Parenting from the Food Allergy End

I stared at the allergist, watching him circle and highlight just how many things my 9-month old had tested positive for. It wasn't that I didn't believe him, it was that I already knew without needing confirmation.

 

I wasn't the one who asked for proof, it was the insurance company who wanted to know the reasons for the numerous office visits. I had seen the symptoms and conditions, I had been witness to them for almost a year. My child had been fidgety, uncomfortable, and in between bouts of diarrhea, vomiting, wheezing, eczema and a torturous tight drum of a stomach which his pediatrician had passed off as colic.

 

I knew what I was seeing was so much more than the shoebox category of colic, but few listened to me. What do I know, I'm just the one who watched him more than anyone else. As the physician underlined the test results with his finger, I found myself finally breathing free. His symptoms were real and everything people around me were telling me, that "Your baby is just one of those hard ones,” was wrong. 

My son wasn't hard or difficult. What he was, was scratchy, itchy, stuffy, with painful gas and reflux and yes, of course he cried a lot, but it was to be held. Because it was only in being close to me, skin to skin, that he could finally relax into a state loose enough to override his body reacting to any number of foods or environmental conditions from the day.

As I watched the doctor count out 18+ allergens, shaking his head back and forth, relief filled my body. Because now we could get started in making my son's world one without reaction.

 

***

I began with removing food colors and dyes. His eczema vanished. Next, I eliminated the food allergens of dairy, egg, banana, rice, nuts, in my diet since I was breastfeeding him. We had same-day relief from his explosive diarrhea and projectile vomiting.

 

I kept a calendar and noted how he did as I removed food, polyester clothing, scented laundry detergent and pink-tinted baby lotion from his life. He no longer pulled at his skin and we continued with success at every turn.

 

I was thrilled and empowered and as my son gained weight and smiled, I felt reward after reward. That was from what I could control inside my home. As we ventured out to play groups and neighborhood picnics at the park, I soon saw how this was not enough for others.

 

“Allergies? How awful! I couldn't handle that if I were you.”

 

“Oh my gosh. That's the last thing I'd need. Being a mom is hard enough!”

 

“I am so glad I'm not you. How do you do it?”

And the one that would make me grab the diaper bag and head for the door, "Aren't you scared he'll die?"

 

I was surprised to find that this was not an uncommon practice from other parents: to forget to be encouraging, helpful, compassionate, less knock the wind out of you. Whenever someone would ask, "Do you know if he'll be like this forever?" and I answered back, “We're just taking it one day at a time,” they were surprised and looked at me as if I didn't grasp the significance of food allergy.

Oh, I got it. And I lived it. I had just decided that all my plate could hold, was “one day at a time.”

 

Sometimes the parents caught themselves and tried to reel their words back in, “I mean, I have a cousin who is allergic to Brazil nuts. She seems to be Ok.” Other times they thought they were comforting me with, “I guess there are worse things.”

"There are worse things," provides no comfort. I don't want to live life with, “At least I have this and not that,” as if comparing suffering presumes the quality of others' lives below that of ours.

 

***

After we had changed my diet along with my son's, he went from a clenched-fist and leg-kicking infant to one with a serene and calm temperament. He still sought the comfort of my arms, because it was here, in his cries of physical discomfort, that our bond was formed. He had learned to trust me, and I was there when he cried out for something. Together we had figured things out.


He was always a beautiful baby and I remember how his mood became one of light and joy once we knew what to remove from our diets and environment. The way he had been tagged as “difficult” by others who had seen him twist and cry red-faced had been only through seeing his pain, his stomach distress, not anything else.

***

"What a beautiful boy," a parent at a play group said to me when my son was 15 months old. She was new to the group and not aware of any of our history. “Has he always been this happy?” she wanted to know.


“We had a few issues with food allergies in the beginning that the doctors thought was colic. But we've figured it out now.” I looked over at my son, who sits chewing on his toy in the center of a blanket with other children. He gurgles and blows spit bubbles, kicking his feet happily. It was true, his beautiful smile was always there. He grinned back at us to prove me right.

Raising a child with food allergies takes work. It's not easy. Now that he's a teen, he  confesses he wishes he didn't have allergies. I let him vent, because he's right. Life would be simpler to be able to eat anything without a second thought. There are times I wish the same thing, when I read about people going for ice cream or Friday night pizza. But our reality is different from that of others, and we've found our own way without the presence of certain foods.

People ask me if he'll ever outgrow his allergies. My hopes are different. I hope for him a level of command of his allergy. An attitude of assurance and competence in how we are able to handle our lives with vigilance and knowledge. I want him to pass this strength on to his children should they have food allergies of their own. I want him to instill in them a sense of determination and triumph when it comes to living with food allergy.

When I meet a new mom of food allergy through my food allergy groups, I make sure I offer them my life experience. I tell them I know how overwhelming it feels at first, but I make sure we have a moment for me to say, “Know this will take work, and know that sometimes you'll feel how unfair the circumstances can be. Your child is counting on you to not feel like this is stopping them from living or from doing the things they dream of, so empower them with accountability and belief in their knowledge. Instruct them on preparation and have them hands-on with their own care from the start. And tell them you wouldn't trade them or anything about them, for anything else in the world.” I tell them that last part is important.
 

"Mom, what's wrong with me?” my son asked when he was four years old and we were packing a separate treat for him to take to a birthday party. I answered honestly, “There is nothing wrong with you. If you're asking me why we need our own food and we read food labels, it's because of food allergy. But there is nothing wrong with you. There never has been. You are perfect.”

* * *

Friday Night Frozen Pizza Review: Session One

Clinton was president the last time we had frozen cheese pizza in our house.

Our kids were diagnosed with a dairy allergy when they were little and since outside they'd be living with a restricted diet I didn't want them to live that way at home, so as far as they knew, everyone in the house ate the same. This worked, and bonus feature: the adults in the house had low cholesterol low blood pressure good weight control in the process. Win win for everybody. We switched to dairy-free which wasn't so bad BUT it wasn't cheese.

One of our kids, Auggie, was just cleared of a dairy allergy two months ago and we have been heavy into lightly introducing cheese into our house. You can do both extremes, people, despite what the internet tries to tell you about only feeling one thing at one time.

We have joined America with the weekend frozen cheese pizza and a movie! We were already into the movie part because we're couch slugs like that but no more hot bread and tomato sauce composites. Can you hear me shouting from joy over there? Probably not because I'm not the yahoo-ing type. Instead I'm just smiling really big.

Tonight we sampled a new frozen pizza and I spun around mid-chomp, popping my arthritic knees in the process, but I was just so damn excited at my idea I moved quicker than my body could stop me and I shouted HEY LET'S DO A WEEKLY FROZEN PIZZA REVIEW!

Whatever, mom, sure.
Grunt Chew Grunt
Hey - This one's GOOD

And in the same way that all good ideas are born, with the sound of a light bulb going on - or a cracked knee, our weekly cheese pizza review was born.

This weeks' frozen brand was DiGiorno's Original Rising Crust - Four Cheese
Four cheese because see above what I said about the heavy light - we can do it, people.

