Nourishment.

Lately I've been thinking, reading and writing a lot about eating. A couple of my last posts refer, directly or indirectly, to feeding. I've stopped eating meat (okay, except for eggs) and I consume very little dairy (okay, except for cheese). I've read "My Year of Meats" and "All Over Creation" by Ruth Ozeki, and I've done quite a bit of research about various practices of raising, feeding and slaughtering animals for human consumption. I've also delved into the truly frightening reality of genetically engineered crops (too many to list), and now I find myself wondering, "What exactly am I supposed to eat?" And, more important, what should I feed Grace? Of course I know the answer to this, but it's takes more effort and money to eat truly healthfully, and I've been lazy.

Why so preoccupied with food? Good question, which I asked myself the other day. I believed I was being pragmatic, both as a consumer and a mother, in trying to create parameters that would make buying, preparing and eating food an ethical, healthy and happy experience for my family. Now I suspect my focus on diet is symbolic of a greater need; what I'm really longing for is a better way to nourish not just my body, but also my mind and soul. I'm at a point where I need to make conscious decisions about what I choose to digest — physically, emotionally and intellectually — because so much is being thrown at me.

From my own struggles, to the fiasco that has become U.S. politics (ugh), to the tragedy in Haiti, it's easy to become so overwhelmed that the most appealing option is to just keep it all at bay. (Even food; when overly stressed, I forget to eat.) But I know that's not the answer, because ignorance is not bliss. It's not even living; it's hiding. For the last few months, I've been alternating between hiding or taking in way too much. I have yet to find the balance that allows me to tune out the overabundance of bad news and negativity, and to replace it instead with what is good and healthy for me and Grace.

The wolf post touched on this, but I didn't realize how perfect the timing was for me to receive that message. I think I've been feeding both wolves, and not equally. (The evil wolf is clearly the one who has made himself comfortable wrapped around my midsection.) I indulge that wicked wolf with anger, sorrow, regret, self-pity and guilt. I've been making a halfhearted attempt to bring joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, and faith to that poor, hungry good wolf, but this may prove more difficult than I expected. (Note the masthead of this blog!)

In a week Grace and I will be moving into a new apartment — the downstairs of a house owned by a woman who was looking for a housemate, and who meticulously transformed her basement into a beautiful, airy, comfortable space which I will heretofore refer to as my "garden apartment." Everything is brand spankin' new, and there is a beautiful back yard just starting to bloom; how can this not represent a fresh start? To say my future housemate and I have a lot in common would be a hilarious understatement; one of the first things we talked about was planting an edible garden. She's delightful, and I look forward to a new friendship.

So for the next week I'm going to focus on starving that evil wolf by taking in as little negative energy as possible, whether self-generated or thrust upon me. And it's definitely time to start feeding the good wolf, to summon all of the joy and hope that Grace and I both need right now.

How do I do that, exactly?

What to eat?

I don't eat much meat. When I indulge, I try to do it properly. Organic, free-range, grass-fed, antibiotic-free cows have provided memorable steaks and burgers. Ditto for pigs, particularly when I went through a phase of striving to cook The Perfect Pork Chop. Poached salmon has always been on my go-to list for dinner parties, and a juicy, perfectly roasted chicken usually replaces a turkey on Thanksgiving, or whenever I'm in a fowl mood.

I was vegetarian for two or three years back in the early 90s, and even went vegan for a while. I don't recall why; maybe because it was trendy. I remember I finally gave up because it seemed inconvenient for others, and wasn't something about which I was particularly passionate. I spent several months in Costa Rica and Guatemala, part of the time with host families; avoiding meat was almost as impossible as avoiding dysentery. Once I got home, I kind of forgot about the whole thing (sort of the way I "forgot" about my plans for a gluten-free diet a few months ago).

