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the tables turned

Or, how I was outed at Trader Joe’s.

So you know how the employees at Trader Joe’s are all chipper and friendly? Well, my checkout clerk on that Friday afternoon was no exception. It was the end of a long work week, and though I was tired and anxious just to get home, there was still the shopping to get done. I wove my way quickly through the store, stocking my cart well. As I rounded the final corner from the far aisle, I was glad to see that there was an open checkout lane. With the late hour and the subsiding commuter traffic, this was likely to be my last stop for the day.

refreshment-768743__180The checkout set up at Trader Joe’s is unusual. Your cart goes one way, while you go the other. Rather than allowing for the often awkward and yet inward zen task of unloading your own groceries, here, by receiving your full cart, the clerk both unloads and scans for you. Here you come face to face with your clerk more immediately and this results in your connection unfolding both more quickly and more intimately–and usually quite cheerfully. They maintain greater contact with your food–that which you have selectively chosen to feed yourself and maybe your family–than at most regular markets.

Having just turned over custody of my cart, I suddenly found myself in a conversation about cats. Apparently, if not for her mother’s allergy, my adorable, young clerk would have a cat because she loves them. I quickly realized that the cat food I was purchasing had prompted the comment and suddenly I was revealing that I had two cats. Most people I work with every day don’t know that about me.

I tried to bring the topic back to groceries by offering to help bag, but that resulted in a friendly argument. She counseled that I take the checkout experience as an opportunity to relax while I insisted that I did not find bagging to be stressful and that my help would expedite matters and could get me home sooner. I won that one, but clearly, in the process, our professional/client relationship had deepened. While I usually conduct my nutritional assessments and evaluations in the privacy of an office, this dedicated professional offered her services right in the checkout lane. As my purchases transferred rhythmically from her hands to mine, she hesitated and looked me in the eyes, and said, “Oh, I thought you were a vegetarian.”  I looked down as she passed me the plastic-wrapped piece of salmon that was swimming along solo in the long queue of plant-based products.

I stuttered and stammered. Believe you me. I have stood on many a grocery-style line with a keen eye going through the contents of the carts around me. I am a nutritionist so I am apt to assess for the number of essential amino acids, calculate the percentage of the daily value for manganese and vanadium–and to make judgments. But, here, the tables were turned. The little punk of a young woman had my number. The words fell clumsily from my mouth as they tried to follow orders from command central. I could have just said it was for my cats. But, instead, I explained that I was a vegetarian, but that on occasion I do eat some fish. “Oh”, she corrected, “A pescetarian.” I balked as I felt I was being assigned to the wrong religion, maybe like being called a Methodist when you were, in fact, a Lutheran.

The arena of eating patterns does not make easy allowances for any gray areas. You either are or you aren’t. But still, I doth protested. The date of this encounter coincided with my 40th anniversary of becoming a vegetarian. It was a long time ago–I was a teenager– but I am pretty certain that it was in the month of May. During these forty years, I have only once eaten meat when I chose to have a few bites of turkey at a NOFA conference in Vermont. And, only a spoonful of times I have allowed a chicken stock-based soup to pass my lips.

But it is true that I have eaten fish and seafood. I have had years where I did not eat any, and in recent years have largely avoided it due to myriad reasons, but more than not it has been there as a backup. Some of these were times of surrender like when I needed to appease my mom; or when traveling made vegetarian options hard to find. But, more often it was a conscious choice–albeit a choice of exception. I mainly choose “pesce” when eating out–especially when at a seaside location; when I feel like my body needs a denser or “yang” protein; when I think that I might benefit from a dose of fish nutrients; or when it will just be nicely satisfying. A fish-based soup on a cold winter’s night might fit this bill. I eat fish maybe once per month. That piece of salmon that I just put into my shopping bag was likely to find itself shelved in my freezer for a while and might eventually be consumed by Pete–a 41-year long vegetarian who also just occasionally eats fish.

There is no arguable rationale, but I still clamor to consider myself a vegetarian. I carry an identity with this definition and it guides my ethical and social compass. In some ways, it does serve as my religion and it begs many questions regarding behavior as religion is apt to do. It is most certainly my favorite cuisine and I bask in nature’s brilliance and creativity of plant offerings. Nutritionally, it seems to serve me though I have little data for comparison. Forty years of many types of beans, kernels of grains, colors of vegetables, with nary a need for a table knife most certainly buys me membership in the club–maybe within an “essentially vegetarian” or “low pescetarian” category. At least, I should not have to be explaining myself or justifying this to a random check out clerk, right? Even if her parents are vegan and she’s been vegan her entire life as she then did go on to share with me at the end of my babbling. I would peg her at twenty-two years at best, so I still have a few nuts and seeds on her.

Still, the encounter did make me ponder my attachment to this aspect of my life and what it represents. Though maintaining a non-carnivorous diet is a lot easier than it was forty years ago, with vegetarian and vegan options now more widely available and even commonplace, the whole matter of who we are as eaters has become way more complicated with many different belief systems to be an adherent to. What did I need to defend and what else would I defend so stridently?

As I finished up my bagging duties, she said, “Oh, I see you didn’t purchase many dairy products”, further assessing the plant-based percentage of my diet. She actually got a good glimpse and did a pretty good analysis. Such work is much easier from that platform instead of relying on diet recalls or scribbled and food-stained dietary records as I traditionally have had to do.

I paid for the consult, I mean groceries and loaded the bags back into the cart. I started for the exit thinking we were done. But, there was one more thing. “Oh”, she giddily exclaimed as I walked away, “I love your socks!” Once again she had surprised me. I realized I was wearing a funky yellow paisley pair that was peeking out from the bottom of my skirt and through the top of my shoes. I smiled. Maybe we could just be friends.

Thank you for listening, sharing, following and supporting my writing. Please subscribe in the sidebar to receive notice of new posts. Comments and greetings always welcome.

In health, Elyn

vegetables-1085063_1920

Vegetable My Plate                    Image by Deborah Breen Whiting from Pixabay

 

My Plate Haiku

Do you carrot all for me?

My heart beets for you, with your turnip nose and your radish face,

You are a peach. If we cantaloupe, lettuce marry.

Weed make a swell pear.

Author unknown

where has all the produce gone?

Perhaps it is due to the recent one year anniversary of the passing of Pete Seeger that has this title coming to mind–but this is something I have been thinking about for a while.

I have had a few experiences lately, where a brilliant idea of mine that I have kept gestating in some corner of my mind, waiting for just the right labor to bring forth, is birthed by someone else–and I read about it somewhere. I hate when that happens, especially as brilliance is not my forte and such ideas are few and far between. And, so now I must act quickly to share–and thus take credit–for these rare flashes of genius. 

