-able. It really was.
Then I panicked. Which is what I do. Every time this happens, it makes me think of Seventeen magazine, a staple for me during high school. Sometime in the spring, they'd always publish a "Countdown to Prom" issue, complete with a detailed diet plan and suggestions for what to do each week and month to look my absolute prettiest (and thinnest) by the time that special day came around. I'd read the diet, maybe start that, or if it seemed too daunting (who whips up custom diet fruit smoothies every morning at eighteen?), I'd embark on my own starvation diet of Diet Coke and fill in the blank. Diet Coke and raisins, Diet Coke and popcorn. Diet Coke and tuna. Diet Coke and Diet Coke. And of course, cafeteria food at lunch, or nothing. My crash diet would quickly crash and burn, and I'd watch the remaining days count down on the calendar, feeling like a failure.
The phrase that always comes to mind is a line from the "Wear Sunscreen" piece that was mistakenly attributed to Kurt Vonnegut years ago (but was actually written by Mary Schmich):
"In 20 years you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked….You’re not as fat as you imagine."I'd contemplate losing a limb to be the weight now that I once agonized over in high school. To have my size in the single digits again. I watch the Discovery Channel-- there are all sorts of remarkable prosthetic limbs now. Knock on wood. Or carbon fiber. Of course, I'd lose the weight, but then I'd be a one-legged fat person, not a thin person who happened also to be missing a leg.
Thin equals pretty, pretty equals happy, therefore fail at thin equals fail at happy. Right? So here I am, less than 30 days from take-off, with a theoretical 10-15 more lbs to go. And worse, I'm struggling with how I can be happy and have fun on my vacation if I'm fat. Because I failed at reaching a goal that I thought about once in January, that got closer and more impossible as each day went by. It's embarrassing to admit.
I find myself in a battle. Wanting to lose weight and not being successful at it means that I believe fat is bad and thin is good, and that I am not good until I am thin. I don't believe that. I fight against it. It seems to me that wanting so desperately to be something different, whatever it is, means that I don't think what I am is good enough. In general, that is not true, but when it comes to weight, how can it not be true?
I have said before that I don't want to be at war with food. I want to be healthy. And I am. Recently, I had an EKG, tests for diabetes and a cardiac "stress test". Because of my family's history of heart disease and diabetes, I wanted to establish a healthy baseline so that I know what's going on with my heart over time. Secretly, I suppose I wanted to be told that I could be healthy without having to go on the dreaded diet. That for once, I could relax.
It was so very gratifying to hear the doctor tell the nurse that my heart slowed down so fast after the exercise because "She's fit. That's why." In the follow up, she said my heart looked great, that I was very healthy. I asked about weight, and told her about my BMI and my body fat percentage. We talked about statistics concerning fit, slightly overweight people and thin people who don't exercise. I'll live longer. I said I have always felt fat and I wanted to know if I really needed to lose weight. What she finally said was that I would probably "feel better" if I lost 10 to 15 lbs.
The same night, I went to a belly-dancing class with my friend Lisa. There were two very thin women, and two very not-so-thin women, and me in the middle. The instructor was telling us at the end that we'd feel the workout if we weren't used to exercise. She looked at the two thin women and said, "I'm sure you exercise, and I'm sure you exercise, and...," she looked at me, "do you exercise regularly?" Of course, I just said, "yes." But what I wanted to say was, "I probably exercise more than anyone in this room. I do six hours of cardio a week, including my daily dog walks, and I lift weights twice a week. How fast can you run a mile? Because I bet I can beat you. I'm fit, dammit." And then I would prove it by kicking her belly-dancing ass.
That made me examine the fact that I don't just want to be fit, I want to look fit. I want people to look at me and think that I'm strong. That I must work out. That I'm... I hardly dare to say it... attractive. Pretty. And the desire to be pretty, combined with the fear that I may never get there, is a scary thing. If anyone knows me, you'll probably want to reassure me at this point, telling me that I AM pretty, and I AM desirable. If you're my husband, you'll tell me that I'm sexy, because that's the kind of great person that you are. (Thanks for the "For Doing the Taxes" flowers, too, by the way.) But I'll never see it in any way but that you are trying to be nice to me. Until I'm thin. Or at least, thinner.