* * *

 

Here is Auggie with his Friday Night Frozen Pizza Review:

I picked out this pizza because when we were reading the boxes in the store that self rising part tempted me. I got home and opened the box and preheated the oven but asking my mom first if we could put it at the high temperature it said to. The house smelled awesome! I liked how it was called special rising crust something.

You put it in the oven and the crust got all airy. You could see it rise by itself!

We took it out and it was gushy and you sunk your teeth into it and the cheese got all in your mouth.

THAT made it a lot more delicious.

I liked how it was layered, bread on the bottom and after that and there's a secret hidden tomato layer and you had a pocket of cheese over.

It was pretty easy to cut and didn't go back and forth like when you have to press hard with that pizza we had last week that mostly just cracked like crackers.

It wasn't like some cheeses that leave a pretty bad after taste -- this pizza was good. The box said it was super healthy if you cut it into six pieces: super healthier if you cut it into four pieces like we did for a block of pizza with calcium and protein.

Aftertaste is everything.

I liked it. Really filling, not too salty. Like didn't leave you dying for water.

Rating: I can only give it a 3.5 out of 5 because not 5 because it's like dating. I just started and what if there's better ones out there.

 ***

 

There you have it. Not exactly Friday Night Lights, but it'll do, pig, it'll do.

 **Here's some fun news! Something I wrote about the 'joy' of teens in the house is published over at the amazing Scary Mommy site, "How Living with Teens is Like Losing Your Mind." Click over, and as always, I promise I'll help you feel better about your life. 

Just Pass Me The Mashed Potatoes And We'll Be Fine

Auggie was telling me today about Citizenship Formation Class (??), where he heard the tale we all grew up hearing, about that first Thanksgiving when the Pilgrims were saved from starvation by the know-how and kindness of the Native Americans.

There were three days of food.
There were three days of games.
There were three days of guests.

Peace among peoples, sharing and surviving and knowing that we need each other. At times, plenty of times, some need more than the others. And that was the plight of the pilgrims at the start of that winter.

As the two groups sat together and shared the bounty of the earth, no one cared that you called it corn or maize. There was a feast, delicious, and it filled the gnawing emptiness in a belly. They were living history.

Giving of what you have to others usually brings out the warm feel good in our hearts and minds. We are helping, we are in it to win it, and there is love for fellow man. We give thanks at Thanksgiving, and we feel all the euphoria of gratitude.

Usually.

Except when someone elbow nudges us and asks, “Pass the dressing, please.” As if that's the most normal thing in the world to ask for. The Dressing?? And that person -- saaaay me -- sends a bottle of Wish-bone Green Goddess back their way. Because, you know, they did ask for dressing.

“Excuse me, I asked for the dressing.”

“Right. And so there you go – dressing.”

“No, the dressing. The side dish there, the savory sage croutons drowned in butter. Please.”

“That would be stuffing. You want stuffing.”

“No, it’s dressing. My mother called it dressing. Pass the dressing, please.”

“Dressing is salad dressing. That’s what I gave you. Right there. If you had asked me for stuffing, then I can give you stuffing.”

“Stuffing is stuffed inside the bird. This was made on the side. The side that is OUTside the bird. I’d like that bowl of dressing that was made outside of the turkey. Please.”

“Doesn’t matter if it was made inside the bird, outside the bird. It’s always stuffing, no matter its origin.”

“Your favorite grandmother called it stuffing, or what? My mother called it dressing. And dressing is what it is. And what I’d like. The dressing. Again, please.”

“Dressing? Dressing like you dress a bird with, right? So that makes it dressing for you? Well, this was made outside the bird. And so, pass the stuffing, please, is what you want to say.”

“I never heard anything so stupid. It’s dressing. It’ll always be dressing. You know what? Forget it. I’m not listening to you. Lemme get my phone. I am going to find out just how many people in the US of A think it’s ‘stuffing.’ We’ll see …. we’ll see. Googling right now.”

“Google all you want. It's called StoveTop STUFFING isn't it?"

“Aha! There! I knew it! It says Dressing: when prepared on the side. Stuffing: when made inside the bird. I rest my case. DRESSING, please.”

“There you go. Have at it. And if you don’t mind? I’ll leave the table now, before you turn out to be one of those weirdos that says stuffing should be dry and crispy and not wet and soft.”

“What? It's not dry and crispy?! Everyone knows dressing has to be dry and crispy … ”

* * *

 

Happy Thanksgiving FoodSharing Day to all!

It's Never Just a Meal

Steaming, broiling, mashing, baking. How many ways can someone who enjoys being in the kitchen, show the people in her life the love she has for them? The choices are beautifully limitless when cooking is her love language.

Time to stop apologizing about and begin sharing the joy I feel in feeding the ones I love.

Delighted to share my story of how cooking feeds me with more than just food, on Purple Clover.

* * *

6 Quick and Spritely Ways to Lose 6 Ounces!

Food is fun. And if you and your family have a heart for itty bitty Lilliputian things like we do, then you can have yourselves a blast preparing these cute little snack could-be-dinner items. In the process, you have the fringe benefit of incidentally losing up to half a pound over six months from mini snacking where you barely have to open your mouth. How cute a time of munching is that?! [rhetorical question, please don't answer]

Pixie Meal #1 - Take one thin slice of apple, slice it even thinner. Arrange in artful pinwheel and dot with one raisin. YUM. And on an appetizer plate? So adorable.

 

 

Pixie Meal #2 - One itsy beef cold cut, rolled up so cute and tight, then cut into 1/4 and set next to just an oh so outer edge of tomato. Hors d'oeuvres for one! FUN!

 

Snack Time? Meal Time? #3 - Three crunchy and satisfying baby carrots, premium brand only, atop a generous tomato slice. My mouth is watering!

Yay! Time for MiniMeal #4 - See? You can eat all dingdangday long because it's mini meals! A coleslaw cup o'lettuce hits the spot around 3 PM., right about the time your vision gets dotty. 

 

Ho ho! No time to say "I'm full!" because you still have Meal #5 - Look what awaits you, the world's bittiest quesadilla. How can you say no? You don't!

What? Time to eat again? Yes, my friend, it is. Mini Meal #6 - And for you, it's slice of pizza time! All you need are 10 Cheerios strategically aligned in a pie shape with one stable counting finger (check that blood sugar).

 

Got all your travels in, Gulliver? Awesome! Now's the time you reward yourself with aaaaall the bread. Baked bread, pressed bread, crunchy bread, raisin bread. All the full-sized gluten, all of it for full sized you. 

If at the end of the day, your stomach still sounds like a steamroller over fresh granite, you can always lose your mind and have all you want of gazing at this ceramic burger that my son made in art class. I can't fall asleep on an empty stomach, so I keep this on the kitchen counter. Just looking at it makes me sigh with full-belly contentment.

At zero calories, not even taking in the sun is a better deal.

Ceramic burger most satisfying when ogled while munching marmalade toast.

:: 

  

Food Pantries - What to Give

Some things are funny, some never are.

I know that humor is subjective but when it comes in the form of dismissive unawareness to another's plight, I can't not say anything. Yesterday I was at our grocery store when I overheard someone pushing their cart in front of me say, "Oh, the Thanksgiving food barrels are out! You know what that means, I can clean out my cabinets of the turtle soup I never used!"

