swept away

Feb12

I don’t work in the easiest of places. I often dream that I have a job–well, I wouldn’t even call it a job because it would be so pleasant–working in a spa in Cabo San Lucas in Mexico–pushing the little buttons on the blender at the organic juice bar in the crystal waters of the pool. My own Vitamin D needs amply fulfilled by that luscious warm sun as I dispense my little quinoa pearls of wisdom to my very well-heeled clients. My muscles are toned by long walks on the sandy beaches and I teach mindful eating classes using the freshest and juiciest mangoes just picked from a nearby tree to seduce my students’ senses.
Such imaginings deepen my own diaphragmatic breathing and soften my gaze until that little bubble on the electronic medical record program on my computer informs me that my first or next patient has arrived.

I do not wish to complain. I consider it a privilege to do what I do. I believe I sit in a rather unique position as far as seeing the magnitude of the health crisis that is upon us and the consequences of our communal diet and way of life. So often, when I am following the story about food, diet, weight, etc.–no matter where– it seems either abstract and haughty in that scientific or academic way, or judgmental and blaming. The sensationalized situation becomes very up close and personal and takes on a different hue in my little office–where day after day I receive a fair amount of clients– often in quick succession. Sometimes, I wish I could give the scientists, academics, and critics a peek in.

Most people don’t ever get to see a nutritionist. It is unlikely that you have. It is not like going to the dentist–which is a prescribed semi-annual event (except for the millions who unfortunately don’t have access to dental care) the doctor or the therapist. Perhaps it should be. It would be a lot more fun to come to see me twice a year than the dentist. Access to nutritional services is usually reserved for those with a few types of medical conditions or for those with enough money and energy to fine-tune their bodies.

Interestingly, nutritional services have historically been provided in-house in the Community Health Center where I work, along with some other ancillary services like podiatry, ophthalmology, social work, and dentistry. This multi-service type facility is actually rare in our health care environments. Its purpose is to facilitate access to care for patients–and access indeed they do. My clients do not have cars parked in warm and dry garages that they hop into. Instead, they walk, trudge, take a bus– or two, or call and wait for medical transportation. I am continually shocked that so many arrive at my door to discuss this abstract concept called nutrition. Though any patient is eligible to see me, my schedule is padded with the extreme cases that the doctors are more apt to refer. Extreme becomes a relative concept–and many nutritional concerns are overlooked.

As I navigate the raging waters, the intensity increases imperceptibly at some times and quite obviously at others. Like natural phenomena that are categorized by a numerical rating system–hurricanes, white water, etc.–I think our health issues may require something similar. I wonder if my office chair should indicate what kind of conditions it can endure and if it should come equipped with life jackets. Some of what I encounter has to do with sheer weight but not all of it–though I rarely have a day without clients over 300 lbs.

Off the top of my head, let me see if I can briefly describe somewhat what cast upon my shore just within the last two weeks. The 19- year-old male–366 lbs; a 29-year-old woman, 5’2–378 lbs; a 35-year-old male with extremely elevated cholesterol levels; a 7-year-old boy with compromised growth due to ADD medications; a 13-year-old boy with gastric reflux; a 28-year-old male with a blood pressure of 160/110; and, a 23-year-old male-390 lbs who barely leaves his home. This is a very tiny sampling. It excludes the middle-aged diabetics and hypertensives, pregnant teenagers, and folks with mental health and substance abuse issues whom I see regularly.

Then, there was the 15-year-old girl with triglyceride levels of 442 (which I would have not believed except that she had a prior lab with a similar result)–when normal is less than 150. She entered my office at 3 PM with her parents. When I asked her what she had eaten that day, she told me a bottle of Mountain Dew, a granola bar and a Snapple Iced Tea. She had bought all of this just before her appointment. She had not gone to school that day. She had already finished the soda and the granola bar–showing me the wrapper. Her dad was holding the iced tea that they were still sharing. Within six minutes of our acquaintance she informed me in no uncertain terms, that no matter what I may say, she was going to have Burger King on Friday. The mother challenged me on why I was asking her about shopping and cooking. This was near the end of an already very long day–my late day. It took me about fourteen minutes to discover that this child drinks close to twelve cans of soda on many days. Diets high in sugar are a cause of high triglyceride levels. Though I was grabbing onto my chair, and despite the fact that finally the mom smiled at me–it was too late. I capsized.

Though this family seriously challenged my inner buddha, for the most part, I find my clients present themselves authentically– and that their eating behaviors and nutritional problems are consequences of many various conditions that they did not know how to or did not have the resources to control. Like most of us, they are living the hand they were dealt and eating the food that they can access and afford. They are generally unaware as to what could go so terribly wrong. Despite my sympathies, I still feel like a shipwreck survivor. Some serious stuff is going down and people are hurting.

However, the universe works in mysterious ways. Exactly one week after my encounter with the girl with the dangerous triglyceride levels, another family presented–this time a mom, dad, and their twelve-year-old son. This family had recently awakened to their capacity to make better food choices. They joyfully filled my tiny space and shared the amazing changes they had made. They described how they felt, how their bodies had responded and the new foods they were eating. The boy was pleasant and confidently told me that he no longer drinks soda. He plays some sports for fun, loves to move and is in a dance troupe with some friends. They have made some videos on youtube. As they spoke, I crawled onto the dock, shifted the lever on my chair to the lounge position and laid back to bask in the afternoon sun. There was nothing for me to do but listen and affirm. Now, this I can do.