As you may know, I have been swimming around in this primordial soup for many years–somewhat akin to, um, yes, let me see, ah yes, the great Soviet biologist Alexander Oparin–father of the primordial soup theory–seeking answers to some of life’s most pressing questions. While Mr. Oparin had been searching for the origin of life on Earth, I am anxious to find a solution to this little problem of sanely feeding the carbon-ignited populace of whom he divined the spark.

I was already concocting my own brilliant idea when a friend sent me this article, Can America Learn to Love Misshapen Veggies? by Elizabeth Segran. It is about the vision of Doug Rauch–the former president of Trader Joe’s– to create markets for oft misshapen produce and other food that might otherwise be headed prematurely and unnecessarily into the waste stream. Having seen the high degree of such waste and the exorbitant cost of such a loss while hunger is rampant in our country, he is experimenting with opening grocery stores that would sell such abandoned produce at low-cost in high-need neighborhoods. He seems to know a thing or two about the grocery business, and I am glad to learn of his concern and his efforts. Maybe he’ll like my idea–it is along the same lines.

You see, kind of like Sisyphus, I am among those dedicated to rolling a giant Hubbard squash up to the top of a mountain, only to have it roll back down again–ceaselessly repeating the effort. Sisyphus’ fate “as much through his passions as through his torture”–is similar to the plight of the modern-day nutritionist. “Eat your vegetables!”, we implore. “Three cups a day!” “Eat all the colors of the rainbow!” We beg, we cajole, we try to be cute. We strive mightily to bring the veggies to the people, but we can’t make them eat. (Horses, on the other hand, accept them rather well.) Undaunted, like Sisyphus, we perforce keep trying.

Albert Camus, in The Myth of Sisyphus, states that the gods had condemned Sisyphus to his labor, reasoning that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor. But, he continues, “If one believes Homer, Sisyphus was the wisest and most prudent of mortals.” Ah! My personal interpretation of the text provides some vindication for our insanity.

Vegetables can be daunting to buy, prepare and cook. They can be expensive. When they go bad they look quite sad. Certain vegetables require strong muscles, a good set of sharp knives, and a certain finesse to commandeer properly. As a food group they are complex and complicated, and many times a relationship with them must be carefully nurtured. Some challenge the taste buds with a propensity to be bitter or earthy. Plus, they often carry baggage from our collective childhoods.

But, they are so gooooood! And, rich in vitamins, minerals, fiber, Omega-3s, enzymes and phytonutrients to help our hearts, bones, skin, hydration, and mood–they are good for us! The benefits of a plant-rich diet are well established, and with so many different types, including what I might like to think of as a starter kit vegetables for the disinclined, there are plenty for all to enjoy and benefit from–in spite of early experiences. But, with so many real and perceived obstacles, to the chagrin of Mr. Rauch and myself–many march needlessly to their unconsumed demise, after much time, love, care, and commitment were dedicated to their growth by hard-working farmers. Some, just because they do not meet the standard definition of beauty.

So, my basic idea is this: In an effort funded and supported by health care collaborations, corporate and/or governmental subsidies–grocery stores, and other appropriate establishments should create space for the preparation of freshly made, nutrient-blessed vegetable-based juice–oh, and yes, soup–for sale to the public at an affordable cost. Incentives for purchase by SNAP (Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program formerly known as food stamps) recipients could be implemented, similar to those being offered at Farmer’s Markets. These products can be available year-round in frequented food environments.

Vegetable juices and soups (made with well-prepared broths that can also utilize other ingredients that might otherwise be wasted–such as meat bones) are perhaps the simplest health-promoting and disease-preventing foods available. Increasing the exposure to and ease of access and consumption of these may be a powerful antidote to the scourges of our chronic health ills. Call me naive, but my experience informs me that many appreciate the taste of health–particularly when health has become an elusive concept. Returning health to our food establishments is mildly becoming a not so foreign idea. In my nearby city, a local health insurer and the YMCA have partnered with a food chain–and health classes and services are offered right in the grocery store. And golly, our supermarkets often house pharmacies–so, why not grandma’s penicillin?

The benefits of my little “Primordial Soup and Juice Program” include opportunities to expand vegetable education, improve the visibility of nutrition specialists, eliminate barriers to vegetable purchasing and intake, and affirm the age-old wisdom of food as medicine. Plus, it can contribute to the reduction of food waste and spare the feelings of those poor misshapen vegetables. What well-intentioned juice or soup maker would not warmly welcome them? Right, Mr. Rauch?

Oh, and Pete, Where has all the produce gone? Thirty-one percent of it into the waste stream, everyone. When will we ever learn? When will we ever learn? New verse: Assimilated well into our cells, everyone. Any thoughts to help embellish this vision?

Thank you for listening, sharing, following and supporting my writing. Please subscribe in the sidebar to receive notice of new posts. Comments and greetings always welcome.

In health, Elyn 

Update March 8, 2015. Just elaborating by suggesting that this idea can be implemented in our schools as well as in all of our subsidized food programs serving both young children and adults in group care facilities

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Mock Turtle’s  My Plate Plate

My Plate Poem

Beautiful soup so rich and green

Waiting in a hot tureen

Who for such dainties would not stoop

Soup of the evening beautiful soup. by The Mock Turtle

 

beatific untrodden twelvemonth

Beatific untrodden twelvemonth! This is my alternative greeting for the advent of the new year. Besides doubling the number of syllables, I think it also increases the intensity of possibility, suggests that we can go somewhere never before ventured, and adds a sprinkle of Shakespearean flavor.

As we reckon time in yearly increments, here are a few basic numbers as concerns annual dietary matters. At a minimum, given a structure of three basic meals per day, or two and a snack, we eat 1,095 times between the beginning of January and the end of December. If we bring that up to five times per day, influenced by a meal plus snack pattern or a small frequent meal philosophy, we are up to 1,825 intimate interactions with placing food in our mouths as we are buckled in for our celestial journey. Add in the multiple nibbles that usually enhance our existence, and the number grows even higher.

Each food encounter also reflects a commitment of time in regard to food procurement, preparation, consumption, digestion and usually some cleanup. Hmmm, let’s see. If I take an estimated average of 1,500 feeding encounters per year and multiply that by some unscientific number of minutes per encounter of sixty-four, we spend 79,500 minutes, 1600 hours, 66 days or 2.4 lunar orbits per year keeping ourselves alive (or killing ourselves) with food.

This, of course, does not take into account how much time we spend thinking about food and thinking about what we think about food. To figure that out would require some advanced calculus, but I can tentatively say it even exceeds the number of times men are purported to think about sex. My recent inquiry into the matter seems to debunk the every seven seconds or 7,200 times per day oft-quoted in scientific or urban myth circles with newer research suggesting that it may be as low as one time per day. Whether there is a direct or inverse relationship with food thoughts is still open for investigation.