Oh, so funny, right? Nope. Nope nope and again nope. I told her how I think if I were without food, that I'd appreciate food that was within its expiration date. (maybe she'll listen to me, maybe she won't. you can't tell with people)

There are families who count on the food donations that fill food pantries. It's hard to think of families making the trip to a pantry to find items that so obviously scream 'discard.' I've heard jokes like this before. When I was working and around a lot more people than I am now, our company would hold food drives. There would be laughter when someone would say, "Good! Finally a place to dump the canned artichokes I've been hanging on to for ten years!"

To the people who think this way about food pantries, can I ask you to please stop? If someone goes to a food pantry, it's because their family has to eat.

Before I decided to write this post, I called our area pantry and asked them the best items to donate with the food donation barrels that are out for the month of November. I want to share this with you so that when you do pick up extra unexpired items at the store (as would be, you know, the loving thing to do) you'll get these items, educate others about these items, and let your kids see and remember what items are best.

Happy food drive filling, and enjoy the warm fuzzies fluttering in your heart:

1.) Mixes and cereals made with water. Many households are without eggs or milk, butter, so anything that only requires water is awesome. Think pancake mixes, cereals, oatmeals, Ramen, boxed noodles, instant rice. You get the picture.

2) Mac and cheese that comes with the cheese mix in a foil pouch. Nothing needed but boiling water for the noodles. Stovetop stuffing is perfect, too.

3.) Lots of canned protein. Turkey spam is really good and along with some boxed noodle mixes, there are the fixings for a complete dinner. 6-packs of tuna are awesome!

4.) Peanut butter. Oh, in all the sizes and packages. I pick up the peanut butter crackers in a 10-pack because I know they 'll be used to build a protein-packed lunch for a hungry child.

5.) Squeezable fruit sauces. These can be used for breakfasts, school lunch, after school snacks. We can help kids to get their fruits during times of  doing without. Small lunch size cups of mandarins are great for Vitamin C. Target sells them in packs of 16. Also, fun sized cartons of craisins, raisins, yummy yogurt raisins.

6.) Toothpaste and toothbrushes! Some cute toothbrushes will make a child's day! I pick up 5 or so and toss them in, along with kid toothpastes and some floss.

7.) Something special for kids. Why not? They're little and what fun to find bags of individual Oreos in the bags your parents bring home. Wouldn't you like that if you were little? Say yes. Something that is unexpected and not a necessity, but a reminder of what makes you happy, that's doing good right there.

8.) Remember canned and dried beans/lentils/chickpeas for vegetarians. Minute Rice makes a dehydrated pack/combo of rice and beans together -- you add water to the fill line, they're pretty good.

This list will be my guideline when I donate to food pantries. I'll vary it, but one steady item that I will always always always include from now on is 2 boxes of instant baby cereal. It only needs water, it's the first food many infants have, and what a relief for a mama to know that in her cabinets, her baby has something to eat.

You guys are the best. If you have it to spare, please share.

xo

* * *

The Cilantro Way

In the kitchen of my childhood, in the middle of our round wooden table, sat an ever present rinsed-out glass herring jar. My abuela had repurposed it to hold her home-made Colombian spicy sauce, called Aji. On sunny mornings, the day's rays glinted off the jar's ruby red cap and sent rainbows shooting out from the raised fish outlines etched on its sides.

Sunday afternoons would find my abuela pulling out her wooden cutting board and with a heavy thud, she'd set it in the middle of the table. Her board had been worn to a caramel brown in the center, and on it, she would begin slicing white onions, flattening garlic bulbs with the edge of a butter knife, dicing tomatoes, chopping cilantro, seeding Aji peppers, and filling our house with the sweet ripe smell of onion and garlic. When the ingredients were ready, my grandmother would take her wooden spoon made smooth with years of use, and mix everything together in a glass bowl for the week's Aji.

My abuelita's Aji wasn't blazingly hot, as the Aji peppers would lead you to believe, but instead it was a condiment that skimmed across your taste buds turning what seemed lifeless before you, rice, soup, potatoes, chicken, alive with a more profound level of experience. All you needed to do was unscrew the jar's squeaky metal rim, reach in with your tablespoon and bring it back up generously filled with the Aji, and spoon atop your food. With a snap of a finger, your meal was abracadabra'd into something that made you smile through a mouth watering explosion of delight.

The Aji peppers never made the original taste of the food disappear. The opposite happened. Your  chicken, your beef, became more -- from something routine to in-the-moment sparkling.

My grandmother is gone now, but the lesson I learned from her then, of how a few embellishments can catapult the ordinary into the stratosphere, has stayed with me. 

 

With some small effort, the surprise addition of the new and novel, an already delicious existence can become spectacular. Like a walk on a misting day without an umbrella, a spontaneous weekend away, or throwing down a blanket unannounced in the living room and spreading out a picnic dinner.

Just a small dusting of lip-tingling unexpectedness and life goes from mundane to thrilling.

 

Just like Aji spooned over a 5 o'clock dinner.

 

Abuelita's Aji

 

1 cup coarsely chopped cilantro leaves

2 seeded, chopped Aji peppers

1 sweet onion cut in strips

2 coarsely chopped plum tomatoes

Juice of three limes

3/4 cup water

1 crushed garlic bulb 

3/4 tsp kosher salt

1/4 tsp ground black pepper

Mix together in a glass bowl. Let sit at room temperature for a few hours, then keep refrigerated in a repurposed glass jar. (it must be a repurposed jar)

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The Juice on Juice Fasts

Because I'm a blogger, I get a lot of product offers. Boxes come to my house with salad dressing, small journalling notebooks, foot scrubs, environmentally friendly detergent, and this month, juices for a juice cleanse. The products I get aren't for sponsored posts, they're just samples, so the amounts are small, just enough for trying.

I was excited about the juice cleanse. I had just joked on twitter that for my shorts to fit this summer I either had to 1.) lose ten pounds in two hours or 2.) rent a medieval torture rack for my clothes. I had heard of juice cleanses – you either love them and post fifty pictures on FB of your new beautiful juiced body, or you hate them, and post one hundred updates on FB about how much you hate juice cleanses and the horse they rode in on.

The juice cleanse package promised to detoxify my body (can anything detoxify a gummy bear loving woman?) and clear my liver, colon, and intestinal track of its many toxins. In the juicing process, I would lose 3-7 pounds during the fast.

I'll be honest with myself and you, I could lose a few pounds. And break a few bad habits. And lose some toxins. I couldn't wait to cleanse with juice! There was nothing to lose except the bread dough disguising as my stomach. At this point, the juice company's promises sounded so promising I didn't care if I hated the juice fast or not. How hard could it be? I crossed my fingers and opened the box. The letter inside said that if I stuck to the juice fast for a total of fourteen days, I could lose ten pounds.

Since I'm a worrier it's no surprise that I first had to google “risks of juice fasts” because I didn't want to be headlining our small town newspaper with “Mom of Three DEAD from Juice Fast Fad.” Not the way I want to go. I'd rather die choking on a Lindt 100 percent dark chocolate bar – at least that way everyone could say that I died doing what I loved, eating chocolate.