Please drop or throw me a line!

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

Grandpa’s My Plate image by falco/pixabay

My Plate Buddhist Saying

Drink tea and nourish life

With the first sip, joy; with the second sip, satisfaction; with the third sip, peace;

With the fourth, a Danish.

by Jewish Grandpa

faur faur away

Jan17

Recently, I read about someone who was working on an environmental project in the Maldives. After a day of difficult fieldwork, the writer said the group enjoyed kicking back by relaxing on a boat and enjoying a snack of faur. Ah yes, faur, that local favorite made from betel leaves, cloves, and nuts.

Now, of course, we here–here being the US of A–do snack on some natural foods like fruits and nuts. But in thinking about the Maldivians floating in those beautiful turquoise waters of the Indian Ocean, and about other cultures as well, I got to wondering, what would be our native snack if one day all of the giant snack food manufacturers just got so sick of themselves they just fell down belly up.

What soothed and satisfied us before a certain Mr. Herman W. Lay began hawking his wares? Around here, I suppose we had products made of maple syrup like maple cream which is yummy; and, had apples and pumpkins made into pies–and beef made into jerky. And, what about the potato chip? A nice tuber scrubbed clean of its earthen sod, sliced thinly and cooked to a crisp in a pot of oil. Could that not count as native fare?

Legend has it that the potato was first chipped by a Native American chef quite close to where I live. I could bike to that sacred ground–or walk there in pilgrimage if really gastronomically inspired. The story goes that George Crum, annoyed by a customer’s complaint about the dinner potatoes being cut too thick, responded with a plate of very thinly sliced, translucent, barely-there taters. The rest is history.

It turns out that the first product Mr. Lay began to sell was the potato chip–about sixty years after that restaurant mishap. So, one could argue that the potato chip–along with the corn chip–were indigenous snacks until they were co-opted by Frito-Lay. They may, in fact, have originally had some nutritional benefits as might faur– though my brief research suggests that betel leaves are not without their own significant set of problems when consumed in excess.

Somehow, with the mass introduction of packaged snack foods, we began to seriously stray from our more nut, seed, and fruit-eating behaviors. While families in Afghanistan still relax–if they can–with pistachio nuts and dried apricots, things here have never been the same since the arrival of Bugles. I remember seeing my first bag of Bugles at my childhood friend Susan’s house. Once trumpeted onto the communal palate it seemed there was no turning back. I suppose the same could be said for all of our modern snacks including the once seemingly indomitable Twinkie which is eighty years old already.

Surprisingly, I don’t encounter the Twinkie much on my nutritional beat. It is either so ubiquitous that it doesn’t register on my radar screen or it does not command valuable prime shelf placement anymore. And, amid the thousands of diet recalls I demand from my clients, I hardly ever hear mention of them. Little Debbies seem the more popular portable snack cake these days. Now that I think about it, the Twinkie despite its iconic reputation is rather tame and boring in comparison to more obscene or more seductively marketed snack newbies. I guess this explains why it may be on the smush-ing block–and not because it has 37 artificial ingredients.

However, it is the chemically-laden nature of most of our snack foods that have granted them predominance and permanence in our lives. If you doubt this issue of purposeful manipulation by the food and flavoring industry, take a look at this 60 Minutes segment, or, at this dissection of a Twinkie by Fooducate.

But, getting back to my original query, if just say, Bugles, Twinkies and all the other thousands of products that dominate the snack manufacturing world were suddenly to go extinct, what would we do? What could we reach for that would be grown from our regional environments and get the nutritional seal of approval? Could a chomp on some Eastern White Pine needles substitute for pretzel sticks? They are an excellent source of Vitamin C and can be made into a tea as well. Would we dig our teeth into some bark which was actually a food source for the native tribe for which the glorious Adirondacks that tower nearby was named? Adirondack literally means bark eater for the sustaining dietary practice the tribe was known for.

It turns out my musing about what we are munching on is not without some precedent. Recently, I was so glad to reconnect with a college friend, Roxanne, who was in my nutrition program. Even way back then, I knew she was a wise woman. Now, she works with a company called, Real Wild Foods, Inc. As part of the wild foods movement, the company promotes the preservation, tasting, and enjoyment of North American indigenous foods and is dedicated to sustainable harvesting methods. The assortment of these micro-nutrient rich foods include preserves, jellies, syrups, mushrooms, teas, vegetables and vinegar made from some familiar and many unfamiliar but common vegetation. It presents possibilities in how we could be deliciously nourishing ourselves with nature’s natural snack foods.

Neither is it without some prescience. I have just seen some writings of Mayan elder, Carlos Barrios, a ceremonial priest and spiritual guide who is learned in the interpretation of the Mayan calendar. In his clarification of the 2012 prophecy, he states it portends a time of transformation rather than an end of the world– and that we need to be prepared for this by focusing on acts of unity. Amid his recitation of a few required actions, I was a bit surprised to see him advise, “Eat wisely–a lot of food is corrupt in either subtle or gross ways. Pay attention to what you are taking into your body.”