Lately I've been talking to friends who are vegetarian and vegan, grilling them (hah!) about how they chose their path. The variety of explanations has been surprising, but there is an undeniable common thread: the killing of the animals. At first, I thought claims of cruelty in slaughterhouses must be greatly exaggerated, and to a degree, I believe they are. But I've been doing my homework, and even the gold standard of livestock slaughtering, Dr. Temple Grandin's "humane facilities design," is more than I can take without my stomach turning and my heart breaking. A friend told me her husband wouldn't eat anything that he himself wouldn't kill, and I haven't been able to get that idea out of my head. The simplicity, pragmatism and honesty of that philosophy appeal to me because I see a road map for real compassion in deciding what I, personally, am willing to eat. Could I slaughter a cow? Nope. Kill a pig? No way. Catch a fish and gut it? Perhaps, if I were starving. Chop the head off a chicken? Probably, if I really, really had a taste for chicken. The bottom line is that it's up to me; there is no right or wrong, one-fits-all answer.

Chicken and eggs it is for now — organic and cage-free, of course. Next up: dairy. This could take some time, because it is difficult for me to put into words my love of cheese.

School? Fall? What?

Fall is my favorite season, but this year it snuck up on me and screamed, "BOOGABOOGABOOGA!" in my ear. What happened to summer? I feel a bit cheated, not having spent the last several months having HAPPY! SUMMER! FUN! Instead I was focused on finding a job, recuperating from my accident, legal disputes, blah blah blah. The initial pleasures I found in yard work, trips to the park with Grace, writing, barbecuing and eating outdoors were derailed suddenly by a body and mind that simply couldn't do any of those things. So I'm pissed, both on my behalf, and because Grace got the short end of the summer stick, along with a cranky mommy.

On a positive note, fall is the season that feels (to me) most loaded with the potential for change — positive change. And if there's one thing we could use around here at the asylum, it's positive change. My accident took a big toll on my health, physically and mentally, and until now I've been content to let my medical team deal with the whole mess (while following doctors' orders, natch). But I'm realizing that I need to take a more proactive approach to regaining my health, if only because I can't go on wondering if I'll be able to function tomorrow, or the day after that. Grace deserves more than that, and so do my friends and family. (I do, too, of course.)

Today I spoke with my lovely chiropractor (see "Asula" ad in sidebar), and we agreed that a more aggressive approach is my only hope of feeling like my old self again. I've watched friends go through this for years, and I've toyed with it myself, but always resisted fully committing to such a drastic change. But I've been inspired by friends and, more recently, by my favorite fellow blogger, Girlbert, who has a much larger mountain to climb and an amazingly positive attitude about conquering it (or, more accurately, working in harmony with it). It just feels like it's time.

A gluten-free diet isn't that much of a stretch for me, since I really do love all of the foods I am allowed to eat, and don't ordinarily indulge much in sugary snacks or processed foods. I will desperately miss a few things: yummy bread and crackers, cheese, wine, pasta, seasonal fruits, and did I mention CHEESE? Also, I'm not going to be militant to the point of making myself so crazy that if I have a glass of wine at dinner, I will then fall off the wagon altogether. In my fantasy world, I'll just remind myself that, yes, this is a bad choice I'm making and I will suffer the consequences. Over time, I hope that the results will be motivation enough to do the best I can without feeling too deprived.

This little bit of nasty is Candida. (I searched for an image that would look pretty on my blog.) It is, however, the enemy, and I will not hesitate to kick its ass. I've heard so many testimonials from friends who I trust, I believe it's worth the effort for me to give it a chance. Can you imagine how tickled I will be if eliminating a surplus of yeast makes me feel better? At the very least, it will force me to stop scarfing down what's convenient, and take a more thoughtful approach to eating. I'd like to be a positive role model for Grace when it comes to nutrition, and eating her leftovers is clearly not the way to go about it. Wish me luck; I'll keep you posted, whether you like it or not.

Good bread, good meat.

Since Grace was with her father on her birthday, Michael made an extra special dinner to cheer me up. (Apologies to my vegetarian and vegan friends.) I will say this: that man knows how to grill meat to perfection.