Based on my quick internet research, juice cleanses are pretty much the same – made up of cold pressed vegetables and fruits, some with added fiber from grasses. The kit I received contained nine bottles, 8 fluid ounces each at only 100 calories a bottle. What I saw at first glance was less than appealing, but the ingredient list was impressive. Kale, spinach, clover sprouts, wheat grass, parsley, romaine, celery, and cucumber with a squirt of lemon. I like vegetables. I could do this.

I unpacked the white plastic bottles, but I couldn't help thinking that the contents looked like skimmed algae from the pond at the park here. I had heard how juice cleanses made you feel energized and gave you a radiant complexion -- who's not ready for that -- but could I get it down? I could barely look at how the film clung to the container.

You're supposed to complete the juice fast in three days, with a total of nine bottles required. There is a preparatory routine you follow to get your “insides” ready for the juice fast. The day before, you eat light. You stick to baked fish or poached chicken. I did just that and then I lined up the bottles of liquefied vegetables in the refrigerator so they'd be chilled, the package suggested cold for peak enjoyment. I'm all for enjoying my experiences.

When the alarm went off at 6:00 a.m. Monday, I popped open my eyes and was ready to start. I was to have one juice in place of a meal, three times in one day, and no caffeine, cigarettes, or alcohol. Still in my pajamas, I went to the refrigerator and unscrewed the first bottle of the day and took a sip. It was thick, sledgey, and I had to either sip all day long, or get it down in as few gulps as possible. I got it over with and slammed it down. Despite its thickness, it was good, with a sweet aftertaste. I'd try to sip the lunch one and make it last.

The 8 ounce bottle kept me full until 8:30 a.m. That's when I wanted a doughnut. But I stuck to the program because I wanted that ten pounds in 14 days promise. This was hard, because there was no new sense of renewed energy. When I looked in the mirror, there was no radiant complexion, either. I just saw a woman that wanted a bavarian cream filled doughnut. The hours crawled by, and all I had to look forward to was another 8 ounces of pond sledge at noon.

12:00 came, I fished the second bottle of liquid silt out of the refrigerator, and was so hungry or thirsty or just without calories that I drank it in one fell swoop. This time, my hunger pangs were back by 2:00. I looked outside my kitchen window and the trees looked like big fat crunchy pretzel rods. The leaves looked like broccoli flowerettes just awaiting cheez whiz.

You know what it's easy to learn? That a juice fast is not the time to log on to Pinterest for mealtime ideas.

At 3:00 I listened to my children crunching juicy apples and munching kettle cooked extra thick potato chips in the kitchen. I was strong and walked out, leaving them to their food party. I'd be okay, after all, it was almost 5:00 and time for another yummy pureed salad. At 4:59 p.m., I opened the last bottle of the day and drank it, fast. Again, a good tasting drink, no matter how ugly the consistency. I made dinner for my family and the smell of pork chops, broasted potatoes and sliced peaches was killing me. But I was determined. I sat at the table and was fed on good conversation and warm family love. HA! I was starving. My youngest heard my stomach growling and said, “Mom?! Was that you?? You need to eat really bad!” I lied and told him I was fine, fine, oh hohohoho Mama is so fine. And starting to feel delirious.

Truthfully, the last time I was this hungry was two weeks before my wedding when I stopped eating to fit into my princess cut wedding dress. My stomach growled again, my son asked me if I was okay since my stomach was “making really, really loud noises, mom.”

I usually stay up until midnight or later working on the computer, and I'll mindlessly have a bag of chips or a snackpack of the kids lunch stashes. I had the energy that night to go the full mile, but I put myself to bed early to end my hunger misery. I lay my head on my pillow and prayed that sleep would overtake me and help me survive these hours of hunger.

I awoke at 5:30 a.m. and started the routine again. Three juices, three times that day. I felt energetic but I think it was a manic phase facilitated by low blood sugar. Day #2 was over none too soon for me and I went to bed at 8:30 p.m., again with prayers to anyone above to hit me hard with a deep sleep stick. I dreamed of Easter hams, mashed potatoes, and watermelon balls.

Day #3, I slammed three juices throughout the day. I did not look good in the mirror. I looked sallow and really, you've heard the expression, your face or your ass? I think I need my face more. I was looking like Yzma from Emperor's New Groove. You could cut paper with my cheekbones.

I made it, though. Three days of nothing but three bottles of juice. Overall, I wish I could do the juice cleanse all the time, every once in awhile. It works because you starve yourself. With its clear restrictions of no food allowed, you of course lose weight. I did go to bed hungry, and that might be a good thing to do once a week. I didn't experience the energy high promised and I never saw the radiant flush of detoxification, but less handfuls of gummy bears throughout my day must count for something.

What I learned from my mini juice cleanse is that I can live without my sugar and late night boredom snacking, and that going to bed hungry one night a week won't kill me. I liked the taste of the juices, I can see maybe having one a day for breakfast.

Just as long as there isn't a special on cream filled doughnuts at the store that day.

*This was not a sponsored post since no product was named and no one gave me any money to starve myself. I didn't even lose weight, either. I just got dizzy and heard a high pitched squeal starting on Day #2.

* * *

What This Mother Learned... Will Shock You!

There's something about knowing you have time to kill and nowhere to go that makes you amenable to listening to strangers. October through April, I spend Saturdays sitting through soccer and swimming and basketball practices. I enjoy seeing these still kids/almost adults push themselves to the limits of their incredible, healthy bodies. It's great to see the nervous energy pre-game and the relief and joy in a slim-won victory, personal best or team work. The hours here on the bleachers are satisfying, even when we're cramped together with opposing teams, seeing people we've never seen before and won't likely see again.

But all this does nothing to propel this story forward. Anyway, we parents sit and wait for the end of practice, for the end of the game, for the end of the rounds. If you bring a book to read during practice, often times you finish it and are left, just sitting, staring into space. Others are sitting too, looking up and around, and some folks are the meandering type, loving meeting new people. You chit chat and sometimes, someone will bring up a subject that piques your interest.

Yesterday, I found out that a can of soup is considered two servings. Gasp.

The stranger talking to me had dropped this bomb, without topic introduction. Once my stranger-talker saw my eyes widen in surprise, I could tell it thrilled her. She zapped me again. "Go ahead. Guess how many potato chips are a serving. Go ahead."

Um, a bag?

"Nope. TEN. Ten chips make up a serving."

Holy smokes. I looked at the bag in my hand that I had just bought from the concession stand. I've been eating a quantity of chips in an amount set aside for the Trojan Army.

My Friend for The Moment liked shocking me. And she had a live wire with this next volt of knowledge: "You'll never guess how much pasta is a serving."

Somehow I knew that a soup bowl full would be enough for a family of four, not just a bored mom at 11 a.m. I was right. A single serving of pasta is one cup cooked. Seriously, I've downed that by 11:03 as my second breakfast.

My new friend was loving giving me what I call the terror sh*ts. What in the world, and portion sizes for whom, who eats like a little hamster? was all I could think.