Don't worry, I'm going to be ok. I feel better already. In a week or so, things will look rosier. I'll get over this hump, and maybe even shave off 5 more lbs before I go to the islands. Writing has helped me get to the (wide, lumpy) bottom of this, and I know that it's more important to be happy and healthy than thin. I really do seek a healthy state of mind and body on a daily basis. I'm not afraid of, or at war with, food. (As evidenced by the 102 posts on my blog about it!) I am going to continue to slog toward weight loss, and I'll get there eventually, but if I don't get there with my sanity and health intact, weight ain't nothing but a number.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Haiku High Five
Yet another reason to get over there and check out the Cleaner Plate Club again: Agribusiness Haiku. I hope she doesn't mind me posting it here, it was just so damn good. There are more.
For Monsanto
Your stock grows…in Hell.
GMOs: they’re a sin now!
Sez who? The pope, dude.
By Popular Demand
I took this White Bean Dip to work this week, and it seemed to be pretty popular. It's easy, healthy, and really flavorful. It is reported to be Turkish in origin, and meant to be served in a trio of dips for vegetable kebabs, but it's also great with chips. (I like Trader Joe's Flax Tortilla Chips, but then, I would.) You could also toast some pitas or flatbreads. If you can, make it a day ahead to allow the flavors to meld.
Turkish White Bean Dip
2 cans cooked white beans
1/2 medium onion, chopped
1/4 c olive oil
1/2 bunch parsley, leaves only
1/4 cup lemon juice (I used mostly lemon plus a little lime)
1/2 tsp salt, or to taste
Drain beans, discard liquid. Put beans and other ingredients in a
blender or food processor. Puree until not quite smooth.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
New Minimalist Look?
O Header, where art thou? If you saw it, you know that there was something, um, fuzzy about the former header. I will fix and put it back up asap. Just not yet. For now, here's the quote that was on it:
Or writing Charlotte's Web. And speaking of fantastic children's books, take a look at the FABULOUS link on the right sidebar. The Dewey Drive is a book drive for libraries in need. You can donate books for children who need them via Amazon. It brought tears to my eyes to read that some little person wanted the book "Summer Pony," which was one of my favorites as a fourth-grader, but no one had donated it yet. Books were such an important part of my young life. Check out the drive and read the response from one of the recipient librarians here.
Ok, gotta go work on that header...
"We should all do what, in the long run, gives us joy, even if it is only picking grapes or sorting the laundry." E.B. White
Or writing Charlotte's Web. And speaking of fantastic children's books, take a look at the FABULOUS link on the right sidebar. The Dewey Drive is a book drive for libraries in need. You can donate books for children who need them via Amazon. It brought tears to my eyes to read that some little person wanted the book "Summer Pony," which was one of my favorites as a fourth-grader, but no one had donated it yet. Books were such an important part of my young life. Check out the drive and read the response from one of the recipient librarians here.
Ok, gotta go work on that header...
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
The Quote
Ok, yeah, I cut it out of Real Simple magazine, but E.B. White said it first, and E.B. White is cool. Some of the best books ever written. Martha just likes quotes that have to do with laundry.
Gorgeous
Check out these beautiful dragonfly champagne flutes I received as a birthday gift. Ooooooh, pretttttyyyyyyy.
I Can't Believe I Didn't Put These Up Yet
Chickpea (Garbanzo Bean) FalafelFast, easy, nourishing and flavorful. I make these when I get a craving for falafel. To serve as an appetizer, mix the garlic and cucumber with the yogurt a few hours beforehand and serve as a dipping sauce. Put out falafel with toothpicks for skewering. I've never tried baking them, but it would probably work just fine to put them on a greased cookie sheet. I'll try it and let you know.
