I Am What I Chew

i do loves me some pig parts

So, after I met with my nutritionist (the lovely Nancy Bennett) in San Francisco, I walked a few blocks to the Ferry Building, which is in the shadow of the Bay Bridge. Yes, you can catch a ferry there, but most people go there to partake in the foodie experience.

Want gluten-free bread?  Organic pomegranates? Overpriced–er, I mean gourmet–chocolates? No prob. There’s a wine bar and a tea place, and if you are feeling a quart low, a fancy olive oil joint.

Of course, being the Midwest girl that I am, it was the lure of “tasty salted pig parts” that stopped me in my tracks.

I came, I inhaled, I took a photo.  But I did not eat the pig.

Instead, I got a glass of iced green tea and sat in the sunshine and looked at the Bay. It was a good day.

these are the devil's own wafers

Sweets are not on my food plan, so when the little cookie-pushers in the green berets came to the door, I rebuffed them with a “Thanks, we already bought some.”

Then, Keeper called my bluff and demanded some Trefoils or Samoas or even some of those Lemon Creme Thingies. I had to admit I was lying.

it wasn’t over. We were accosted outside the supermarket this weekend and we gave into the chocolaty temptation known as Thin Mints.  It is 4 days later and there are still a few left in that single box of succulent wafers, but only because of my white-knuckled willpower.

My aqua fitness teacher asked if I had ever had them frozen.”They’re scrumptious!” she declared.

No, I haven’t.  I don’t need them to be more delectable.  I need them to be way LESS yummy.

Girl Scouts, be gone! And take your overpriced boxes of sugary goodness with you!

canned dessert or medical condition?

Although I’m more open to new foods than I used to be (hello, rutabagas!) there are some things I refuse to put in my mouth.

Leave it to those silly British, who call Fries “chips” and chips “crisps.”

Instead of calling a sponge pudding with raisins a “sponge pudding with raisins” they dubbed it “spotted dick.” This, of course, is hilarious to us Americans, who will giggle uncontrollably at the mention of any anatomical reference.

Not only does it have a terrible name, but it’s made with shredded suet.

That’s right, beef fat.

I’ll pass.

what does this look like to you?

I’m always looking for ways to make myself love unfamiliar vegetables.  I don’t like to say “no” until I’ve tried at least different ways of fixing them.

So, I dug out a recipe that combined two vegetables on my list of Least Palatable Foods: bok choy and beets.

I followed the instructions to roast the beets in a foil packet in the oven with some olive oil and garlic.  When I removed the packet 40 minutes later, not only were the beets still hard, but the packet broke open and leaked all over the counter.

The recipe said to cook them and rub off the skins with a paper towel.  I stood there with beet blood all over my fingers, pot holders and countertops and thought, “Uh, no.”

I ended up sautéing the bok choy in olive oil with garlic and sea salt.  Put some feta cheese on top. Yummy.

The beets went in the garbage.  I don’t care how good they are for me – any veggie that makes my kitchen look like a murder scene is on the list called “Not Worth It.”

Lose that ugly fat!

We’ve all fallen for those ads that shout RAPID WEIGHT LOSS WITHOUT HUNGER!  Even though we know intellectually that the disclaimer “results not typical” means that they are lying, we want to believe the lie.

An article in SmartMoney talks about the lies that the diet business, a gazillion-dollar industry, perpetuates on us hopeful losers.

Here it is: 10 Things the weight-Loss Industry Won’t Say

I’ve been slowly slipping off the wagon.  First it was pizza, then it was Taco Bell, then the mother of all fast food: a quarter pounder with cheese and large fries.

Yesterday, I woke up feeling like total crap and for some reason, I didn’t make the connection between the junk I was eating and the junky way I felt.

Hey, we all need to keep re-learning the same stuff, right?

So, last night I downloaded “SuperSize Me” from Netflix.  I sat horrified as the story unfolded about what happened to the filmmaker’s body when he embarked on a month-long McBinge — eating nothing but McDonald’s, three times a day.

The person lolling about on the couch, too tired and depressed to get up and go to bed, was instantly recognizable.  It was me.

The scariest part of the movie talked about addiction.  The high-fat diet actually makes you crave more of the greasy stuff and provides a high when consuming it. Worse, McDonald’s knows it.  It’s engineered that way.

After nearly destroying his health, the hero goes back to his organic vegan lifestyle (his girlfriend is a chef).  It takes months to lose the weight (25 pounds) and the ill effects (high cholesterol, liver damage, vitamin deficiency) that came with his 30-day McDiet.