It didn't take much more facial grimacing from me to encourage a stream of terrifying food single serving horror stories from this bleacher pal:

--rice that fits into a tennis ball is a single serving
--bread the size of a CD case is a  single serving
--broccoli the shape of a light bulb is a single serving
--a cute little computer mouse portion of potatoes is all one person needs!

Stop! I begged her, my hand up and all, Please Stop!

She couldn't. The food facts flowed out of her like a long suppressed volcano.

--side by side 9-V batteries worth of cheese is all your butt needs!

Even in Wisconsin, I wondered? She began talking faster.

--seven cotton balls worth of melon!

Her voice was rising in pitch.

--peanut butter no more than a ping pong ball dollop!

Her hair was beginning to curl around her flushed face.

--ONE THUMB TIP OF DRESSING IS ALL YOU CAN PUT ON YOUR SAAAALLLAAADDD!!!

Okay, okay, I told her. I got it.

She stopped. Heaving out a heavy breath, she was spent.

I handed over my bag of chips to her. I can't, I said, I can't finish these. Thank you so much for letting me know, I had no idea. Thank you.

No problem, she assured me, tucking the chips into her brown leather travel bag. I watched her generously wander over to the next bleacher, where I saw someone else gingerly close the cover to their book, obviously finishing it before it was time to leave. The book reader was about to tear open into her Golden Kettle-cooked chips. My food friend arrived just in time, and within seconds, I recognized the open-mouthed terror-stricken look of receiving the commandments of Single Serving Size Food.

Just two minutes later, and in the same way as I had just done, I saw the book-reading woman surrender her bag of chips to our Food Facts Yogi.

At the end of our hour and a half practice, I caught sight of our food professor as she left the gym. Her bag was bulging with yellow bags of chips, Skittles, and Kit Kat bars. What a Good Samaritan, willing to take on the dangers of portion sizes for us.

The world is made up of every day heroes.

* * *

 



Other Places You Can Find Me This Week:

Huffington Post

Aiming Low

MetroParent Milwaukee

Purple Clover

The Worst Date Ever or A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Spaghetti and Meatballs

This post is part of a Valentine’s Day blog hop started by the star storyteller, Nancy Kho of Midlife Mixtape. The theme is "My Worst Date Ever." Follow along with some superbly talented bloggers, you'll find them on the list at the bottom of this post. Don't miss More Tales of Dating Misery! Check them out! Happy VD everybody!

* * *

 

What's a crime without a partner?

And if that partner in crime also is your date for a meal, well, then, you've just got The Worst Date Ever. 

My PIC and Worst Date Ever story happened in 1984, and it was with my brother. That's the beauty of a dysfunctional family, PIC's and dates, always within easy reach. Together, we not only kept each other company on holidays and birthdays, but we kept each other alive during my lean, hungry years in college.

My brother had gotten wind of an off-campus outreach church. This church promised free meals in exchange for church attendance. All you had to do was be there. Come, listen, and BOOM, hope your plate is stronger than Chinet brand because mac and cheese is UP! So, one night, while I counted out 99 cents for the all you can eat pancake night at IHOP, my brother suggested we try Will Go To Your Church For Food.

Brother: "It'll be easy, come on."

Me, skeptical, but hungrier: "Nope. Nothing's free."

Brother: "What could happen? We go. We walk out. Or we get fed."

Me, still skeptical still hungry: "Okay, I choose go." And I put my coins back in my hippie purse.

We walk the 1/2 block from campus to the rented out church and we soon spot two fresh faced broad-smiling young adults that we call Ken and Barbie. Ken and Barbie are opening up a sandwich board sign with a shape of a heart drawn out in chalk and the word LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR, written inside it. They see us walking toward them and their faces explode into smiles, “Welcome! W E L C O M E ! Welcome to the hour of salvation. Today's soul saving message brought to you courtesy of spaghetti and meatballs!”

Throw in some garlic bread and salad, and you've just bought yourself a soul, I think to myself.
 

Ken and Barbie: “We invite you to join us tonight, we're glad you're here!"

My brother and I feebly smile back, partly due to low blood sugar, but mostly due to the guilt of knowing we are eating here with no intention of having our heart in their services. What we want is their food in our bellies. I can feel that this is not going to be as easy of a kill as my brother thinks.

"Hey! thanks," my brother greets the lovely duo. "We're glad to be here, too!"

Me: ::mumble mumble Crappity crap crap crap this is soooo not going to work mumble mumble::

Brother: ::hiss Shuttup. We'll be fine. Sit, listen, eat hiss::

Ken and Barbie: "You and your lady friend can join us for fellowship! We'd love to share the message of loving one another!"

I am shaking my head and I already don't like this, but we follow the couple inside anyway. How can things get any worse? I don't want these people thinking my brother is my boyfriend BUT not as bad as I don't want them to think I'm alone and hanging out with my brother. We're only half way down the stairs to the kitchen basement when we smell the meatballs simmering in tomato sauce, and our knees almost buckle. We grab plates and heap them up with steaming pasta and protein-laden meatballs. We take our seats with the rest of the crowd at the red clothed tables, and we listen.

Pasta has never tasted so good. *Side note: if you ever find yourselves bored with life, starve yourself a little. The way food tastes after 12 hours or so of not eating, makes you fall in love with life all over again.* We finish our plates, get up for more spaghetti, and we listen.

We finish our second plates, get up for a fresh salad with red, ripe tomatoes, along with some crusty bread slathered in butter, and we listen.

Dessert time comes and we load up on home-made brownies prepared at the hand of enthusiastic co-eds, along with cheap institutional coffee. We eat, we listen.

We sit and listen while our plump bellies almost lull us to sleep. And then, as we struggle to keep our bobbing heads upright, we're jolted awake. Somehow, between the meet and greet and the boxed brownies, our dinner for free has suddenly turned into the Disappearing Languages Alliance, because we begin to hear sounds unfamiliar to my ear.

Me: "Oh my god, let's go!,” I say because in addition to Nell sound-alikes, there are people collapsing to the floor and doing a stop drop and roll better than any newly fire-film trained second grader. “I think I have four quarters at the bottom of my purse," I say to my brother, "If you're still hungry, we'll go get pancakes at IHOP."

Brother: "Shit. What the heck. Let's GO."

I pick up my purse, my brother puts his shoes back on his feet. We both start sliding our bony butts out of our hard metal church chairs. We stand.

Then, silence; the hands to the skies and house-on-fire demonstrations halt. People see us getting ready to bolt. And the sale's not closed.

Church of the Almighty Meal: "Hold on, hold on, brother and sister! You've nourished your body, and now it's time to nourish your soul! Come join us in spirit and hear what your starving soul led you here today to hear. Let us feed you in a way that you have not been fed before!"

Me: ::hissing at my brother:: I knew it. What did I tell you? Now what!?

Brother: ::hissing harder back at me:: I don't know. Let's just level with them. Tell them we're Catholic and don't move when we pray.

Brother: "All right, then, friends. Fair is fair. We're all ears."

Church: "Listen to the spirit inside speak. Let us know you've heard our message today!"

Brother: ::hand to heart my brother said this:: "You guys just want to see if we've heard your message tonight, is that it?"