In my own role as homo sapiens eater blessed with options and plenitude, I have to acknowledge my own challenges, decide which I wish to or can address, and stop and make adjustments to my own way and style of eating as well. My decisions are based largely on environmental or sustainability concerns and maintaining health. Not everyone needs to be inclined toward putting their attention to matters of diet, but it seems like many are ultimately forced to do so when our mortal coils doth protest too much.

As I remain vigilant observing the cultural messages about food and eating that bombard us, the food environments that surround us, the toxic insults to our planet, the stressful eating habits of the masses, the angst and agita that accompany us and the consequences associated with the whole gestalt, my dilemma that is sensitive to the complexities of human behavior and the realities that define our lives, feels an increased compunction to guide towards increasing the capacity to nourish in a way that we all deserve and that serves us individually and as a society.

In the spirit of the beatific untrodden twelvemonth, I would like to give you an opportunity to share a glimpse of your internal dialogue. This is not an exercise in divulging deep secrets, but more of an inventory of the challenges, barriers, that confront us or positive intentions or actions that may be available to us all. May it be a chance to shed an ounce of the burden of our thoughts which often goes unspoken and becomes an insidious mantra that gnaws away at our nexus of well-being; or to be a way to gain a pound of insight to inspire personal (or community) action for change. Might it just make one of those 1,500 feeding encounters or 79,500 food-related minutes a little better for you, and maybe for those you love too, in this new year.

Here is one for me. (There are no formatting rules.) I give myself permission to sit and smell the (matcha) tea as a reminder to hydrate more, inhale and ingest the gifts of the plant world, worry less and allow for grace to happen with more trust and less force.

I give you good morrow, and well be with you.

Vous souhaiter une bonne et heureuse annee remplie de peche et une bonne sante.

Thank you for listening, sharing, following and supporting my writing. Please subscribe in the sidebar to receive notice of new posts. Comments and greetings always welcome.

Wishes for a happy new year filled with peace and good health, Elyn

susan plate

Oriental My Plate

 My Plate Haiku 

Deep scarlet red beets

Reveal your sweetness to me

Slip out of your skins.

by Elyn

the cookies are coming, the cookies are coming!

I did not consider that the setting would be more than nutritionally neutral. It was a required training on a non-nutritional topic at an off-site setting dedicated to health. Though it was an all-day event, I did not know it included lunch, so I had my own packed in my bag. If anything, I supposed it would include the perfunctory coffee and some offering of basic breakfast carbohydrates to start the day and amuse the attendees, but that would be it. My, was I in for a surprise.

have your peeps call my peeps

have your peeps call my peeps

It was a cold morning so I was glad for the teabag and hot water. But, as I found myself in line with the others waiting for their morning jolt, I, of course, noticed what was available, and reflected on how nutritional awareness now means let’s serve some fruit along with the wide array of pasty pastries. I am more disheartened about such food offerings in my professional settings where health and nutrition are purported to matter. Still, having a day out of the office, to learn about the proper design of research studies, I thought I would pass the day imagining myself as a research scientist, rather than a nutritionist. Increasingly, I find myself interested in matters of investigation and evaluation, and though I lean strongly toward the qualitative, I like to unveil that quantitative data as well.

The presenters were all quite knowledgeable and held my attention with their touches of humor and accessibility, despite the somewhat dry subject matter. At the end of the morning, we were ushered across the hallway for the lunch–which apparently was provided– and consisted of a selection of sandwiches and wraps, bags of chips, cans of soda and bottles of water. As I looked down the three long lines of tables where we were sitting, my clearly not quieted nutritionist mind acted up. I was tempted to count how many people had chosen a soda and what kind and to then count the total number of people and begin some analysis.

Just as I reminded myself to not play probing, annoying nutritionist, the facilitator took to the microphone and informed the group about the schedule for the afternoon sessions. He then apologized that the cookies had not arrived but that they would be coming soon. The group emitted a palpable response. And, when at break time he did announce the advent of the cookies, as promised, the audience broke into applause. Really, the previously lackluster assemblage of folk, mainly there due to the mandatory nature of the event, responded with animated cheering. Forget the soda study. Where was my neurobiology team when I needed them to measure the excited brainwaves in the prefrontal cortex when exposed to just the anticipation of a sugary surge? I observed the same sparks in the eyeballs of those three-year-olds who just the week before had come to my door disguised as pirates demanding candy. Wow. But, there was still one more twist to come.

As the group got up to dive into and divvy up the cookie bounty, I headed down to the bathroom. On my way back, a woman was heading in my direction. My own brain flipped into one of its pre-programmed reactions. Young, attractive, stylish–I suddenly feel quite bad about myself. As we got closer, she held up a cookie to me and said, “Yeah, I know I am so bad.”

Shocked out of my own internal self-admonishment, I asked, surprised, “What?” She said, “I know I shouldn’t be eating this, but I can’t help myself. I am sure this is emotional eating. I should be better tomorrow. This was a tough week.” Confused and concerned, I said, “I am sorry, but why are you telling me this?” She reminded me that she knew I was a nutritionist because we had come upon each other while walking near my office the month before, and I had told her what division I worked in. We had talked together for about five minutes before we went our separate ways. Now, here, out of context, it took me a moment to recognize her.

Stupidly grasping for something to say, I stuttered, “Then, if I have any power granted in me as a nutritionist in this very moment, please do not feel guilty and bad about yourself because of a cookie.” “Thank you, Elyn”, she said, sounding relieved as she walked away. She had only just shared a common feeling that many suppress. But her conflict makes her a potential subject for this big human study of who we are as eaters–along with all the rest of us. We are tasked with needing to be cognizant of our food choices, in a toxic food environment, while mysterious uncontrollable drives often control our behaviors. Pretty complicated stuff, this eating thing, aye matey?

Well, I really am quite aware that any situation can present me with a nutritional conundrum. This one concerned how a little cookie can magnify our longing, our regret and all the places in-between. In response, may I suggest that as best you can, nourish yourself in many ways, observe what lights up your prefrontal cortex, avoid long boring meetings, and most of all be gentle and loving with yourself.

Thank you for listening, sharing, following and supporting my writing. Please subscribe in the sidebar to receive notice of new posts. Comments and greetings always welcome.

In health, Elyn

By my own personal accounting, this is the 100th post of the Nutritionist’s Dilemma, and as you can see, the dilemmas persist. To help me embark on the next hundred, if you are a subscriber, regular reader, occasional visitor, or someone who has just stumbled upon my blog, I would greatly appreciate your taking a moment to: write a comment (below) to let me know how my writings resonate (cogent, amusing, inspiring, galvanizing) or just that you were here (Hi El, Yes, I DO read your blog); share one of my posts (forward to a friend or share on Facebook); click an available like button; subscribe (on side); or invite me on some interesting joint venture to change the world, near or far. 