What he willingly did to himself, I (and millions of others) unconsciously do to our bodies every day.

I will never again see the golden arches as the gateway to fun.  Beyond them lies the grave.

Want a diploma? Lose the fat first.

Should colleges be allowed to deny diplomas to students who are overweight?  CNN reports that a college in Pennsylvania is refusing to graduate students with a Body Mass Index (BMI) of more than 29 unless they take a fitness course 3 hours a week.  Surprise, surprise–this has caused a bit of controversy.

As a born-again fitness nut, I applaud the intention, but the way the college is going about ensuring their graduates are fit is all wrong.  Why not just make the fitness course a mandatory class for all students?  That way, no one feels singled out for their physical attributes, something the administration has no business trying to regulate.

The law is tilting toward protecting employment rights of the overweight.  It is now considered discriminatory to refuse to hire someone just because they are overweight.  Of course, an employer can always offer a trumped-up reason.  There is a long, shameful history of this practice used to deny employment or housing to people of color.

There were no rights for chubbies  back in 1973, when I was applying for my first post-graduation job as a clerk at a hospital. (I had majored in anthropology, rendering myself unemployable except for my ability to type).

I spent 30 minutes filling out the comprehensive application form and handed it to the HR person,  She took one look at it and handed it back.  “I’m afraid you don’t meet our height-weight ratio,” she said.  At the time, I was 30 pounds overweight and couldn’t hide it.  Why-WHY?-didn’t she save me the half hour and the humiliation by telling  me the position had been filled?  There are times when a little fib is the kind thing to do.  I hung my head and slunk out the door.  Back home, I tried to drown my sorrow in Little Debbies. The shame hindered my dieting efforts for years.

Have  you ever faced discrimination because of your weight?

It helps to talk about it.

Only a mother could love this mean little persimmon-eater

This is a story about preconceptions.  When I lived in Indiana, we had a persimmon tree.  Every fall, the tree would produce copious amounts of small orange fruit that the local opossums loved.  (See mug shot at right).  I figured if an ugly, rat-tailed critter like the ‘possum loved persimmons, they were only fit for ugly, rat-tailed critters.

I put them on my “do not send” list when I signed up for “Farm Fresh to You,” a to-your-door organic produce service (more on this wonderment later).

Alas, my request was too late and my shipment arrived with half a dozen persimmons.

Now, my vow is to try any fruit or vegetable put in front of me, but I have to say I was afraid of that ‘possum fruit.  The persimmons of my youth were small, bitter, and hard unfit for human consumption unless laced with 3 pounds of sugar and cooked down to a jelly-like substance.

I found a recipe that used three kinds of fruit, courtesy of my organic farmer friends, and here’s what it looked like.

Winter Fruit Salad

The persimmons, which are hiding under the fuji apples and the satsuma mandarins, are as big as tomatoes and as sweet as peaches.

What a nice surprise.  I may even try brussels sprouts.

Nah.

where's the bacon? In my tummy-tum-tum.

Sometimes a girl has to have some meat.  Preferably, the highly processed kind that’s mostly fat and is laden with nitrates. Or nitrites.  Or whatever.

Such a day was today, and I took myself to the Omelet House, which was deserted at 10 am except for people speaking Albanian and Japanese.  I hunkered down with my breakfast while reading Hugh MacLeod’s “Ignore Everyone” and scarfed down the bacon, the English muffin, a couple forkfuls of hashbrowns, and some eggs.

I’ve been paying for it ever since.  After two months on a new regime of mostly veggies, my body can’t digest animal fat and simple carbs.  But, oh, what a nice, salty, crunchy plate of edible sin it was.

Corky, aka Little Miss FartyPants

When I talked my husband into getting a dog, a process that involved much manipulation and some outright lying, the thing that persuaded him the most was my promise to get lots of exercise walking our new fur baby.

Two years later, I’m getting lots of exercise, but not with the dog.

Corky, our French Bulldog, is what can nicely be referred to as “untrainable.”  In other words, she’s stupid.  She still doesn’t understand that the halter and leash mean serious power walking, not a zig-zag nose-to-the-ground sniff fest. You’d be surprised how strong a 25-pound bulldog can be.  She pulls me all over the neighborhood in search of the latest messages posted by other dogs on fence posts and car tires.  Here’s a message for you: hurry up and squat!

True to the spirit of my promise, I am getting a lot more exercise now that we have a dog.  Here’s how I do it.  I take Corky out for a quick pee, put her in her crate and then get in the car and drive to the Y.