Ingredients
1 can (19 oz) garbanzo beans, rinsed
4 scallions, trimmed and sliced
1 egg
2 T flour
1 T oregano (fresh preferred, use less if using dried)
1/2 tsp ground cumin
1/4 tsp salt
2 T olive oil
2 pitas
Optional sandwich ingredients:
sliced red onion
cucumber, peeled, seeded and sliced
yogurt sauce: plain yogurt + 1/4 cup chopped cucumber and 1 clove finely minced garlic
shredded lettuce or cabbage
Tools
Food processor, non-stick pan, spatula
Method
Place first 7 ingredients in food processor
Pulse, scraping twice, until the mixture is still coarse but holds together
Form into small balls or patties, depending on use (for appetizers, make small 1-1/2" balls, for lunch, just make 3" patties)
Heat oil, fry until evenly browned
Serve warm in pita with shredded lettuce or cabbage, tomato and onion, or by itself with yogurt mixed with chopped cucumber and garlic.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Mama's Got a Cheesebox
A thoughtful friend brought us some cheese papers as a hostess gift recently. I had never seen them before. They have a thin, wax paper-y layer on the inside, and paper on the outside, which apparently allows the cheese to breathe. They also come with neat little labels so you can identify the cheese later. Very fancy. And they really work to keep the cheese in perfect condition longer. It's so disappointing to find a beautiful round of expensive cheese dried out or moldy at the back of the cheese drawer. Leaving cheese tightly wrapped in plastic causes the cheese to marinate in its own expirations, which isn't any better.It made me wonder if regular old waxed paper would work. I have a whole box of waxed paper sandwich bags that I thought would be cute for Valentine's cookies, but which were not that cute.
It turns out that these little bags make great cheese storage units, too. I just write on them with a magic marker to keep them sorted out. Most cheeses need to be within an outer plastic zip-lock or within the veggie drawer as well to keep them from drying out. Fantastic cheese blog with more cheese wrapping tips here.
Happy Easter!
My mom made this brown-eyed panda bear for me for Easter about 35 years ago. My sister got a blue-eyed panda just like it. Mom is very creative. She must have stayed up all night sewing these and putting little goodies in our Easter Bunny baskets. Her artistic endeavors are always outstanding, and she has great skill at giving character to the things that she makes.
I remember walking into the kitchen in the morning, light shining into the room and illuminating the glass-block wall that divided the kitchen from the dining area. These little handmade bears were propped up against the glass wall on the table with their baskets. It was positively magical. I don't remember now whether the dog that de-eyed this bear was my dad's "hunting" dog, Cid, who was notorious for mangling fuzzy things (and the reason my sister's favorite toy was a dog named "Patches"), or if it happened much later at the paws of another dog.
And this is Lambie. A gift from my grandparents, from the year that we visited them in Alaska. The year that I fell in love with shrimp and crab of every kind. I believe I was seven, which would make that about the same year Mom made the pandas. I remember holding onto Lambie in the front seat of my grandparents Ford station wagon. Until my Uncle sold them the Hummer, they have always driven a Ford station wagon, a Country Squire, with the wood panels on the sides. (They still have one just in case Grandma has to drive.) And in it was small, a greenish gold garbage can, weighted with little sandbags, that sat on the hump where the axle goes down the middle of the car floor. And for a long time, a little red booster seat for me, and later, my sister.
So Happy Easter to everyone: the things that you do for little children today will not be forgotten, and may inspire and reappear when you least expect it!
Monday, March 17, 2008
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Enoteca Next Door
Today I took a little break and Mike and I went on our usual Sunday excursion, this time to Sonoma square. Lately we've gotten bored with the fare on the square, and we were feeling like branching out, but didn't know where to go.
It turned out to be a gorgeous, sunny day, and there were tons of people on the square. We popped into the lobby of the Swiss Hotel, read the menu, found some familiar sounding Italian fare and had a satisfying, if fairly ordinary lunch. The wines by the glass list was Sonoma-centric, as is usually the case in this town. I am certain that the price I paid for the Bargetto Pinot Grigio (the waiter mysteriously corrected me "Pinot Gris.") would have paid for the whole bottle-- at retail. It tasted pretty cheap. Sorry, Bargetto. Food was just fine-- we ate everything, but we weren't raving about it. The plateware was embarrassingly scuffed*, and the service was relaxed. To the point of being slow. Our server was weeded, as they say, but we really didn't care. I don't want to dog the S.H., because it was a pleasant atmosphere, the food was fine, and we had a nice time anyway.