Church: "Yes, brother, show us you have been fed in all the ways you need to be fed."

And then I watch. Horrified. My brother bends his knees and then chest first, drops to the ground. He rolls around as if Texas Red Fire Ants are on him. He goes rigid and starts clicking the roof of his mouth while staring blindly into space.

I stay standing, not knowing what is going to happen next, and then, my brother has the nerve, mid-roll, to lock eyes on me. He whispers, "You. Now. On the ground. And don't be a lady about it."

I am scared and desperate and guilty enough. He's right, I owe them this. I put my purse down. Then I do it. And based on my brother's reaction, pathetically.

"Eyes to the back of the head! More moaning, let it come from your throat!," my brother roars while he turns himself into a human rolling pin.

I give it all I've got, I mean, as much as I can with one hand holding my dress down, and the other one reaching for the heavens.

We must've earned our noodles because suddenly hands are helping us up and patting us on the back. The soul rockers seem satisfied that they have rocked our souls. We stand up, bewildered. I brush the carpet lint off my clothes, smooth my hair down. Everyone files out of the church as if nothing has happened.

They invite us back next week Wednesday. Italian night!, they tell us. Because evidently a carbo load is what's needed when you've worked your soul into a frenzy.

 

* * *

 

The list here includes some of the funniest women I have ever read. Don't miss out on these awesome storytellers. (And tell me of your Valentine's Day plans, my plans this year include ordering myself up one of those love poems that you usually request for someone else. I'm having them call me.) 

Hop on over to these sites for Dating Woes you can't help but love:

Smacksy

Earth Mother just means I’m dusty

The Mama Bird Diaries

Midlife Mixtape

Ann’s Rants

Wendi Aarons

The Hospice Food Pyramid

Earlier this week after a neighbor a few blocks away saw me driving with my mother and children in a vanful of ice cream lickers, she commented, "Wow. Ice cream every day. That's a lot of ice cream."

On the day she saw me take my mother out twice in one day for a double scoop ice cream treat, this woman decided I needed to know the fat content of the creamiest frozen custard in town. In case I wasn't aware, because obviously, I had no idea what I was putting into my mother.

241 calories in one scoop, 482 calories in a double scoop. 12 grams of fat and 202 mg of cholesterol per serving **404 in a double scoop, just so we know**

"Are you sure all that ice cream's good for her?"

Let me mull that over, let me consider how to reduce my answer to only two or three sentences.

Having to decide whether to add say, six days extra to my mother's life right now by low fat, low cholesterol eating versus cutting her life short a week and instead replacing it with giving her something to look forward to as soon as she wakes up by knowing those that love her are on their way, bearing gifts that come with double hot fudge on top.

"Yup." I answer my neighbor. "I'm sure. So's her Doctor. He even wrote out a prescription for her -- two scoops a day of whatever she wants. It's called the Hospice Food Pyramid."

* * *

I Don't Care, I Love It

Before I became a lady who stays home with her kids and cleans the toilets here far less often than I should, I used to be someone who pretty much did only what I wanted to do.

I spoiled myself that way.

Then, as so many of us who remember the bygone days say, "I had kids."

I was fussy and picky about so many things in my life back then, from too scratchy tags on my clothes to sheets that didn't feel just right. My bath towels had to be big and fluffy. My pants had to be the right length with the ankle break just atop the shoe.

As I said, that was all before kids.

Never was I more for me? no thank you, than in the area of food. Lima beans? No...  because they look like they'd be icky. Pumpkin pie? Same thing... it looks too much like what mincemeat would be if I knew what mincemeat was. And seafood chowder? Won't it taste fishy? Sandy, at the very least.

And then I had three children in seven years, and had no time to make only what I wanted to eat, and no time to go out to restaurants to eat, and no time to selectively shop at high end grocery marts for the ingredients for white asparagus cream sauce. Now it's all warehouse shopping for 100 pound bags of rice and oil barrel sized cans of kidney beans.

From all this eat-what's-there-because-you've-got-time-so-grab-it mentality, a very interesting thing has happened. And it makes me wonder about all that I've missed.

Just a few years ago, I had my first slice of pumpkin pie ever -- all because I made it to the dessert table at someone's house much too late in the evening due to being busy feeding babies and changing diapers and then changing diapers some more, and all that was left on the white table clothed card table, was a skinny broken piece of pumpkin pie. I was hungry. It was food. I took it.


The whipped cream heavens opened, and dessert angels sang their chorus and I joined in with oh em gee and why didn't anyone ever tell me PUMPKIN PIE IS DELICIOUS. I loved it.


It's like I'm having food for the first time.

When baby #3 came along, I was at a relative's house when Cupid's food arrow struck me over a white bowl of lima beans. I was so starved from chasing after three boys that when I finally sat down to eat at 8 p.m., I had to stop myself from grabbing the pale green beans out of the ceramic bowl like a handful of popcorn. I composed myself and served them on a plate and again with the heavens in song; either I was starving or those were the best gd creamiest, butteriest green starchy vegetables I have ever tasted.

Since children, you can say the same thing about me and three bean salad. So sweet and tart at the same time! And lamb chops, with their downright sexy aftertaste. How could I never have known that I like jelly on meat?

Black bean burgers? Did I say they looked mushy? Mushy is my ass.
Portobello mushroom sandwiches? To think that I thought they looked like a sliced up giant slug.
Pea soup? I am sorry I ever helped spread that rumor about them being used in The Exorcist.

So many undiscovered delicacies, so little time. All coming to light from taste buds primed and ready after being in a state of famishment from food deprivation and days with no time to eat built in. Hunger is a powerful motivator and a close-food-minded opener.

Low blood sugar from living a life of no breakfast or lunch along with my gratefulness for having an invite out of my house, make me an especially appreciative party guest. I will ask you for your recipe for anything you set out, and I will thank you as you hand it to me scribbled on paper, saying "It's just cottage cheese on toast points. Maybe a little pepper sprinkled on top." Maybe for you, but for me? It's a mouth carnival.

So if you ever find me at your home for a get together of any kind, and you see me hovering over your kitchen island while stuffing my cheeks like a squirrel in October, please pull me away and break it to me gently when I choke out the words muffled by food, "What is this? It's awesome!"

And you answer, "Weeds. My husband pulled them from the garden earlier. We were in the middle of trying to identify them on google when you stopped over..."

On second thought, never mind, it won't bother me. They'll still taste delicious and I'll be singing  Icona Pop to you, because I know what she's really talking about here.




Something I didn't have to cook or shop for and the time to eat it.

I don't care what it is, I love it.

* * * 

Wanted: Dead or Alive

photo credit: hugovk via photopin cc

The other morning, my ten-year-old son came downstairs, and walking past me, said, "Mom, seriously, that dinner you made us last night tasted like you were trying to kill me or something."

And good morning to you too, honey. Before I even had my head half way whipped around to ask just what he meant by that, the two teens saw their in and jumped at it.

"Yeah. It's like you think you're a wizard or something, making up potions."

"You've made up stuff before, mom, but this one would get the blue ribbon in a chemistry class."

"I know! Like the time she chopped up the left over turkey hamburger with the left over spaghetti and then made into a pie. I thought I'd be dead by midnight that night."