Sounds wise to me. Sometimes I wonder if just like peak oil will we reach peak adulterated food which will necessitate that we find our way back to what the native Hawaiians call Aloha ‘Aina—the love of the land that feeds us.”

In health, Elyn

Related Post: The Twinkie Affair

MyPlate Plate

My Plate Haiku

Lagoon Watercress

Peppers my tongue

With spring joy. By Roxanne

Update: November 12, 2012: Faur Faur Away Liquidated

With the story in today’s news of Hostess Brands threatening liquidation of its company and the future of the 500 million Twinkies that are baked–I mean manufactured–each year at stake, I refer again to this post about our snack food lives. I wrote this in January 2012 when Hostess filed in bankruptcy court for Chapter 11 protection. On the surface, the story is about labor costs, unions, workers’ rights, and the economy, but mixed into the batter are issues about our health care costs (once again) and changes in American food consciousness and its effects on the industry and the economy. However, it still remains to be seen if Ding Dong, the Twinkie is truly dead. I dare to say I doubt it, but still, Carlos Barrios’ interpretations of the 2012 Mayan prophesies deserve heeding as the calendar is shortly set to begin its next cycle.

Comments:

Beautiful article about the interpretation of the Mayan calendar. –Anne Marie

Popcorn! as simple, native, and easy as can be–and a whole grain! –Lisa Nicholson Dear Lisa, Oh, yes. Absolutely. –The Nutritionist’s Dilemma

Perhaps for Thanksgiving, we should experience at least one dish which features bark or pine needles. That could not have been fun. I like “smushing block”. –Peter S. Glassman

“Smushing block” is funny, isn’t it? Love you. –The Nutritionist’s Dilemma

Update: January 13, 2020 Barkeater Chocolates, Adirondack Chocolate Company

IMG_3282 (1)

walt whitman and mark bittman

Jan3

Pete and I went to New York City last week–or as we nutritionists call it, the Big Apple. It was the day after Christmas and things were really quiet down there on the usually bustling island. Walking from Grand Central Station to the water’s edge below the United Nations we hardly saw a soul.

Hoping to catch the East River Ferry we waited on a deserted dock. Pete loves alternative modes of transportation, so we’d been excited to learn one could now take a commuter ferry across the river to points along the shore of Queens and Brooklyn.

DUMBO Archway

Soon enough, we watched as an adorable little ferry-boat tooled across the river to retrieve us.

On an ordinary weekday, it would have been very crowded, but instead, it was so empty that the ferry boat driver was making small talk with us. I am pretty sure he would have let me steer the boat if I just asked. He seemed like that kind of guy.

We walked outside onto the deck. It was a pretty cold day, quite freezing actually, and the wind on the river was strong. But, it was exhilarating to take in the views from that vantage point. There we were under the Williamsburg, Manhattan, and finally the Brooklyn Bridge with the city surrounding us on all sides. We were like tiny seeds in the core of that big Pyrus Malus.

Our first destination was DUMBO, the Brooklyn neighborhood Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. Debarking from the ferry, I was surprised again to see so relatively few people–but was more struck by the surroundings and the sensation of being under the massive structures that I had only previously experienced from above.

We quickly came upon a massive stone edifice with a large plaque on its front wall. I think it said that Walt Whitman had worked there as an editor for the newspaper, The Brooklyn Eagle. I am certain about the Walt Whitman part, but not positive about the other details as my attention was quickly distracted. Across the street, breaking the flat topography of virtually empty sidewalks, was a line of about sixty people–like they were stuck to some invisible flypaper that had lured them and trapped them. My nutritional antenna was quickly activated and I had an idea of what was going on. These people were standing outside–in the freezing cold–in a line that would move glacially slow, waiting for pizza–Grimaldi’s pizza.

To be honest, I didn’t know about Grimaldi’s fame but I do have some basic DNA intelligence about NYC pizza. How good could this pizza actually be that one would stand outside for that long when frostbite was a possibility? I mean this was the epicenter of the pizza universe–not someplace where it would be really hard to come upon a decent slice. Maybe all the other pizza eateries were closed, exhausted by holiday festivities.

Ready to move along, my dilemma suddenly appeared out of nowhere and tugged me by the sleeve. It rattled off a series of questions in its frenetic way. How deep is the desire of my planetary co-eaters? Would they risk losing a digit or two to frostbite for something that could extend beyond the definition of good pizza by only so far? Aren’t opposable digits necessary to even properly eat pizza? Did Dionysus himself twirl that dough and stir that sauce? Should we inquire and obtain some anthropological data for a study someone would pay me good money for? And, could we get some?

I informed my dilemma that we were only observing and not undertaking a research project. It was a vacation week and I did not need to assess if these food passions were bona fide expressions of life’s pleasures or surrogates for other unfulfilled desires. Besides, I was developing a good robust ‘been out on the water in the cold air’ hunger that would not abide such a wait, so, no, we could not get some. We turned the corner only to find a little pizza place with no line, empty tables and oven-generated warmth. The pizza there was pretty good and appeased both my dilemma and my appetite. Requiring no wait nor sacrifice of blood flow, I wondered, how much better could that Grimaldi’s pizza really be. Interestingly, my later online search revealed some rather disappointing Grimaldi reviews.