Also, the yummy sourdough bread and mushrooms, along with a bottle of wine (so gone!), were a last minute gift from a woman in the neighborhood who Michael helped get back into her house earlier this week in the wee hours. That night, while he tinkered with the lock, I commiserated about the whole locking out bit, with which I am painfully familiar. (And tonight, I took the opportunity to plug my book and hand her a business card, since Annie Bloom's has chosen to remove my one remaining book from their shelves.)

I digress. Happy birthday, Gigi; I miss you. And thanks to Michael and Ivy for a delicious meal! I'm full, and my faith in the goodness of (most) neighbors has been reinforced.

Mmmm, pupcakes!

Until a few days ago, it seemed Grace had pooped on every potty except the ones IN OUR HOUSE. For Mommy, she saved it all for naptime, bedtime or just any old time she felt like it. So the other night I sat her on the potty and sang to her, told her stories, made faces at her and said mean things about Elmo until she just couldn't take it anymore. I tortured that poo out of her, and I'm not ashamed to say it. Our deal? She gets a cupcake whenever she poops in the potty, and this baby cost $3.50 at New Seasons. Please do not bring to my attention the possible long-term psychological ramifications of such blatant food bribery. I'm tired of washing underpants, and she's so proud of herself, she will tell anyone who will listen that she poops on the potty like a big girl.

Ho frickin' ho

Christmas this year was the culmination of a week-long siege of ice and snow that trapped us in the house and tested our very humanity. I, Grace, Brady and our friend Mike made the best of it. We didn't turn on each other (much), didn't eat each other when supplies ran low (although we speculated Brady would be nicely marbled) and we enjoyed some very creative meals and a lot of bad TV. Grace was such a good sport, primarily concerned with when we would be "going to Christmas." Try explaining that to a three-year-old. I went with, "Christmas is everywhere!"


The real reason for the season.


Grace ate just enough dinner to be allowed dessert. Dainty, isn't she?


We didn't make it to my parents' for the first time in years, but at least Ed was able to join us. Rather, Ed brought all the food for the yummy meal Mike prepared, rented movies for Grace and, most important, GAVE ME A NEW CAMERA FOR CHRISTMAS! He's, like, the best brother in the world.


Grace patiently explains to Mike how a doll works. (This is the same doll she got for her birthday, but the cute jammies were a gift from Aunt Kerry and Uncle Art.)


She really loves this doll.

Someday, maybe she'll cook for me.

And do you know what I will do with whatever food she lovingly prepares and serves me? Pick it up, whine, "I don't LIKE this!" and throw it on the floor. If I'm feeling really frisky, I may sweep my arm across the table, sending plate, flatware, beverage and napkin flying. Then I will look up at her innocently as she gasps in horror and ask sweetly, "What happened?" While she's cleaning up, I'll cry as though she's done something unforgivable to me, then piss my pants to top it all off.

Holy yummy pastrami, Batman!

A few weeks ago I wrote about my first boss, David, who now lives in San Francisco and, with his wife Rachel, hosts a radio talk show about food, wine, dining and travel. They've also created a line of artisanal cured meats, and today I went to Elephant's Deli on NW 22nd to sample David's Old World Brand Pastrami. This is the Classic Grilled Pastrami Reuben, and it set me back $9.95. It was worth every penny and every minute of anticipation on the drive home. (I decided to take it home with me, a wise choice because the noises I made while scarfing it down had Brady pacing nervously and surely would have been disturbing to the well-heeled patrons of Elephant's.) I will be returning ALL THE WAY ACROSS THE RIVER soon to buy some by the pound. That's how yummy it is.

Serendipity doo dah...