(I would also love some new haikus as I am now relying on ones written by a cat.)

A deep thank you to those of you who have supported my humble efforts to give voice to my experience and to feed my quiet muse.

Blessings to all and Happy Thanksgiving!

My Plate

My Plate

 My Plate Haiku

I lick your nose, I lick your nose again

I drag my claws down your eyelids

Oh, you’re up? Feed me.

By a cat

from I Could Pee on This and other poems by cats collected by Francesco Marciuliano

eye of the newt–the halloween report

The week of Halloween is usually the busiest one of the year for me. I have described before the antics of my next-door neighbors, Amy and Eric, and the going-ons in my little village. But this year things were truly larger than life with the celebration of the Day of the Dead and all whom that invites. So, this past week was crazier than usual with many attendant dilemmas.

It all started out with my fire belly newt. I wrote about Everest, a few years back in Feeding Things. Recently, Everest has not been doing well. He became quite bloated and was eating less and moving less than even usual. After thirteen years with us, I thought maybe his time had come. On several occasions, I declared and bemoaned with certainty that he was dead, and each time I did, he’d surprise me by appearing in a different part of his tank. I was actually pretty upset because thirteen years with anything, including a pretty little amphibian involves some emotional attachment. But, what was I to do?

Zena intervened by finding a nearby reptile and amphibian veterinarian. Yikes! Just when I thought I should let nature take its course, I found myself at the beginning of the week, on Zena’s birthday, at the vet. I figured I should do it for her and besides, the newt had never needed much of anything before. It was her wish to get a newt when she was in first grade, and here she was in college, asking me to please do something. Well, that was a rather surreal experience. They brought in big heat lamps, and that vet whisked dear Everest up out of his tank for a full physical examination. His eyes were declared clear, his will forces strong–as he would not open his mouth, but his prognosis poor.

Though I was anxious to get home to get ready for Zena’s birthday dinner, I waited as a few remedies were prescribed including a highly nutritious food powder that I need just mix with water and get down his throat. I drove home wondering if I had done the right thing. But, I knew this was going to be a crazy week with lots happening, so I set Everest up in a new spot with a new light, and decided to accept whatever was to be without much more intervention. Still, I was aware that it was interesting that my newt story was transpiring just in time for Halloween. Even Leah’s Cakery, the incredible bakery (and more) in the village was serving up Eye of the Newt Soup in the spirit of the upcoming holiday.

We had a lovely dinner with Zena, but that was just the beginning. When you live next door to people whose Halloween display is so elaborate that the mayor decrees that the street gets blocked off, you cannot just sit by and do nothing. None of that, “Oh, no, we don’t get many trick-or-treaters.” Only the pressure I feel to impress the “Joneses” by making some humble effort to make my house look spooky–one year it was a little Snoopy cut out that said “BOO”–allows me to preoccupy myself and forget that this holiday is a nutritionist’s nightmare.

I did not go and buy any candy, but neither did I have time to go figure out a substitute. Last year I gave out little adorable fruit and vegetable stickers (big hit) but this year my source was dried up. I dragged a huge tree limb out of the woods for my Edgar Allen Poe inspired decorative theme, I dug out the pumpkin and skull lights, I found the stuffed crows and owls and, I went in search of pumpkins–which are hard to come by when you wait till the end. Then mid-week, I remembered it was my turn to be the birthday “bunny” at work which means I had to prepare a little celebration for the person whose birthday it was in my unit, which in this case turned out to be my boss. That involved some agita and concern whether my low sugar baking would be enough to impress.

In the midst of this, I did try to go find something to humor the little children enough that they wouldn’t notice that they were not receiving any candy. I arrived at a local dollar store only to find that they were closing in a few days and that the shelves were pretty bare. However, I managed to gather up a few packs of some type of crayon markers–and a new cat poop scooper.

When Pete arrived home from being out-of-town, he found the measly amount of markers in a box by the door. He looked at me and said he would go buy some candy. Still, even what you think might be enough is never enough and always exceeds what my conscience can abide.

Friday morning, Halloween Day arrived. Though I had wedged the big tree limb onto my porch, there was still some decorating to do. And, while the pumpkins had been eviscerated, they still needed to be carved. On top of everything, the next day was Pete’s birthday, and I hoped to celebrate it with the guests who were coming for Halloween which included Zena and some of her college friends, and Pete’s sister and brother-in-law.

I checked on the newt. Amazingly as the days had passed his bloating had decreased and he seemed a little more active than he had in weeks. I looked him in the eye and wished him a Happy Halloween. He gave me a little wink. Heading out to work, I ran into Leah’s. Leah is truly a wizardess and had conjured up the most adorable little Halloween chocolate cakes. I described the situation and she magically added the words Happy Birthday above the frosting skeleton.

I got to work and begged for a slightly early release, which was granted. I raced home. My street was blocked with those orange cones reminding me that I could not even park in front of my house. The clock was ticking as I walked over from where I was able to leave my car, carrying the cake and finalizing my game plan. The little kiddies would start arriving any minute. I put up the butternut squash, sweet potato and pumpkin soup in the cauldron, my witches beta-carotene brew antidote for too much candy. I stood above the pumpkins, wielded a knife and recited the spell for quick inspiration for carving ideas. And, I stuck Zena’s stuffed sloth as the final touch on the tree limb. I responded to the first rings of the doorbell and ran outside to watch as the first visitors took in the wonder of it all. Pete then arrived home, just in time to become the official greeter and dispenser while I hung back in the kitchen. The onslaught was intense.

So, here is this year’s report from the field. As the monsters, princesses, zombies, pirates, dice, skeletons and lions arrived at the door, the orifices of their candy collecting devices agape, Pete asked, “Which would you prefer?” “You can either have some chocolate or candy just like at every other house, OR, you can have some (state of the art) markers.” Well, though I am not sure the survey would meet the rigors of the scientific method, the results suggest about a thirty percent response rate for the markers. Really! Amid the din of shrieks for chocolate, I heard, “Wow! Markers are great! I love markers. Yeah, cool, thanks.” In fact, the response rate was so high that we had to start breaking down the four packs and handing out individual ones. That was just about the time that we ran out of candy too. Emergency measures were put in place temporarily until the situation could be resolved–which was when I ran to my other neighbor, Carrie Woerner who is running for State Assembly, and she handed over to me some of her reserves.

So, along with the spirits, many questions floated in the air. What is it that we are truly seeking and craving? What other tokens of love and fun can we share? When is enough enough? When do we saturate? What are the deeper implications? And, should you force-feed a newt?