Refueled, we returned to the still empty streets and wandered about. We passed through a plaza under a beautiful archway right beneath the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. The only other people within sight were a man and woman being guided by, I swear to God, I am pretty positive it was my pretend best friend in food, one of my Three Good Mark(c)s, Mark Bittman! Well, I’m not really sure at all. It could have been any other tallish, baldish, vegan-ish guy from NYC.

Still, I got that starstruck feeling. What if it was actually him? Would I tell him I’ve adopted a Middle Eastern culinary theme for Hanukkah returning the celebration to its geographical and spiritual origins? Or, that I’d been thinking about Christmas dinners and what would Jesus eat–kind of a WWJE existentialist question. Surely, Mark would be interested in this kind of holiday food discussion. Better yet, he’d know what was up at Grimaldi’s! I’d have to ask him. But, just as quickly as the trio appeared, they vanished in a Twilight Zone DUMBO kind of way.

So, there it was. One quick trip to DUMBO and two passing literary encounters–Whitman and Bittman. For Bittman’s take on local and global food issues, have a look at what he’s writing about these days. As for Whitman, it turns out that wonderful spiritual naturalist was really quite the urbanist.

Happy New Year. Deep and awe-filled blessings. And, if you have ever eaten at Grimaldi’s or have an amazing pizza place, let me know.

In health, Elyn

Update 2020: Big news. There is a Brooklyn Pizza Tour that includes a visit to Grimaldi’s with skipping the long lines.

my plate

My Plate Haiku

Give me the splendid silent sun, with all his beams full-dazzling;
Give me juicy autumnal fruit, ripe and red from the orchard;
Give me a field where the unmow’d grass grows;
Give me an arbor, give me the trellis’d grape;
Give me fresh corn and wheat–give me serene-moving animals, teaching content. by Walt

visions of sugar plums

Dec24

When I arrived at my office on Monday morning, a bag was hanging from the door handle. My first glimpse through the plastic made me think the bag contained cucumbers, maybe small pickling ones. I was a little puzzled as I did not think December was the season of the giving of cucumbers, but even so, I was all for it. I put the bag aside and started my day. I figured the answers to the questions the cucumbers posed would present soon enough.

Sure enough, a short while later, Marie, my hallmate, friend, and partner in the quest to nourish the needy, came by to tell me that a mutual client of ours had brought me some bitter melon. Bitter melon? Oh yes, of course. My East Indian client had told me months ago that he would bring me something. I reached for the bag and untied the knot. Staring me in the face were five of the strangest cucumbers I had ever seen. I suddenly felt like the gamekeeper of little tiny crocodiles.

Bitter Melon Food Republic

A quick google search informed me that I was now sharing my office with five Momordica charantia, the most bitter of any fruit, and though they come in various shapes and sizes, I was in the company of the sub-continent phenotype. Moments later, Marie, who is a nurse and thus always quick to action, was back in my office with a red plastic plate and a white plastic spoon. She grabbed one of those emerald babies and took immediately to its dissection. With the red, green and white color palette, it seemed like some ancient Christmas ritual. I was not sure she knew what she was getting us into. This was not your momma’s ordinary cucumber and I was still not convinced it was vegetable, not animal. I winced as she made the first vertical slice.

As she did, an intense, I suppose bitter odor filled the room. I would not say it was completely unpleasant, but now I was more afraid we might be dealing with a controlled substance. Eviscerated, the dear little bitter melon did not look dissimilar to other members of the squash or melon family. As it was pretty narrow, the insides were filled mainly by the seeds surrounded by a little flesh. Marie went right for the seed and then wondered if she should have exercised more caution. I dabbled in the skin and flesh. Little tiny ‘microbites’ seemed sufficient for now. We then googled how one was to prepare these things, which I was determined to do in honor of my client who had gone to the trouble to bring them to me. I considered regifting but thought better of it.

The amazing Internet proposed a multitude of recipes for my little warty friends. Teas, sauces, curries, stir-fries, and cocktails were all possible. Even desserts apparently–though I wondered if they would be deserving of the extra “s”. Marie, who was not yet hallucinating, left me alone to ponder. Shortly after, as luck would have it, my other hallmate, the psychiatrist, who is from India, happened by. I invited him in to show off my gift. Of course, bitter melon. He was familiar and well-versed in this botanical wonder. He gave me a few suggestions including stuffing the little buggers with any nice savory filling. He said all parts could be eaten but some people don’t enjoy the seeds. Further research did inform that some types of these seeds can indeed induce difficulties in susceptible individuals.

As the day proceeded, the sacrificial fruit lay exposed right next to me on my desk. Though I had been aware of bitter melon’s powerful anti-diabetes properties since it increases insulin sensitivity–which was why my client and I had even discussed it –my experience with it had been seeing it used in various glucose support supplements. Spending a day with one was a different story. Just seeing it, touching it, and most potently, smelling it made it obvious that this was a powerful healer–like many plants are. Maybe not too dissimilar from hot chili pepper, its acrid scent wafted into my lungs, blood, and brain.