In my ongoing quest to confuse people from my past by contacting them out of the blue (some to whom I haven't spoken in almost twenty years), I may have found a little of what I've been looking for. After a Google search and a couple of emails, today I spoke with David, my boss from my first job out of college. I worked in the marketing department of a liquor distributor, and David was The Don of Fine Wines. I grew up in a really small town, and my college experience in St. Louis was a four-year game I couldn't win because nobody bothered to tell me the rules. David was everything I wanted to be, and I was completely infatuated with him. He was older; he knew wine and food; he was effortlessly dapper and cultured; he had traveled; and, to top it all off, he was funny rather than boorish, which wine people can tend to be. He also provided me with a shitload of free wine (gotta know the product) and took me to fabulous parties, wine tastings and all the hottest restaurants in St. Louis. He put a mini-fridge in my office and brought me lunches he had cooked himself, introducing me to the idea that Italian food can taste good even when it's not smothered in gooey sauce. And he turned me on to cooking, for which I will always be most grateful. I can quickly and easily julienne basil, de-vein shrimp and peel tomatoes thanks to time spent as his sous-chef, and I will never be able to stand inferior olive oil or overcooked poultry. Hearing his voice this afternoon, I felt like it was just yesterday he pounded on the wall between our offices to get my attention.

What does this have to do with the little pirate above? Just that I appreciate the influence he had on my life, the ripple effect of having known one person for a short while. Working for David for one year was like getting paid to go to finishing school. But had he managed to convince the bobble-head running the company to pay me more, I might never have left St. Louis, moved to Chicago, met John and had this kooky little girl that makes me laugh every day. I wasn't my best self when we knew each other, but he put up with me then and sounded genuinely happy to hear from me today. That's pretty wild if you think about it. Thanks, David, for that and for the David's Old World Brand Pastrami I'm going to pick up at Elephant's tomorrow.

As for Rachel, David's wife and business partner, I had a feeling he had met his match the day she came into the office wearing leather pants. She was smokin' hot. Lucky man.

A lot of alliteration for anxious anchors placed in powerful positions.

(Name the movie.)

I had dinner with friends tonight at Lolo, a tapas place on Alberta. We spent most of our time breathlessly anticipating the return of Ella, of course, but we also talked about our kids and concluded that because of them our four food groups have been reduced to the following: caffeine, salty carbs, sweet carbs and cocktails.




Sort of like the four C's of diamond quality: carat, cut, clarity and color. Or the six P's of preparation: prior proper planning prevents poor performance. But you know all of these. Who doesn't?

Our great outdoors

Today I did something I haven't done in years. I donned a bikini and laid in the sun. It was that beautiful out, and I am that stupid. Having a back yard again seems to be inducing all sorts of crazy behavior.


Here is Grace after I pointed out that she was possibly as smart as Brady, chewing on bark mulch. It wasn't my sarcasm that made her look this way; she laughed at me. It was just that once she took a bite, there it was in her mouth and what was she to do now?


Grace was so upset by how long it took to grill the burgers (eight minutes?) that she threw herself to the ground and feigned unconsciousness. John made the best burgers I've tasted in a while, but Gigi was spoiled by a Burgerville experience with a friend a while ago, and thought the best part of this meal was the mustard. Ugh.

Still, what a perfect Friday night.

Are we what we eat?

My food fantasy: Grace and I walk hand in hand each day to New Seasons to see what's fresh that I might transform into a healthy, tasty dinner. (Yes, I know I should go to the farmers' market, but that involves getting up early on a Saturday morning and jostling through a crush of neo-hippies with babies in slings and dogs in tow. That is so not my scene, man.) I used to plan dinner parties that required hours, even days, of preparation and were intended to impress more than anything. I think I achieved near perfection once, with a truly delicious meal that went off without a hitch. It was an empty victory. I think the women (whom I didn't know well) regarded me as a bit of a nut job, and had they not been so cool, they probably would have figured I was just showing off. (I'm glad they didn't hold it against me, because we became good friends.) Anyway, one night we had a couple of neighbors over, spur of the moment. I pan seared some nice steaks, and someone made mashed potatoes and someone else sauteed some spinach and we opened a bottle of yummy wine and sat down to eat. It was so casual and easy, and after a few minutes, J. Po grinned and said, "I'm so happy right now." Now THAT was perfect. I still like to cook occasionally, and I love going out, but sometimes it feels like such an effort to get enough food into my body each day. (I blame Grace, because when I was nursing it really was almost impossible to keep myself fed adequately, and now I have to make sure SHE doesn't starve, or end up with scurvy.)