Well, maybe I am a party pooper (and a kitty poop scooper) but it is complicated. When the night finally quieted down and the goblins returned to their homes, Pete and I wandered over to Amy and Eric’s to see how they were doing. The candy quandary question arose. Amy, always creative even when utterly exhausted gave me an idea. Next year, I will honor the holiday by giving out some nice little bags of herbs tied up with a sweet little greeting. Perhaps some chamomile, yarrow or mugwort. Ah, yes–mugwort. The makings of a gentle potion to put the children peacefully to sleep. No sugar crash and good for parents too.

Oh, well. It’s over. The squirrels have already eaten away at the pumpkins, the newt is still alive, and tomorrow is Election Day. If you live in my district, please vote for Carrie!

Thank you for listening, sharing, following and supporting my writing. Please subscribe in the sidebar to receive notice of new posts. Comments and greetings always welcome.

In health, Elyn

Any related Halloween anecdotes to share? Please do.

Related Posts: Post Halloween Post and The Nightmare Before Halloween

P.S. Carrie did win the Assembly seat.

photo 3 - Edited

Leah’s My Plate

My Plate Haiku

What’s with my tummy

Expanding and contracting

Like the moon above.

by David

 

brought to tears

I actually found it in a garbage can at the Health Department where I now work. I’d been trying to get my little fingers on one of these for a while, so I was not totally put off by its lowly circumstances. It really should have been in the recycling bin at least, but there it lay, abandoned, thankfully right on top. I gingerly lifted it from its resting place of refuse and walked it right over to a nearby sink. tissues-1000849_1920

I unscrewed the cap which I was about to discard until I noticed that it too was an artifact of interest to me– but that was secondary to the bottle, at least for starters. The bottle was still half full or half empty, so my next quasi-distasteful act was to pour the hazardous saliva-mixed remains down the drain despite my uncertainty regarding proper disposal procedures for what might be considered a toxic substance.

A few months back I had become aware of some new Coca-Cola campaign entitled Share A Coke. Cans and bottles of the ubiquitous beverage now have one of about 250 first names, like Debbie, along with other emotionally tinged monikers like Bestie, Grillmaster, Wingman, Mom and Dad prominently displayed on the label under the directive to Share a Coke with the dearly imprinted. Just hearing about this manipulation of the human psyche triggered my shivers down the spinal reflex. But, when I began to see the bottles for sale in my local convenience store and in the cafeteria in my office building it was downright spooky. But, here I was now, up close and personal with one.

Things must have been getting pretty bad over there at Coca-Cola. Previous promises of perpetual happiness associated with imbibing the sugar-laden, highly acidic, caffeine-laced, teeth-rotting, gut-deteriorating, illness-promoting fizzy elixir must have begun to go flat. Were sales lagging? Was the logo no longer recognizable the world over? What else could have initiated a marketing blitz that reeks of malevolence as it strives to ensnare our fragile egos and enslave our purchasing behaviors?

I remember being excited when those little mini license plates with names on them that you could attach to your bike seat first came out. But, I also recall the immediate chagrin when you could not find your own name hanging from the metal display rack. Suddenly you felt second-rate, not worthy of a plate. I am not certain of all of the psychological underpinnings that are attached to this probably billion-dollar campaign, but I am sure they are many. Does seeing our name emblazoned in such a public way make us feel validated, loved, powerful and more connected in this alienated world?

I don’t really get the campaign. I am sure, most of the time, you have to buy a bottle with someone else’s name on it. How much can you bother to search for a bottle that idolizes yourself or a loved one? Must you settle for John when you are really seeking Mario? And then, what if you don’t have a person to share it with? That is probably what happened to my bottle, Nicole. Half-finished and tossed aside, unshared and hopes dashed. Even the reward points offered on the cap were left unclaimed and discarded. Reward points? Really?

I don’t want to go any further on this except to say that this unbridled assault on our health through such methods of aggressive advertising can and does bring me to tears. I’ve written about this before. One does not have to look too hard to see the real rewards of such consumption, but you have to care to be looking and looking to care. I am too verklempt even thinking about needing to reiterate the effects of these substances anymore.

Originally, the reason I wanted to get a bottle without purchase was to be able to include it as a photo for this post–but now I don’t even wish to give it any publicity or visibility. We are clearly easy targets for seduction even when clearly it is not in our best interest. So, Nicole will now go directly into my recycling bin and instead, I am posting a photo of a box of tissues. My only hope is that an unexpected outcome of the campaign will be that with all that sharing of cans and bottles, per capita consumption will actually shrink by at least half.

Anyway, while there are sad tears there are also happy ones. I specialize in both. Recently, while also at work–it may have even been the same day that I retrieved the Coke bottle, I received an email from the Alliance for a Healthier Generation. It included a video that spotlighted healthy and healing practices being undertaken at the West Side High School for at-risk students in New York City through a powerful investment in a gardening program, real food, and intensive physical activity– by a dedicated and devoted principal and staff.

Thirty-six seconds in and there I was bawling (yes) in my little, oh not so private cubicle. In my last post, Childhood Awareness Month Obesity, I wrote about my reservations about the bulk of nutrition and health activities being directed at obesity prevention efforts whereas I believe the implications and consequences of our cultural dietary and health insults are so much greater. I did not get much response on that so I would still be interested in hearing your thoughts. But, in this video, simply and beautifully, a young woman named Tenia expresses why eating proper foods is important for both emotional and physical well-being–aside from weight-based associations.

This glimpse of transformation that occurs when the birthright of health is granted, when it is given priority and nurtured, and not compromised by those so willing to sacrifice our young in an endless pursuit of profit is worth viewing. I highly recommend it. Here is the link. Note, don’t forget the tissues.

Just a mention that my own recent favorite brew has been matcha, a fine green tea powder. I enjoy it as a tea or mixed in smoothies. It is fuller or richer than regular green tea and it gently provides a touch of focus and energy. I was initiated with a gift of a package of Matcha from Kiss Me Organics that was exceptionally pleasant and which has become a welcomed part of my day and my diet. There are many benefits of matcha to explore and it can be incorporated into many recipes. Give it a peek.

Thank you for listening, sharing, following and supporting my writing. Please subscribe in the sidebar to receive notice of new posts. Comments and greetings always welcome.

Na area da saude, Elyn

Related Posts: Private Health, Childhood Awareness Month Obesity, So-Duh

Nirinjan's Plate

Nirinjan’s My Plate

My Plate Haiku

It is easier

To reprimand the sinner

Than change the system.

by Julie

coming full circle (a blog tour)

When my friend Kat came meowing at my door last week and asked if I wanted to be part of a blog tour for writers on writing, I responded affirmatively. Mainly, I think I was trying to impress her–or at least not disappoint. Other possible invites from Kat might result in me kayaking down frightening rapids or stumbling behind in one of those extreme obstacle course races like Tough Mudder. No way would I have the courage for what those odysseys entail. I am not sure I am endowed with that many lives. But for this request, I so wished to appear brave and was actually quite humbled to find that she might consider me a fellow wordsmith. For you see, when Kat is not physically competing with the big boys, she is doing some serious kickass and beautiful writing.