Bitter melon contains many biologically active substances and has many medicinal uses. Its benefits are quite impressive. Besides its role in diabetes, it has anti-parasitic, anti-viral, anti-malarial, cardio-protective, anti-dysentery and anti-cancer properties. After a short time in its company, I would not doubt any of these. So informed, I carried these big green pills home with me. To be honest, visually they gave me the willies and I was cautious about their use. I enjoy the taste of bitter to some extent and gladly ingest all types of bitter greens but my lack of experience with this incarnation of bitter gave me some pause. Still, I jumped right in and sliced one thinly into that evening’s dinner of a seitan stir-fry. As my family sat to eat, I gave fair warning. Blended on my fork with other foods it found some welcome in my mouth. I am open to a future relationship though I may leave that to other Asian cooks. And, if I ever do have a nematode worm or diabetes, I would gladly consider its use.

Due to my nutritionist vibe in my work settings, I am often excluded from excuses for food excess events. Just the other day I was walking down the hallway with a co-worker. A nurse approached us and said just to my co-worker, “I have coffee cake back in my office. Go have some.” Years ago, this obvious slight would have stung, but now I am rather used to not being invited to play in all the reindeer games. Someone did give me some lovely little Ghiradelli chocolate squares but besides the bitter melons, those were my only holiday treats. Oh, but Miss Henry from my post, Lose 14 Pounds in Three Years did tell me she was bringing me some Sweet Potato Pie.

Well, anyway, so it goes. In the spirit of this holiday season, I wish you both peace in the world and in your hearts, and wonderful visions of sugar plums–which it turns out were once sugar-coated coriander but now seem to be a confection of almonds, dates and dried apricots (see recipe) and the gift of health.

I would love to hear from you and could use some new holiday Haikus.

In health, Elyn

My Plate Plate

My Plate Haiku

The children were nestled all snug in their beds

While visions of sugarplums danced in their heads. by Clement Clark Moore

where it all began

Dec9

Last week, I dug out the dark green heavy plastic bin that resides at the bottom of one of my storage closets. It’s not easily accessible, but not too hard to get to either. Years can go by without my opening it, but I like to know where it is among all of my stored stuff. It contains the artifacts of my formative years and preserves that nascent stage of my existence.

Stuffed in the bin is mainly personal correspondence of my life from pre-junior high through post-college. They are written on bright flowery stationery, thin and wide-lined loose-leaf paper, odd scraps and postcards from near and far. Some are hammered out on yellowing typing paper. They document boring summer days, summer camp activities, courses taken, teenage-angst, young love and declarations of forever friendship. There are also some official documents like my school report cards, SAT scores and college tuition bills which seem quite cachectic compared to the full robust ones of today.

On the rare occasions when I open the bin, it is easy to get lost in there, randomly opening envelopes to see what long-forgotten piece of soul revealing information lies within. On my recent excavation, I tried not to linger too long. I was looking for some particular letters to give to an old friend who had authored them many years ago–and found them pretty quickly.

However, to my surprise, I happened to dredge up a scribbled draft of my college application essay describing my intention to embark on the study of nutrition. In my once prized small script, amid the many cross-outs, the blue ink asserted that “For many years I have been concerned about my own diet and now, I have become increasingly aware of problems and inadequacies in the public’s diet due to social conditions and the lack of proper nutritional information.” It goes on to say that having worked for a summer in a local health food store, I came to understand that I wanted to pursue the field of nutrition. Every day was a learning experience as I gained knowledge from both my employer and the customers. I add that I have an interest in the social sciences and have a desire to help people. And, that I think the program I am applying for is one of the best.

It was rather embarrassing to read this declaration of purpose from my unformed self and to see my simplistic writing. It also made me wonder if I have evolved much since then, as I seem to still be living an old vision. I know it is time for me to manifest something new. Still, I was struck by my awareness at that point of the inadequacies of the American diet and its effects on our health. This was 1977. Dietetics at that time was still essentially practiced in the caverns of hospitals, nursing homes, and school cafeterias. It was also a few years before high fructose corn syrup and other chemically-transformed concoctions tsunamied their way into our entire food supply, altering the contours of the human physique which pulled the alarm bells–and margarine and saccharin were still considered rather benign.

As I mentioned in Holistic, Intuitive Eating, Community Nutritionist Seeking Michael Pollan, I thought my early intentions were focused on global hunger issues. I did not remember that health and personal feeding concerns inspired my path.

Looking back, I now know that Hy, the owner of that health food store–ironically located next to a pizza shop in a tiny row of stores in a largely industrial area–was way ahead of his time. He was a round, bespectacled man already in his late sixties who had retired from a career with the famed Harry Winston Jewelers.

Hy was self-taught, having studied the work of other nutritional gurus. From him, I learned about health issues that are only recently becoming widely accepted. He talked about the dangers of sugar, how bad it was to eat when stressed, and the importance of exposure to natural light. He knew about the healing properties of herbs. He quietly assisted customers with unorthodox treatments and kept some special products in the backroom. A few years later when I was struggling with some serious irritable bowel symptoms, I desperately sought him out. He readily guided me to a simple herbal supplement right on the shelf, and my condition was almost immediately improved. Maybe that is when my perspective changed from the global to the personal. It clearly began my departure from conventional medicine.