*Restaurant owners and chefs: Black marks on your plates are inexcusable! Black marks on plate rims come from plates being tossed into the same dish tubs as the saute pans and pots. Look at your plates, and if there are gray and black marks around the edges, these plates do not belong on the tables! Buy new plates, (if you're cheap, maybe you can scrub the marks off with Bon Ami) and while you're at it, buy two different colored dish tubs and never, ever let pans (or sheet pans, or anything metal) and plates (or cups, or bowls) sit on top of each other or go through the dishwasher together. No matter what you are serving at your restaurant, no matter what price level, your chef's food looks like garbage on a dirty plate. Allowing these plates out into the dining room advertises to your customers that you are lazy and to your staff that your standards are low, and they will behave accordingly. Do I make myself clear? Later we can talk about dirty windows and pepper shakers.
So, glad I got that off my chest. Back to the rest of the day in Sonoma. Next stop was the kitchen store, to comparison shop Le Creuset and other French/Dutch ovens. And to look for a kitchen timer and a new salad spinner (wore mine out). The selection was surprisingly limited in the kitchen timer department. I just want an old-fashioned, white metal timer that goes ding. Ding-a-ling. Whatever. No such thing. Ladybugs, birdies and egg-shapes, all made out of plastic, some digital. My plastic timer rang itself right off the counter and onto the floor and now it doesn't ding anymore, so I'm looking for the Studebaker of timers.
Next stop, the reason for this post: Della Santina's Enoteca "Next Door". Though the signage is a little confusing (I wasn't sure whether I was supposed to open the door, or go to the next one) this new "wine bar" half a block off the square and next to Della Santina restaurant, is such a neat find. It just opened recently, in the spot that used to house a cheese shop.
I don't know about you, but when I think of a wine bar, I think snooze. I'm not really interested in a lot of California wines, and I don't care who got what in the Wine Spectator. I don't want to sit around a bar with a bunch of yahoos comparing cellar size and which verticals of Robert Parker's 90-pointers they have in them.
When I think of an enoteca, I'm a little more intrigued. Maybe they'll have cheeses and charcuterie; maybe they'll be pouring something different and interesting. Enotecas in Italy can be such fun spots to find out about unique wines and have a bite of something savory to eat. Enoteca Next Door was just what I was hoping for. The person pouring was the owner, Ron, who greeted us from the other end of the room when we walked in. The wall behind the bar was loaded with a selection of wines from, oh, ten or eleven different countries. Grapes I'd never heard of, regions I'd never seen. Reasonable prices. Fun stuff. I chose a glass of Argentinian Torrontes, a grape I'd never heard of before two weeks ago, when I had a taste from a bottle that a foodie friend brought home from a recent trip there.
This wine is so incredibly aromatic, tantalizing and floral that you don't know whether to drink it or dab it behind your ears. I know when I say that, that you think two things: sweet, and yuck. You are probably suffering from viognier or gewurztraminer-induced backlash. I was, too. I was very suspicious of the beautiful aromas, thinking they might lead to a flabby, overly-alcoholic or insipid palate. This wine is nearly as zingy and tangy as a Sauvignon Blanc, but with more delicacy and less gooseberry, and those pretty aromas linger through the whole glass. If you find it, try it. Now. Did I mention it was $12 a bottle? That's right, t w e l v e. It tasted like $30.
Mike had another Argentinian wine, a Malbec. He said it was just what he was looking for, but I couldn't break away from my new love affair with the Torrontes long enough to care. Ron gave us a couple of tastes of some other wines, a super-fragrant (again) low-alcohol Moscato, and another weird varietal mashup white that we also enjoyed. He was friendly and informative and we enjoyed talking with him. We're not big wine shoppers, because we have access to a lot of wine at home, but we bought six bottles (two of the Torrontes) and picked up information about their wine club. I think it will become a regular stop. Especially since Mike forbade me from opening one of the bottles we bought with dinner tonight, because they were "to share with our friends".
If you are in Sonoma and looking for something different, definitely check it out.
Ron also recommended the following restaurants:
La Salette
General's Daughter
Della Santina
Cafe de la Haye
Eldorado Kitchen
Harvest Moon
The Girl and the Fig
By the way, Della Santina's Enoteca is not to be confused with Enoteca Sonoma a few blocks away, which is, in my opinion, actually a California wine bar.