What this blog tour entails is that bloggers write about their process on writing, and then pass the baton on to two other bloggers. I see it as kind of one of those old school chain letters which I was always a sucker for, though in truth they never brought me much beyond some postcards from remote strangers and some dish towels. But, hey, what’s wrong with that? Who doesn’t love receiving some nice mail and who doesn’t need extra dish towels?

So, here I am on the blog tour, though feeling I could still use a life jacket and some oars. Because, really, on a good day, rather than being a writer who writes about nutrition, I am a nutritionist who manages to do some writing. But, here I am. So, if you would do me a favor and not tell Kat that I am faking it, I will proceed and answer the requisite questions.

1. What are you working on?

Well, I am working on coming full circle in some way by reaching 100 posts on this blog–a long-held intention. I am hovering in the high nineties, but I have to be honest with myself and push a little harder because I did re-post some older pieces a few times. My blogging has been hindered significantly this year due to two things. The first was finishing a master’s degree–which I did! And, the second is that I am writing a seemingly simple curriculum for preschoolers (and their parents) that has managed to rub all the words right out of me. I am hoping that upon the upcoming completion of that, my musings here will again flow more freely. I would also like to attract some guest writers who may also help me reach my goal (hint). With that, I am trying to figure out what new directions to take with my blog. Make it a little sexier or just cease and desist.

2. How does my writing differ from others’ work in the same genre?

After having worked in what I call the “trenches” of nutrition for many years, I climbed out one day in the early to mid-oughts to find that the entire field had actually exploded–figuratively. Nutrition had become a huge topic that everyone was talking about. The food pyramid was beginning to crumble and there was much rebuilding to be done. Suddenly, there seemed to be new foods and ways of preparing them, uncovered connections between health and nutrition, and a myriad of environmental impacts related to food choices. These topics were on everyone’s mind and being addressed and expressed in powerful and creative ways. Oh yeah, and the “obesity crisis” was looming large. In this new order, there was action and reaction–lots being said and more being felt. What may, if anything, make my writing unique is its attempt to reflect the experience of the individual against the backdrop of this overwhelming modern cultural milieu of food and eating.

3. Why do you write what you do?

One day, while munching on some kale chips, it dawned on me that I had been privileged to be privy to thousands of people’s stories of being eaters. The “Jane the Eaters” so to speak. Rather unplanned, a career had unfolded that found me sitting in small, private rooms in various settings listening to tales of confusion, pain, self-berating, and guilt about the love of food, all in response to the care and feeding of the human body. And, I was hearing the stories that were spilling out onto the street as well. This week, while getting my hair cut, I discerned through the whir of the blow dryer that the client in the next chair was telling her stylist that her daughter was struggling with an eating disorder. The stylist responded matter-of-factly that when she goes out to eat, she pours water on her food to stop herself from overeating. The next day, I passed a huge semi-truck. It had a picture of thick slabs of meat plastered on its side. The truck asked, “Have I had my Tyson’s today?” Well, I don’t know if that answers the question, but bearing witness to such juxtaposed experiences, somehow compels me to write what I write about– with some hope that it can help people to be a little kinder and gentler with themselves.

4. How does my process work?

Not well, I suppose. I wish I had a process. Instead, the stories just stay trapped in my head and keep banging, until I find a precious moment to sit and let them free.

I am glad to let you know that the next stop on the tour is the blog, Inching2Wisdom written by J. Eva Nagel. Eva tells stories and shares her perspective of a rich life led both close to home and through world-wide travels. The truth is, she is already quite wise.

And, while I determine the other blog stop, I just invite you to visit the writings of Hillary Savoie at The Cute Syndrome.

Thank you for listening, sharing, following and supporting my writing. Please subscribe in the sidebar to receive notice of new posts. Comments and greetings always welcome.

In health, Elyn

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Koko’s My Plate

My Plate Haiku

I lick your nose, I lick your nose again,

I drag my claws down your eyelids

Oh, you’re up? Feed me.

by A Cat

(from I Could Pee on This and other poems by cats collected by Francesco Marciuliano)

six calories of separation

I am related to Fay Wray. Yes, the actress well-known for her theatrical screams, who portrayed Ann Darrow in the original King Kong film. More dramatically, though inadvertently, she was “the beauty who killed the beast”. I guess lots of ordinary people have some connection to famous ones–but mine is pretty crazy, right? When Fay Wray died in 2004 at the age of 96, the lights of the Empire State Building were extinguished for fifteen minutes in her honor.

English: Fay Wray's star on the Hollywood Walk...

Fay Wray’s star on The Hollywood Walk of Fame (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The story is even a little more interesting. Cousin Fay was born in Canada to a Mormon family who eventually moved to Hollywood. She attended high school there and entered the film industry at a young age. Though most famous for her role in King Kong, she had many film and TV roles in her long career. It was in Hollywood that she met and married my grandfather’s cousin, Robert Riskin. Well, I know you are probably wondering if my connection by marriage counts–but Robert Riskin has a celebrated history as well. He was a prolific playwright and screenwriter–an Academy Award winner best known for his work with the director Frank Capra on films such as It Happened One Night, You Can’t Take it With You and Mr. Deeds Goes to Town.

So, while they led very glamorous Hollywood lives, the bulk of my relatives lingered in New York. Though many of them possessed various artistic talents, my celebrity relations remained thus limited. Nonetheless, though I live in a tiny circumscribed world, I am tickled by the notion of brushes with fame. My shortlist includes that of being picked up while hitchhiking in Big Sur by Carl Reiner and his wife, and of providing nutritional services to Tommy Lee Jones, Tom Brokaw, Peter Martins, and Bill Bradley during my various stints as a waitress. I actually had a little tiff with Mr. Bradley about a diet soda–he shouldn’t have been drinking the stuff anyway.

And, then there are my amazing nutrition connections. I have mentioned before in various posts that not only do I know Mark Hyman–I lived with him during college; I had breakfast with Marc David; I am pretty positive that I grew up in the same town as Michael Pollan–so that is association by geography; and I did clearly imagine seeing Mark Bittman in Brooklyn one day.

So, already sitting on a pretty full nest of impressive–though perhaps exaggerated–VIPs for a small village girl, imagine my surprise when this happened. A few weeks back, my inbox began to flood with feed from my professional and personal networks about a new book called Salt Sugar Fat: How the Food Giants Hooked Us. Everywhere I turned, I was seeing or hearing about this new expose of the food industry. My first reaction was to file this for later. But, then something caught my eye– in the tiny print of the text that appeared on my screen. The author was Pulitzer Prize-winning investigative journalist Michael Moss. It took one quick message to my college and journalist friend Ellen to confirm my suspicion. This was not just any old Mike, Mark or Tom–but another very real connection.