Little could I have imagined then where this interest would lead me. Though I have done community nutrition work, and have had some short-term experiences doing public health work in both Guatemala and Peru, my work has been very local and essentially contained within the vast personal geography of the individual.

Interestingly, the friend whose letters I was looking for was overweight as a teenager. Her frank comments about herself and her struggles with weight were a constant part of our adolescent conversations. I remember once during high school her parents went away for the weekend. Left to our own devices, she and I made a beeline to the store and giddily filled a shopping cart with boxes of junk food.

In one of the letters, she writes about being in love with some guy who she met when she started college. She describes her realization that her years of constant hunger and adoration of food had for the first time, amazingly diminished. She acquires, at that moment, an important knowing that is still barely recognized in the big chat room of culinary chastisement and dietary deprivation–that pleasure is a vital nutrient. Trying to beat down the desire to overeat without nurturing other areas of pleasure in one’s life will only foster continual frustration and unsuccessful weight loss or healthier eating attempts.

This is a very important concept that I never learned in my academic studies but which is now being beautifully presented to the world by some lovely wise women–Jena La Flamme, Tonya Leigh, and Angela Minelli. Please check out their offerings.

Right now, I am sitting on the couch taking one more glance at this old college essay before I go upstairs to pack it back in the bin. So much has changed since then. I wonder what would have happened, what would have been different if I had not been accepted to that college nutrition program. Who knows.

I’d love to hear about what sparked your interest or passion in this area.

In health, Elyn

My Plate Haiku

Food made joyfully

As a gift of time and self

Feeds body and soul. By Anne-Marie

no passing

Nov23

Today, I awoke to a landscape that looked like a poorly iced cake. A wet, mushy, disorganized snow fell overnight and pathetically covered the ground, leaving crumbs of grass unattractively exposed. Now, a cold, icy rain is falling and I am glad that I don’t have to go out for a while. So, I am curled up warm and cozy, just chillin’ with my dilemma. We are wondering where is the art in the science of nutrition.

Sometimes, the standard approaches used in this field seem as dreary to me as this grey day. Reducing food to its macronutrient content; shaping diets to conform to a square, triangular or circular configuration; indicating proper serving sizes by comparing them to a computer mouse, a golf ball or a dissected thumb tip; helping decipher rather indecipherable food labels, or interrogating the true source of our hungers–objectifying these practices can leave me as uninspired as a plate of overcooked green beans.

I seem to prefer something a little juicier with more feeling, color, passion, and heart in this pursuit of health promotion. A tad annoyed with me, my dilemma poses that I should have just become an art historian, museum curator–or an artist–if I wished to find Picasso, Rembrandt or Gauguin in my daily work. Or a chef or a farmer, it grunts. It is right of course.

My dilemma reminds me that I know darn well where this work comes alive–where it jumps off the page-turning from black and white into full technicolor; where it brightens from canned pea puce to fresh green pepper emerald; and from hamburger helper to the tastiest, soul-nourishing food that one can ever imagine. I know where palette meets palate.

One of the most inspiring aspects of my own work is the collaboration I am able to do with an organization called the Capital District Community Gardens (CDCG)–(update Capital Roots). This non-profit is committed to irrigating food deserts with a vengeance through a variety of projects. It is responsible for forty-seven food gardens in the local community, a farm-to-market program for youth, an initiative that enables local corner stores to appropriately stock and effectively sell a variety of fresh produce, and, a program that serves childcare programs. In addition, it is the mother of the Veggie Mobile–the healthy answer to the ice cream truck–a produce section on wheels.

This brightly painted, bio-diesel and solar-powered retrofitted truck winds its way–playing Beatles, Motown, and Hip Hop–through underserved neighborhoods in four nearby urban centers. It brings its well-stocked bounty of wholesale priced fruits and vegetables, locally grown when available, to public and senior housing units, schools, neighborhood centers and–I am thrilled to say–the health center where I work. When I called them about two years ago and asked them to help promote the message of food as medicine, they expanded their schedule to accommodate my request. It is amazing for me to watch every Tuesday as patients, doctors, nurses, staff, clients of the center’s substance abuse program and neighbors take their turn in line to shop. Most times I witness some beautiful gem of nourishment. Recently, I was touched by observing an elderly gentleman speaking to his wife on his cell phone telling her what was available and filling his bag per her requests.

A few weeks ago I went to the rolling out party of the CDCG’s newest baby. A smaller version of the Veggie Mobile–called Sprout–was ready to take to the streets to expand their service area. As I was on the highway heading to the event, a big McDonald’s truck got ahead of me as it sped in from the on-ramp. As I wrote about in Morose Meals and Human Bites, McDonald’s tries to get my goat–so I knew this was no ironic coincidence. The back panel of the truck pictured a giant-sized box of french fries, with the words NO PASSING. Don’t they think they’re clever with their subliminal messaging? However, I know what those starchy sticks are made of. Potatoes, vegetable oil, canola oil, hydrogenated soybean oil, natural beef flavor made from wheat and milk derivatives, citric acid, dextrose, sodium acid, pyrophosphate, and salt will not seduce me. Neither will the canola oil, corn oil, soybean oil, hydrogenated soybean oil, with TBHQ, citric acid and dimethylpolysiloxane that they are cooked in. Immune to their tactics, I switched lanes, put the pedal to the metal and passed that truck right by.