"Remember when she scrambled up the tofu with the left over hash browns and made it into a casserole with that saffron stuff? I wanted to put Wanted: For Murder posters up in the hallway."

The ten year old feels the power of his brothers' back-up and so now he's up on his toes, "No! The worst was when she laid out that old bread flat in the cookie sheet and then covered it with that shiny sauce and she got mad when I told her she should be on America's Most Wanted..."

It was like inmates rattling their tin cups against the jail bars. I put my hand up and looked over at my husband. I raised my right eyebrow at him, wasn't he the sheriff in town?

My husband just slunk into his newspaper, nervously clearing his throat, "ehhem, ehhem."

With my hands in the air, I tried to explain; I'm busy. I had to be at work. The food is perfectly safe. They're too picky. How about doing left overs like the rest of the world??

But between me and you and the lamp post, I couldn't deny it. I mean, I can deny the murder part, or the food poisoning part--I label everything with a sharpie and discard within 3-5 days. The meal was a pretty bad concoction, one of my worst. That night's fly out the door dinner was so bad that after I threw it at the kids and rushed to work, I had to confess to my boss as soon as I got there, "Whoa. What I made tonight for the kids to eat was really bad."

"Oh, it's all right," she tells me. "We all have those days." [she really is one of the finest humans on the planet]

"No, this was bad. I mean left over boiled potatoes, chopped up deli meat, sliced tomatoes, all skilletted together with Catalina dressing over. Sliced peaches for dessert."

"Oh." [first time I've ever left her speechless]

The slapped together last minute meal. Why would I even try, what was I thinking, I mean throwing a hot dog and a bag of chips at them would be better.

I think it's that hope--that somehow blindly optimistic or else thinking too highly of myself, with some hating-to-waste ethics I grew up with, that have me thinking it's so crazy, so crazy that it just might work. I know it's a kitchen fail as soon as I start rummaging through the refrigerator--I'm surprised the kids haven't picked up on that behavioral clue yet. When mama starts moving aside the tupperware containers in the fridge to see what's in there, might wanna fill up on some bowls of cereal first.

The Desperation Dump Dinner. I don't want to admit that time got away from me. I don't want to say I couldn't do it all today. It's never laziness or lack of desire to give them a good meal. I try to ignore the voice in my head that pops up when I look at all those round containers of left overs in the fridge and says, "and so you think it's all right to use your kids as the garbage disposal?" As my ten year old told me, "Either way, mom, it goes down the sink, or comes out of our butts."

The ten year old is right. I need to start over and be open to the reality that some nights may just be frozen chicken patties and a sliced banana. There can be honor and beauty in accepting your limitations.

I could also do without the price on my head.

***

Childhood Food Becomes Our Comfort Food

*For My Grandmother*

I always childishly hoped my grandmother would be with me forever.

My first memories begin with her, and even though it’s been over 25 years since her death, I still can’t believe I’ve had to learn to live without her.

She was born in Spain and came to Colombia, South America when she was four years old. She learned to cook from her Spaniard mother, and these are the recipes I grew up with. When I was about three or four years old, I began helping my grandmother in the kitchen. She would tie one of her flowered aprons around my waist, and I would stand next to her on top of a cracked red leather kitchen stool. She would sing in a soft and low voice as she’d grind the corn meal for our sweet corn cakes, one of my favorites. With a worn rock from our yard, she’d grind the corn meal until it was as fine as white flour. The sand paper sound of the rock crushing the larger bits of meal is one that I can still hear if I close my eyes. When the corn meal was as smooth as silt, together, her hands over mine, we’d slowly add the milk and eggs, mixing all the ingredients together in a large wooden bowl.

With the thick meal ready, we’d roll the dough mixture into little balls, pressing them down into the palms of our hands until they were flat discs. She had a large cast iron pan with just a bottom of oil heating up on the stove. To check if the oil was hot enough for the griddle cakes, she’d wet her fingers from the kitchen faucet and then flick the water into the pan. If we heard a sizzle, then we knew the oil was ready. She’d toss the flattened patties in, and I’d hear the hiss of a pan that was perfectly calibrated.

We'd fry the corn cakes until they were a pale gold, and then my grandmother would lift them out deftly while my job was to lay them between paper towels, pressing down with my small hands to squeeze out the extra grease. While they were still hot, we’d spread the cakes with butter and apricot jam, and the two would melt on top into a sticky sweet syrup. We’d sit grinning and eating those cakes that were almost as large as a salad plate. I’d always take a stack of two or three and my grandmother would say "Your eyes are bigger than your stomach, mija!"

There's so much more time to tell her what I want to tell her, that was always my thinking. My grandmother is gone now, and even though it’s been so very long, I still can’t write about her without tears stinging my eyes and a lump starting to build in my throat. But, somehow, I have this hope--that through the shining dark eyes of a grinning four-year-old girl, gazing up at her adoringly, clothed in one of her aprons while standing on a kitchen stool next to her, that she knew how much she meant to me.

I hope.

Abuelita’s Corn Meal Griddle Cakes

1 c. boiling water
3/4 c. yellow corn meal
1 c. buttermilk or sour milk

2 eggs
1 c. all-purpose flour
3 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. soda
/4 c. vegetable oil

Pour water over corn meal; stir until thick. Add milk; beat in eggs. Mix flour, baking powder, salt and soda. Add to cornmeal mixture; stir in oil. Bake on hot, lightly greased griddle. Makes about 14 pancakes.

Place on paper towel to absorb oil. While still hot, spread with butter and jam. 

Things I Eat Now Because I Can And I Never Had As A Kid

Did you know that you can make a soup out of anything? Ears of corn five for a dollar at the market? Bring 'em on home. Boil the bejeebus out of them, puree, add milk, cilantro and Voila! soup.

Left over potatoes? Boil away on superflame! Then mash them down and drown them in the big four: salt, pepper, garlic, onion. Ring that dinner bell now...

With a family of six children and being new to this country, money was tight for us growing up. My grandmother was adept in the kitchen and truly could whip anything up into a serving-stretching soup. I'm surprised that I, or any of my brothers and sisters, have a tooth left in our mouths today since we never got to use our choppers for much. It was all slurp and swallow.

As much as I loved my grandmother's beef rib SOUP and milk leek SOUP, there were meals I'd fantasize about as a little girl. Oh those covers from Family Circle and Good Housekeeping that would sit up on the display shelves of the grocery check out lane. Pictures of the stoneware of the day shown overflowing with heaping, spilling golden macaroni and cheese, or brown gravy spilling out of a volcano cratered monster scoop of mashed potatoes along side toasty breaded pork chops. Or -- the one thing I'd bargain for in my prayers -- fried chicken! with biscuits!

Sigh. Those meals were never to be for me in my childhood home-on-a-budget, but I became so very skilled at weaseling invites to my American friends' houses, where their American mothers would be servin' up and ladlin' out those fine abundant American meals of  fried chicken, smothered potatoes, Parker House rolls with butter dripping off the top. I was an amazing eater on my visits to these homes, and my friends' mothers loved me. Who doesn't love a skinny little grateful kid who gobbles up everything set before them like they're coming off a juice fast, praises galore after each swallow? I mean, I could barely understand how these friends of mine weren't gushing all over their moms' cooking.