Ellen once dated Michael and I knew him through her. Many years ago, when they were together, Michael was assigned to cover the New York State Legislature in Albany where he knew no one–except me, Pete–and baby Morgan. So Michael hung out–and ate–with us. At that time he was finishing his first book, Palace Coup: The Inside Story of Harry and Leona Helmsley of which I have an autographed copy–made out to the three of us.

Though we lost touch a long time ago, I was aware that he was a well-regarded journalist. He had won the Pulitzer in 2009 for his investigation of an E-coli outbreak. So, I was not at all shocked to see that he had written another book. Instead, I found it remarkable that someone I knew was bringing big attention to a matter so near and dear to my own work. The news about the book now seemed more close than far. Eager to get my hands on an excerpt the day it ran in the New York Times, I grabbed the magazine section from my brother-in-law before he even finished his beloved puzzle page.

In the weeks that have ensued since the book was published, Michael Moss has been very busy on the circuit with very public appearances including the Daily Show. Its been nice to see him again. From my perspective, I am not sure that the book unveils anything entirely new regarding how many processed food items are insidiously designed to ensnare its consumers. Much of this has been revealed by the likes of Eric Schlosser in Fast Food Nation, David Kessler in The End of Overeating, and Greg Critser in Fat Land and discussed by people like–me.

However, from my reading of the excerpt, I think what Michael has done is put faces and names to the industry. He got inside and he obtained admissions from those who were controlling the direction and deception of the products–that what they were doing was bad. The depth of the collusion is always chilling to encounter, no matter how many times one learns of it–and for many, this will be new. He writes, “It’s telling that many of the wealthy food executives I spoke to about their products wouldn’t dream of eating the stuff themselves.” How he managed to obtain hidden documents and how deeply he infiltrated, speaks to his highly tuned investigative acumen.

So, here I am again, giddy that I actually know someone else who is poised to affect the societal metabolism. I am not sure how heavy his final indictment was–but he has certainly added to the conversation. Stuff like this makes me want to scream one really huge Fay Wray scream. Believe me–I have it in me–even if it is just by marriage.

Please continue to join me in the collective noise-making about food justice and reclaiming a path toward real food and societal health. Take a peek at this fun video, Unjunk Yourself from the Turn the Tide Foundation. Watch the film, Hungry for Change. Drop me a line, say hi, and share your thoughts. When you are famous I will be so glad to say I know you too–though I am thrilled to know you anyway, right now.

Thank you for listening, sharing, following and supporting my writing. Please subscribe in the sidebar to receive notice of new posts. Comments and greetings always welcome.

In health, Elyn

Related Posts: Have It Your Way at Red Chinese Sorghum Mutton Noodle; Three Good Mark(s)

(Update 2020: Did you know that General Mill’s and Hershey are sleeping together and begat Jolly Rancher Cereal which hit the shelves just in late December 2019? Aaaaaaaah!)

Whole-Wheat Bread

My Plate Plate

My Plate Haiku

Smooth peanut butter

Spread on a peeled banana

Snack time perfection.

by Gretchen

attacking the causes of obesity, really?

I have been having what I suppose you could call a blog clog lately, or maybe a blogade. Lots of stuff and stories going around in the brain but they are experiencing a log jam while trying to get out in some type of orderly fashion.

Howard Johnson's Restaurant

Howard Johnson’s Restaurant

This seems to have started when Pete showed me a Jane Brody article from the New York Times a few weeks back called, “Attacking the Obesity Epidemic by First Figuring Out Its Cause”. I should probably just have considered it a moot subject and ignored it, but it wrapped its little serifs around me and wouldn’t let go. You mean we haven’t already figured this out? Apparently not. And, this is the missing piece that has still been feeding the epidemic so to speak?

According to Ms. Brody, an impressive team of experts spent the last two years investigating the big O and published their conclusions in a series of reports in The Lancet. I will assume that what she goes on to describe is a reflection of their findings and not a cover-up for some obscure but shocking discoveries that will remain hidden in a boring medical journal.

Apparently, the impressive experts determined that the demise of the following is responsible for the puddle of fat we now find ourselves in. From the 1940’s through the 1970’s more or less– the years that preceded the epidemic–we played, walked and biked more; watched less TV, ate meals prepared at home by moms who mainly did not work, ate out only for special events, downed mainly hot or cold cereal for breakfast, had fewer mass-produced convenience foods, and consumed fewer refined carbohydrates as well as fewer calories.

I will try to keep my cynicism to a minimum but remember I did warn you about this side of me in Diet for a Small Caterpillar. Maybe this is breaking news or perhaps fascinating ancient history to those born after those more svelte decades, but two years of research, really? Those impressive experts could have just come and asked me, or better yet could have paid me. I’d love to be a paid impressive expert. I was actually one of those referenced skinny, cereal eating, hop-scotching kids on a bike, who occasionally ate out at Howard Johnson’s with my family when my non-working mother was too tired to cook. Wait, how old are those exalted researchers, anyway?

With all due respect to Drs. Gortmaker and Swinburn, et al who were cited in the article– unless I am remiss for not reading the source material, this is superficial and obvious stuff. A lot has changed since that time and the changes have had many effects on the human experience besides causing obesity. I think it is myopic to put the attack and hence the shame and blame only on those walking around with the visible consequences of our societal shifts or imbalances. Many things have increased since the 1970s besides weight like divorce, cancer, childhood poverty, autism, learning disabilities, alcoholism, underage drinking, the perverse pursuit of thinness and high school dropout rates–and all carry a high cost as well–but these conditions are invisible in the rising tide of humanity. Still, even if we are to keep our attention just on the problem of obesity, one could identify other significant and more profound influences.

One of my impressive experts, Marc David, who I introduced previously in Three Good Mark(c)s, meaningfully and sensitively addresses this topic in his article, ‘A New Way to Lose Weight–Listen to It’. Moving beyond the easily observed poor food choices that plague us, he explores causes of the emotional hunger we face these days that propel people to overuse or abuse food. These are very important, and when personified, they are what present in my office every day–repressed feelings, unmet needs, self-doubt, chronic stress, disconnection from one’s body and loneliness.

These are associated as well with the larger cultural issues that he dares expose. These are not new, but the ramifications are coming to a head, perhaps similar to global warming. He speaks of a nation that has valued excess and overconsumption; a culture that values speed and ease; a world filled with fear, anxiety, and mistrust; and, a people separated from their spiritual source.