PS- Grandpa, don't let on to Grandma that I was out drinking wine again today. It'll be our little blog secret.
It turned out to be a gorgeous, sunny day, and there were tons of people on the square. We popped into the lobby of the Swiss Hotel, read the menu, found some familiar sounding Italian fare and had a satisfying, if fairly ordinary lunch. The wines by the glass list was Sonoma-centric, as is usually the case in this town. I am certain that the price I paid for the Bargetto Pinot Grigio (the waiter mysteriously corrected me "Pinot Gris.") would have paid for the whole bottle-- at retail. It tasted pretty cheap. Sorry, Bargetto. Food was just fine-- we ate everything, but we weren't raving about it. The plateware was embarrassingly scuffed*, and the service was relaxed. To the point of being slow. Our server was weeded, as they say, but we really didn't care. I don't want to dog the S.H., because it was a pleasant atmosphere, the food was fine, and we had a nice time anyway.
*Restaurant owners and chefs: Black marks on your plates are inexcusable! Black marks on plate rims come from plates being tossed into the same dish tubs as the saute pans and pots. Look at your plates, and if there are gray and black marks around the edges, these plates do not belong on the tables! Buy new plates, (if you're cheap, maybe you can scrub the marks off with Bon Ami) and while you're at it, buy two different colored dish tubs and never, ever let pans (or sheet pans, or anything metal) and plates (or cups, or bowls) sit on top of each other or go through the dishwasher together. No matter what you are serving at your restaurant, no matter what price level, your chef's food looks like garbage on a dirty plate. Allowing these plates out into the dining room advertises to your customers that you are lazy and to your staff that your standards are low, and they will behave accordingly. Do I make myself clear? Later we can talk about dirty windows and pepper shakers.
So, glad I got that off my chest. Back to the rest of the day in Sonoma. Next stop was the kitchen store, to comparison shop Le Creuset and other French/Dutch ovens. And to look for a kitchen timer and a new salad spinner (wore mine out). The selection was surprisingly limited in the kitchen timer department. I just want an old-fashioned, white metal timer that goes ding. Ding-a-ling. Whatever. No such thing. Ladybugs, birdies and egg-shapes, all made out of plastic, some digital. My plastic timer rang itself right off the counter and onto the floor and now it doesn't ding anymore, so I'm looking for the Studebaker of timers.
Next stop, the reason for this post: Della Santina's Enoteca "Next Door". Though the signage is a little confusing (I wasn't sure whether I was supposed to open the door, or go to the next one) this new "wine bar" half a block off the square and next to Della Santina restaurant, is such a neat find. It just opened recently, in the spot that used to house a cheese shop.
I don't know about you, but when I think of a wine bar, I think snooze. I'm not really interested in a lot of California wines, and I don't care who got what in the Wine Spectator. I don't want to sit around a bar with a bunch of yahoos comparing cellar size and which verticals of Robert Parker's 90-pointers they have in them.
When I think of an enoteca, I'm a little more intrigued. Maybe they'll have cheeses and charcuterie; maybe they'll be pouring something different and interesting. Enotecas in Italy can be such fun spots to find out about unique wines and have a bite of something savory to eat. Enoteca Next Door was just what I was hoping for. The person pouring was the owner, Ron, who greeted us from the other end of the room when we walked in. The wall behind the bar was loaded with a selection of wines from, oh, ten or eleven different countries. Grapes I'd never heard of, regions I'd never seen. Reasonable prices. Fun stuff. I chose a glass of Argentinian Torrontes, a grape I'd never heard of before two weeks ago, when I had a taste from a bottle that a foodie friend brought home from a recent trip there.
This wine is so incredibly aromatic, tantalizing and floral that you don't know whether to drink it or dab it behind your ears. I know when I say that, that you think two things: sweet, and yuck. You are probably suffering from viognier or gewurztraminer-induced backlash. I was, too. I was very suspicious of the beautiful aromas, thinking they might lead to a flabby, overly-alcoholic or insipid palate. This wine is nearly as zingy and tangy as a Sauvignon Blanc, but with more delicacy and less gooseberry, and those pretty aromas linger through the whole glass. If you find it, try it. Now. Did I mention it was $12 a bottle? That's right, t w e l v e. It tasted like $30.