None of us ever grow up, really. We take on our adult form, but inside we remain the little child we once were; still wishing for that very same thing we never got enough of. When I do the weekly grocery shopping for my family of five, I can't help it --  I always get myself something from my Food Bucket Wish List, ages six through twelve. The meals I used to daydream about. I pick up something off of my list -- getting it from the deli is the most authentic way to go -- and sit in the car after shopping and eat it. By myself, and satisfyingly alone in my gluttonous joy.

Every Saturday morning I'll leave my family of three boys at home and whiz through PiknSave getting through the family shopping list and then my own: tossing in jello cubes rolled in Cool Whip or BBQ glazed meatloaf with a canned peach on top. I get to the store before noon so that the 100 percent real beef frankfurters wrapped in bacon are still plentifully plumped up and not shriveled from the heat lamp. I'll order 8 ounces of green bean and cream of mushroom bake, I'll go for the double serving of toasted crumb top macaroni and cheese. Getting to the store before 2 p.m. guarantees me a nice standing slab of mozzarella topped lasagna. Window shopping past the deli-of-dreams display case I'll ask for egg rolls, creamy tuna salad, hojo potatoes, beef stroganoff, beef tips in mushroom sauce, stuffed pork chops, deep fried haddock and home-made poor boys on crunchy submarine rolls. All things I'd lay in bed and promise that I'd eat some day when I was in charge of me.

I get these things now because I can. I'm not really hungry as much as I feel it's making up for lost time. Getting those things that I always dreamed of into my mouth.

To me, it's celebrating my fortunate life. For five dollars and two bits, it's like a clink of  glasses to myself with how well things turned out to be for me. I mean, lookame, getting the things I used to wish for. Like a boss.

I come back home from errands, stuffed, but still sit down to a meal with three children that I adore and a man who is good to me. My husband thinks I am the daintiest eater he's ever seen; but if you look very closely, you'll see the golden crumbs of item number three from my Food Bucket List, freshly sitting right there on the corners of my mouth, ready to give away my blessed secret life.

Image

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**Holy cow! My post is syndicated at BlogHer today! Always a thrill to have a post picked up for the pages there ... validation of the highest order. If you feel like it, please stop by and sparkle/comment/read/tweet/hurray it. Thank you.

Bite Me on FnS

It's Bite Me Theme Time at FunnynotSlutty: the internet's premiere website for bringing some of the funniest women on the internet all together in one place.

This month, FunnynotSlutty is celebrating "Bite Me: Funny Food and Cooking Stories."

I've got a good one over there. On what happens when you're raised by a fancy lady who really finds time behind the stove less than thrilling.

Don't worry, nothing a few grown-up hours of eating Twinkies and Arby's and Rocky Rococo's didn't cure.

Hope to see you here.

The Kitchen Witch

I am always happy when I find a place where I can write about my grandmother.  My abuela is at the very front of all my childhood memories. Always.

Because of blogging, I have met the most wonderful people. People who share my feelings and aspirations about life. I met Dana, the lovely food and life blogger behind The Kitchen Witch, through following one rabbit hole of the internet to another. Dana's blog is beautiful, her recipes appetite satisfying, and her posts food for my soul.

I'm guesting there today, while Dana heals from surgery, where I share a story and one of my favorite childhood recipes from my Spanish grandmother.

I hope to see you at Dana's, and my wishes to all of you for a restful week off while you enjoy the 'energy' of having your little ones home. *wink*


*Feel better soon, Dana. xo

The Kitchen Witch

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What To Eat When Stress Strikes

The other day on twitter, I saw this cry for help: Looking for good stress eating ideas. Open to all suggestions. Except pie.

I quickly tweeted back: Anything with whipped cream!

Well, that suggestive bit of twitter triggered (twiggered?) cravings in me that I haven't had since I was last pregnant.

Stress eating, it feels so good, is it that wrong? A chocolate filled croissant warmed just a tad in the microwave? Rich hand whipped cream in a flavored coffee? It's not so bad.

When I'm stressed, I reach for the hot, the melted, the chocolate. Gooey cheesy burgers. Toasted bagels with slathered cream cheese, double loaded mozzarella on pizza, chocolate drizzled over anything.

I wish I could remember the tweeter who had asked for suggestions, because today, mama got some stuff for her:

Stress Eating Favorites: 

Sliced bananas in a bowl mixed with microwave melted Hershey's kisses and mini marshmallows.

Graham cracker S'mores, 23 seconds in the microwave.

Hot cocoa with a 5 second squirt of Reddi-Whip. Chocolate sauce? Don't mind if I do.

McDonald's will mix half and half of any flavor shakes for you. Lately, I'm all into the half Arctic Orange with half Chocolate. Ho my god.

Peeled, sliced apples smothered in melted French Vanilla frosting.

Any kind of cupcake, any number of them. They don't count as cake calories because they're little.

Hot dog sliced down the middle and filled with shredded cheese, then wrapped in bacon and put under the broiler for 4 minutes. Dang.

A dinner plate full of Doritos chips, sprinkled with taco seasoned shredded cheese, diced tomatoes, crumbled turkey meat, microwaved for 1:25, then dolloped --  twice -- with sour cream and guacamole.

Guacamole. Period.

One scoop of chocolate ice cream with maraschino cherries on top. Mmmmm-hmmm.

Frozen Girl Scout Thin Mints.

Boy Scout Cheese Pop Corn.

Instant brownie in a box brownies slathered with raspberry preserves while they're still smoking hot.

Those Hot-Lava-Cake-in-5-microwave-minutes kits. Holy Wow.

Lay's Thick Cut Vinegar and Salt Potato Chips stuck in between the bun and hot sloppy joe meat.

25 crumbled crackers floating on top of a home made bowl of chili, heavy on the tomatoes.

The Martha Stewart Brand New Recipe for Boston Cream Pie cupcakes. Again, due to size, calorieless.

A baked potato, nuked, and stuffed with bacon bits, sour cream, cheddar cheese and a touch of salsa.

A tall glass of Fanta orange soda served over a big fat scoop of creamy vanilla ice cream: JUST like a dreamsicle.

Come on, Miss Stressed Out Eater Tweeter, where are you? ... I'm ready.

 
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A Lady In France

I am traveling overseas.

Yes, I am.

A blog post that I've contributed to Lady Jennie, la femme du maison from the photographically and poetically exquisite A Lady In France, is published there today.

And she blogs from France. Because she lives there. And my blog post is on there, and I wrote it, so, I'm going to say I'm A Lady In France today.

I love blogging.

I hope you hop over the pond, and come visit, where the gracious and intimate Jennie and I, speak of what else? but ze glorious gift of ze food.

Her beautiful blog is addictive to me, with it's peaceful, wise, no airs about her ways.

I know you'll love the way she writes, and the things you learn about living in a different culture. You leave with a feeling of knowing  a bit more of something than before you clicked over. I like her, I truly do.

 
xo
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Comments closed. Hop on over, please,  and meet the lovely Lady Jennie