Though I don’t fit their demographic, I have come to enjoy reading the magazine, Outside. It is for those who live the active life–in a rather bold way–and is a tad less dry than The Lancet. In a recent issue, there was an article, Jamie Oliver Will Work 4 Food about renegade British chef, Jamie Oliver, who is sincerely trying to clean up our country’s food mess. I admire Oliver’s means and message. I share his penchant for crying. The author, Jeff Gordinier, describes the obstacles Oliver is facing here in America. He writes, “As one wag put it, Oliver “just doesn’t get the fact that excessive consumption is woven into our national DNA.” This concurs with some of what Marc David is saying.

If a lack of identifying causes is impeding solving the problem, then acknowledging our national and personal constitutional makeups is as important as looking at what we are eating for breakfast now, well, compared to in my day. Doing so would help to explain why we lay down reason in the feeding of ourselves and our children.

My own causative list would go even further. It implicates the usurping of the practice of medicine by the pharmaceutical industry, unethical corporate practices and the disempowerment of women in pregnancy and birth for starters. I’ll leave it there for now. As I’ve hopefully unclogged the blog, I will be able to pick up on those topics soon.

Stay posted. I promise that will be fun. And tell me what would be on your list.

Thank you for listening, sharing, following and supporting my writing. Please subscribe in the sidebar to receive notice of new posts. Comments and greetings always welcome.

In health, Elyn

my plate

My Plate Haiku

Hunger tiptoes in

From bellies, hearts or minds

Feed me now she calls.

By, Eva

be kind to animals

It is Vegan Week in my anachronistic village. Almost a year ago, when I first began to dispense my little stories about food and eating, I was about to join with a few neighbors in adhering to a foodscape that did not include any animal products for one week. To celebrate this intention, we were to share dinners–with a different person hosting each evening.

This idea had sprung from the fruitful minds of two of my neighbors–extraordinary women though just ordinary carnivores. One beautiful, sunny summer day, Carrie and Sharon had taken a day trip to the Culinary Institute of America, where it just so happened that in the bookstore, or perhaps more aptly, cookstore, of all things mind you, it was a vegan cookbook that caught their eye and nipped them in the tongue. The drive home stirred up their giddy excitement of deciding to live in the colorful, ingredient-rich world of the herbivore–for a week. They laid out the table and one night invited me–the vegetarian next door–over for a beautiful and delicious repast.

We all live within the confines of some dietary codex whether we are conscious of it or not and we get quite cozy there. My own vegetarian diet has certainly lost some of its philosophical punch throughout the decades that I have been living it and my food choices can be mundane. So, even though I have many days where my eating may be vegan, when the opportunity arose to be part of the spontaneously conceived next seasonal Vegan Week, I chose to participate.

Our little neighborhood group now has a few Vegan Weeks under our belts. We stroll leisurely over to each other’s homes, sit and relax, eat amazing food, discover nuances and ingredients that a truly vegan dietary requires, hear how badly someone is dreaming of a big, juicy burger and home we go–with no dishes to do. We once shared a vegan picnic at our local performing arts venue.

I realize that for the meat-eaters in the group, going vegan is a big and abrupt change–and they have all been really good egg-replacement-products about it. They have to plan all their meals differently, buy some special ingredients and do without that big chunk of flesh on their plate. By week’s end, they begin to feel the effects of the dietary change usually in a positive way. They seem to appreciate the change though admit that it is not easy.

However, even for me, for whom the omission and inclusion of these foods are not as extreme, the very act of dietary consciousness applied to each bite is profound. Ordinarily, one does not experience this, unless related to a religious ritual like Lent, Ramadan, keeping Kosher or fasting. Or, when going on a diet.  Personally, this week brings up a lot for me to think about.

To begin with, it heightens my vegetarian consciousness. It makes me think about my relationship with the animal world as it relates to the procurement or processing of eggs, dairy, and even honey. How many big resources of the animal kingdom does it take to bring me the little gifts my vegetarian choices allow?

It then makes me wonder about choosing to eat for health, kindness, philosophy or sustainability; and the difference between feeding my mind, my taste buds or my body.  Is there compatibility or dissonance between these concepts? Though I am a very happy plant-eater, I must see if my body feels it needs some of the energy provided by animal food; and, I have to decide if I am comfortable with some of the substitution processed foods sometimes used in a vegan diet.

Lastly, it makes me very mindful of the fact, that every day as a nutritionist, I am asking each and every client who sits before me, to make a commitment to some form of conscious dietary change–and usually, not just for a week, but possibly for the rest of their lives. As Vegan Week was approaching I was doing a lot of doubting. I’d had a lot going on lately and was not sure that I had it in me to pull up the resources I would need to get it together for hosting, extra cooking, special shopping–let alone the sacrifice and consciousness required. This made me appreciate that this is the same resistance that even just the thought of scheduling an appointment with a nutritionist raises.

Interestingly, last November, just after my first Vegan Week, Carrie and I went to see the film, May I Be Frank, about a guy from Brooklyn, whose life is changed when he accidentally steps into a raw food, vegan cafe called Cafe Gratitude in San Francisco. I wrote about this in Meditation v. Medication. A few months later, Carrie was in San Francisco. She ate at the restaurant, texted me a photo of her gorgeous meal and came home with a copy of the cafe’s beautiful cookbook, I Am Grateful.

As my resolve to do the week was weak, I curled up with my now own copy of the cookbook for some culinary inspiration–much like I had done with Mark Bittman’s How to Cook Everything Vegetarian and shared in So, What’s the Dilemma? The story of this film, the restaurant, the cookbook and the people behind it, Terces and Matthew Englehart is quite remarkable and I invite you to get a glimpse or a taste of what they present as a possibility for both eating and living. As the restaurant’s name suggests, gratitude is the foundation of their purpose. Each recipe is named with some affirming attribute like I am Ravishing, I am Whole, and I am Courageous.

Thus informed, I planned my menu which included the cafe’s I Am Giving Marinated Kale Salad and was on my way. I am glad to have the question of what am I grateful for placed before me right now. At this moment, I am grateful for all who share their stories with me and who are open to some dietary consciousness change; of incredible food and the creative people who know what to make with it; and, for my charming neighbors for choosing a culinary theme that includes and nourishes me on many levels.

Is there any particular diet or food change you would like to consider being conscious of making now? Would you like to know what we ate this week? What are you grateful for?

Thank you for listening, sharing, following and supporting my writing. Please subscribe in the sidebar to receive notice of new posts. Comments and greetings always welcome.

In health, Elyn

Related Resource: LIVEKINDLY

Related Post: Vegan Envy

IMG_1672

My Plate Plate

My Plate Haiku

Food made joyfully

As a gift of time and self

Feeds body and soul

– Anne Marie