Mike had another Argentinian wine, a Malbec. He said it was just what he was looking for, but I couldn't break away from my new love affair with the Torrontes long enough to care. Ron gave us a couple of tastes of some other wines, a super-fragrant (again) low-alcohol Moscato, and another weird varietal mashup white that we also enjoyed. He was friendly and informative and we enjoyed talking with him. We're not big wine shoppers, because we have access to a lot of wine at home, but we bought six bottles (two of the Torrontes) and picked up information about their wine club. I think it will become a regular stop. Especially since Mike forbade me from opening one of the bottles we bought with dinner tonight, because they were "to share with our friends".
If you are in Sonoma and looking for something different, definitely check it out.
Ron also recommended the following restaurants:
La Salette
General's Daughter
Della Santina
Cafe de la Haye
Eldorado Kitchen
Harvest Moon
The Girl and the Fig
By the way, Della Santina's Enoteca is not to be confused with Enoteca Sonoma a few blocks away, which is, in my opinion, actually a California wine bar.
PS- Grandpa, don't let on to Grandma that I was out drinking wine again today. It'll be our little blog secret.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Oh look!
Insert nose [A] into grindstone [B]. I am so thankful to be working so much, but my poor little blog is getting nothing these days. So I thought today I'd just blah blah blah as if you were here and we were sitting over a cup of coffee. I have to drink decaf, thank you. Not that I want to. I have to. In my coffee snob days, I used to sneer at patrons who ordered "double decaf" and said, "I like the flavor, I just can't have the caffeine." More like can't handle it, I'd snark to myself, with a nice white dollop of eye-rolling on my superiority latte. And then many years later, the day came when I was that person. Yes, I do like my coffee strong. Strongly flavored. But when I imagine the monster leaning on my chest with its big heavy fist and I'm talking like a 45 on 78, I am happy to sip my cuppa decaf.
I bought some thread and pieces of fabric at the fabric store yesterday, to attempt to repair a weird quilt that I bought a few years ago. I don't know where I thought I was going to get the time, but I thought it might be a good break from the screen now and then. It's just the top of a quilt, sewn onto scraps of cotton or muslin which are all sewn together. I will try and post a picture of it. It's a crazy quilt, with no real pattern.
I'm not sure exactly what it's made out of, but it looks like bits of ties and fancy dresses, because every single patch is that shiny tie-like material. Some of the pieces are made out of that incredibly fragile material, acetate, I think. The acetate bits are shredded and disintegrating, so that's what I'm going to replace. The more I look at this weird old quilt, the more I realize it was made by someone with lots of time, lots of shiny material, and very little skill or taste. There is absolutely no color theme. But it's mine now. But the fabric I bought yesterday is not shiny. Right colors, wrong material. Maybe I'll stick it in there anyway, to calm the thing down. There are a lot more missing pieces than I thought.
The dog is sitting below my feet, alternating between obsessively licking the carpet and whining at me. I think he wants to go for another walk. We go on a walk every morning for half an hour. In the morning, Mr. Dog. That is when we do it. Not now, not after dinner. Though it is still light out. And I could use some more break in time on my new orthotics.
Here is one sign that you are entering middle age: appliances. This morning, I went to have my retainer checked at the orthodontist's while wearing my orthotics. Sounds like a sentence from a vocabulary primer.
The retainer was my idea. I had a couple of teeth that were starting to turn inwards, and I decided that it was time that they were straightened out, to prevent them from getting so bad that I had to have expensive veneers put on later, as my mother did. Retainer: cheap; veneers: not cheap. Also, a retainer is cheaper than a Nightguard, which I should have been wearing most of my adult life, because I am a grinder. In a couple of my childhood pictures, you can see that I have worn all of my teeth completely even across the front. Now I can grind away on some plastic and save my tooth surfaces, and the retainer is completely replaceable. Unfortunately, it is also plastic. I'm afraid it's exactly the same kind of plastic that is in all of those water bottles I so righteously shun. So I drink water out of a Sigg or a Kleen Kanteen, and then make sure to put my phlalate pacifier in every night to so I don't miss any of those yummy carcinogens.