My food reality: this is as close as I've come to a "food pill." And you know what? Grace loves these.

The Move: Days Three and Four

Sunday: We spent a good chunk of the day arranging furniture, rugs, lamps, etc., all the while pleading, "Move, Grady -- I mean Brace." (If that little voice in your head ever tells you something is probably too heavy for you to pick up, listen to it.) We didn't have a refrigerator yet, since that little detail got lost in the flurry of paperwork, packing and procrastination, so we were subsisting entirely on food from a HUGE gift basket from our friend and realtor, Deborah. Who knew Jelly Bellies could give you such energy? They should be their own food group.

At some point our doorbell rang, and a neighbor from down the street was waiting on our front porch with his adorable little girl and A PLATE OF CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES. John and I must have looked like idiots, standing there with our mouths hanging open, so I explained that our first encounter with our old neighbors had to do with the weeds in our garden. That is why this is one of the happiest pictures I have ever taken:



Monday: Very first thing in the morning, I dashed out to my car to look for something and locked myself out of the house. With Grace inside. At this point I had met the neighbors on either side of us, and they had yet to see me in anything other than pajamas or a combination of pajamas and street clothes. The guy to the south let me use his phone to call a locksmith, and the guy to the north suggested that if I was going to make a habit of this, I might consider giving one of them a spare. I hadn't had any coffee and hadn't showered since Saturday morning, and Grace was inside wailing (a little melodramatically, I think), unable to get off the couch and OPEN THE DOOR FOR MOMMY, but I kept my cool. The locksmith was there in ten minutes, and I so wish I had taken his picture. He looked like a combination of Dennis Leary and Keith Richards, dressed all in black, with a silver chain on his pants and lots of silver rings. His tools looked nothing like those of other locksmiths who have come to my rescue, and I got the distinct impression he had decided burglary was just too risky these days and he might as well go straight and get paid for breaking into people's homes.

Later I went to buy a refrigerator, which I was dreading because the opening left by the builders would require a smaller than average fridge. But here I learned an important lesson: the fewer options you have, the easier it is to make a decision. I settled on one in less time than I've taken to pick out wine. Seconds after I got home, the truck pulled up and voilà! Isn't she pretty? Now we can have our Jelly Bellies chilled.

No picture. I think you'll understand why.

Grace and I were stocking up on household products at Target the other day, and once she finished her snack trap of dried cherries and threw her sippy cup on the floor so many times I confiscated it, she became bored. So she began amusing herself by sticking her hand down her throat until she gagged. Then she'd laugh at my expression of disgust and do it again. After a while I gave up trying to stop her and pretended to ignore her. The drooling should have warned me, but I was preoccupied with laundry detergent, and sure enough, she made herself vomit. Cherries. I just stood there asking her, "Are you kidding me?"

I understand the gagging thing is fun for kids and I needn't worry about bulimia, but is there no end to the ways she will embarrass us in public? Okay, I wasn't really embarrassed, but it was totally gross.

Giving thanks

To the cow, potatoes, green beans and grapes that gave their lives for our little feast, thank you. Oh, and to the pumpkin and whatever is in pie crust. (Apologies to our vegetarian friends.)


Grace was thankful that her Uncle Eddie played with her all night and shared his pie with her.

Flower power

After a day of taking care of the rugrat so that I could write uninterrupted, John fixed us a lovely dinner that included this work of art. I'm not sure Grace appreciated the aesthetic appeal, and she definitely didn't like the beets, but she loved the peas once we popped them out of their pods and made them go splink! splink! splink! on her plate.