As I arrived at little Sprout’s press conference, I got all choked up. There it was–the art and poetry. It was the most beautiful and colorful canvas. Bright greens, reds, oranges, and yellows were everywhere from the painting on the truck to the gorgeous apples, yams, bananas, squash and collards that filled it. County Supervisors and other local politicians were there to welcome this new addition to the fleet, stating that only 44% of people in this city had access to healthy food. Sprout’s efforts would help to increase that number. How wonderful is that? So, take that you big giant McDonald’s truck. You are no match to this little mighty David.

After the speeches were over, local residents who were present began to shop. I took an apple that was being offered and grabbed a big juicy bite. Here, a few blocks from the very Hudson River that had informed the palette of a whole school of artists, was a veritable Garden of Eden–in a backstreet parking lot. This is where nutrition leaves science behind and becomes a thing of true beauty.

Two other projects have recently come to my attention which also remind me of the color of nourishment. One is the work of Gina Keatley, a chef and nutritionist, who witnessing malnutrition in East Harlem, founded a non-profit called Nourishing NYC.

The other is a fascinating documentary called Urban Roots, by filmmaker Mark McInnis about Detroit’s urban agricultural movement. It captures a grass-roots revolution in its truest sense that is impacting the access to food and hence the nutritional status of a largely disenfranchised population in a post-industrial era.

Please check out all of these groups and their work. I am sure donations would be welcomed.

So, in celebration of our harvest feast, rich with the hues of autumn, I give thanks to all who grow and help bring food to the table–for there lie the most important nutritional lessons of all. And, deep gratitude to my readers, Haiku poets, friends and family. Inspired by you, I strive to bring creativity and love to my own purpose.

Happy Thanksgiving.

In health, Elyn

My Plate Haiku

Food is medicine

Farmers are doctors, Cooks priests

Eat, pray, eat, pray, love.

by Gordon

dear you, the readers

Nov10

It has been one year since I first birthed my blog. One intention, many fears, countless hours and fifty posts.

Having mothered my blog through its infancy, I now must ponder its future as a toddler-staged blog which I call a blogger. My little bloggler is learning to stand on its own and is getting fed some nice comments and words of support. But, mothering a bloggler raises new developmental issues and it is important to have a philosophy of care. Sometimes, one must look for support and feedback from others in order to persevere.

Honest Tea cap

So, my dear subscribers and readers, as the days grow shorter and as those of us up here in the northern climes prepare to go inward and grow pensive, I ask you for a moment of your time in the form of a click on the “like” box, a few words in the “comment” box, a share of a post, a decision to subscribe or to follow me on Twitter, a submission of a haiku, or a message in an email to let me know what you think.

Are my writings of interest, is there a resonance in the stories, is my exploration of the experiences of real eaters meaningful for you? Are my musings too long or convoluted in their message; do they not offer the hands-on suggestions and answers that we so often seek in this vast landscape, or, are they, as my brother recently told me, intriguing but rather depressing? And if they are, might they also be, as I hope, a bit funny.

Are there topics you would like me to address more, was I remiss in not discussing National Food Day—like Michael Pollan did, should I post more photos of my cat Chico? Have I not discussed menopause enough– which really, I still plan to do? Am I too cutesy or not cutesy enough? Would you care to know that today I ate a nice nori roll for lunch and that I tried a new flavor of Honest Tea that I really liked called Heavenly Lemon Tulsi–tulsi being another name for Holy Basil which you should really check out? And, while sitting outside on this unusually warm November day, I ventured some deep gulps of the mineral spring waters that flow freely from the fountains that immortalize my nearby town? Would it be good if I included some recipes like many other food bloggers do? Should I change my template or alter the background color? Am I too pink or does my cynicism tinge the blog a light shade of tan?

Should it matter to you that this week I worked with a 41-year-old woman who weighed 78 pounds? And, then, immediately following, a 39-year-old woman who weighed 310 pounds? That a woman at my daughter’s crew event told me that getting her house ready for the real estate agent to show was so stressful, that she needed three scoops of ice cream at Friendly’s? That yesterday, a nine-year-old told me that she feels different from everyone else, and trying on clothes that say Plus Size in the store is very embarrassing? That next week I will see a two-year-old who weighs 65 pounds? Or, that a mere few hours ago, a beautiful 18-year-old college student shared with me that being thinner than 100 pounds would make her less ugly than she already is and that she has never loved her body?

It has been a number of years now since I ended my subscription to Mothering Magazine and I am certainly feeling a little lost without it. So, any input, advice or inspiration would be greatly appreciated. Gotta run. Time to put the little bloggler to bed.

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

Grasses, grain, fruit, wine

Garden flowers produce joy

Kitchen flours bread.