Um, then the orthotics. A few months ago, I noticed two of my toes were numb. I had been increasing my running mileage, so I didn't worry too much about it. Until my mother mentioned that her toes were tingly and numb just prior to her diabetes diagnosis years ago. I spent about a week totally freaked out that I was diabetic, bought a very good book that anyone who has diabetes or a family history of diabetes should have: Conquering Diabetes: A Complete Guide for Prevention and Treatment. Luckily, I had a doctor's appointment that included a blood test already scheduled and everything came out perfectly. I don't have high blood sugar, my cholesterols are "exemplary- A plus". All other indicators well under control. I still highly recommend the book. Finally made it to a podiatrist who diagnosed a "neuroma" and prescribed orthotics, which I picked up yesterday.
Another way to tell you are getting old: you think that talking about appliances is interesting. (Also, you reference record turntable speeds in your first paragraph.)
But back to the quilt, I guess it's not so bad. The shiny makes it pretty, even if it is completely schizophrenic.
I think I will walk the dog.
I bought some thread and pieces of fabric at the fabric store yesterday, to attempt to repair a weird quilt that I bought a few years ago. I don't know where I thought I was going to get the time, but I thought it might be a good break from the screen now and then. It's just the top of a quilt, sewn onto scraps of cotton or muslin which are all sewn together. I will try and post a picture of it. It's a crazy quilt, with no real pattern.
I'm not sure exactly what it's made out of, but it looks like bits of ties and fancy dresses, because every single patch is that shiny tie-like material. Some of the pieces are made out of that incredibly fragile material, acetate, I think. The acetate bits are shredded and disintegrating, so that's what I'm going to replace. The more I look at this weird old quilt, the more I realize it was made by someone with lots of time, lots of shiny material, and very little skill or taste. There is absolutely no color theme. But it's mine now. But the fabric I bought yesterday is not shiny. Right colors, wrong material. Maybe I'll stick it in there anyway, to calm the thing down. There are a lot more missing pieces than I thought.
The dog is sitting below my feet, alternating between obsessively licking the carpet and whining at me. I think he wants to go for another walk. We go on a walk every morning for half an hour. In the morning, Mr. Dog. That is when we do it. Not now, not after dinner. Though it is still light out. And I could use some more break in time on my new orthotics.
Here is one sign that you are entering middle age: appliances. This morning, I went to have my retainer checked at the orthodontist's while wearing my orthotics. Sounds like a sentence from a vocabulary primer.
The retainer was my idea. I had a couple of teeth that were starting to turn inwards, and I decided that it was time that they were straightened out, to prevent them from getting so bad that I had to have expensive veneers put on later, as my mother did. Retainer: cheap; veneers: not cheap. Also, a retainer is cheaper than a Nightguard, which I should have been wearing most of my adult life, because I am a grinder. In a couple of my childhood pictures, you can see that I have worn all of my teeth completely even across the front. Now I can grind away on some plastic and save my tooth surfaces, and the retainer is completely replaceable. Unfortunately, it is also plastic. I'm afraid it's exactly the same kind of plastic that is in all of those water bottles I so righteously shun. So I drink water out of a Sigg or a Kleen Kanteen, and then make sure to put my phlalate pacifier in every night to so I don't miss any of those yummy carcinogens.
Um, then the orthotics. A few months ago, I noticed two of my toes were numb. I had been increasing my running mileage, so I didn't worry too much about it. Until my mother mentioned that her toes were tingly and numb just prior to her diabetes diagnosis years ago. I spent about a week totally freaked out that I was diabetic, bought a very good book that anyone who has diabetes or a family history of diabetes should have: Conquering Diabetes: A Complete Guide for Prevention and Treatment. Luckily, I had a doctor's appointment that included a blood test already scheduled and everything came out perfectly. I don't have high blood sugar, my cholesterols are "exemplary- A plus". All other indicators well under control. I still highly recommend the book. Finally made it to a podiatrist who diagnosed a "neuroma" and prescribed orthotics, which I picked up yesterday.
Another way to tell you are getting old: you think that talking about appliances is interesting. (Also, you reference record turntable speeds in your first paragraph.)
But back to the quilt, I guess it's not so bad. The shiny makes it pretty, even if it is completely schizophrenic.
I think I will walk the dog.
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