By Gordon

yesterday

Oct28

Image via Wikipedia

Yesterday, the big nutritional and societal issues that trouble me did not seem so far away. It was an unusual day as my afternoon was devoted to working with children as part of a new project I am involved in.

In the morning I saw a client who at age 42 weighs 371 pounds and requires a cane. She had recently come to me with uncontrolled diabetes and pending renal failure. Surprisingly, she had made some pretty profound changes in the time since I had last seen her and had greatly improved her blood sugar levels. When I asked her what explained the change, she said being spoken to about her kidney damage; and her love for her nine-year-old daughter made her face that big mighty river that flows through all of us.

I encounter many common themes in my work, and often the same ones coincidentally present themselves repeatedly in the course of a month, a week or even a day. One of my current recurrent themes, represented by that client, has been women in their early forties with way too much pain and far, far too many pounds and medications to bear. I always wonder, where did this story start, how did it get so extreme, how was it not prevented?

These questions often leave deep indentations as I press my fingertips into my forehead while bowing over my desk. On some days, the pressure is so deep I can almost feel my prefrontal cortex. But, yesterday, I knew I needed to ready myself for the children, so I yanked my hand down away from my head and put on my happy face. Little did I know the answers to my rhetorical questions lay in these young kids who awaited me.

First, was a pretty, very precociously developed, thirteen-year-old girl who hates her body and by association herself. As I was speaking with her she picked up her cell phone, pushed a button and brought it to her ear almost as unconsciously as brushing a hair behind one’s ear. As I asked her to put the phone away, I fumbled looking to offer her a better connection with me. I asked her and her mom a few of the perfunctory questions but my words sounded hollow. Even at her age, I could tell there were already too many chapters to her story and too few cutesy nutritional clichés that could assuage her experience of being fat.

Next, was a six-year-old boy. He is a big boy at 100 lbs. He was accompanied by both of his very big parents who were eager to help their son as well as themselves. With the boy quickly picking his way through the things in my crowded office I needed a distraction fast. I passed the dad these fun picture cards I have where different scenes are creatively constructed out of fruits and vegetables–while asking the mom for some history.

Dad did successfully engage the boy while Mom described to me that he started on whole milk as a one-month-old infant because her WIC checks for formula were stolen. Since then he has always drunk a lot of milk at will without limit–until very recently. How much milk did she say he drank a day? Why had she not gotten new WIC checks? Already, six years of details had passed me by due to my split attentions. What else was already missed in this young boy’s story and by how many people? Done looking at the cards, the child slid off his dad’s lap and came and stood right in front of me. He asked me the hardest question to answer simply–Is milk good for you?

And then, a lovely, smart and very insightful thirteen-year-old came and placed her presence before me. Within the passing of our first few shared sentences, she told me that she doesn’t eat breakfast or lunch at school because she does not want the other kids to make fun of her. At 271 pounds she has lost the right to eat in peace. A right so assumed we don’t even define it–has already been denied this child–and who knows what else has accompanied this loss. And dinner, she eats in her bedroom in front of the television.

Her mom, full of appropriate concern then joined us. She assumed responsibility for a household with much dysfunction in regard to structure and care associated with food and eating but she was more guilty of love than neglect. Still, her daughter now has abnormal glucose and insulin levels, has had to undergo an ultrasound for an ovarian cyst related to hormonal imbalance, suffers from depression and has already been on a number of medications for various issues.

Though the session was over, I apologized for having to go. I felt a shadow hanging over me–the connection between these children’s stories and those of the women who I described above. Is it already too late for these kids? Is their situation already too extreme? Was too much already missed and not prevented? And, is twenty the new forty?

But, I had to rush out to go pick up my own daughter. It was her birthday–my, seventeen came suddenly.

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

Broken My Plate

My Plate Haiku

Hunger tiptoes in

From bellies, hearts or minds

Feed me now she calls.

By Eva

some big feet to fit

Oct5

Yesterday, my first patient, Harry, was late and my second patient, Dan, was early. As I went out to the waiting room to call Dan, I saw Harry checking in with the receptionist. I had worked with him a few years back and remembered him well. He greeted me warmly and said he understood that he would have to wait. He assured me that this was not a problem.

This is a story about these two men. It probably should be two different stories. But, since the lines of their lives intersected on that morning, and since they share many commonalities–though Harry is black and Dan is white–merged, for now, they will be.

Harry and Dan are both 52-years-old. They are both over six feet tall and over three hundred pounds, though Dan dwarfs Harry in height and weight. They both are caring fathers. Harry has some older boys while Dan has an adorable non-biological three-year-old son he is raising. They are unemployed and poor, have had difficult lives and confront stress on a daily basis. They have diabetes and the usual laundry list of related issues. Impressively, and not commonly seen, they have both successfully and proudly quit 35 year-long cigarette addictions–Harry in the past two years, Dan about three months ago. You can see they were both once very handsome. Harry’s good looks are better preserved. Dan’s are more difficult to perceive due to his lack of teeth, long dirty stringy hair and enormous belly, but his pretty blue eyes and sculpted face tell me he once broke a few hearts. Oh, and they both like ginger ale.

I started working with Dan a few months ago. The loud-talking, heavy-walking, gentle giant stomped into my office in June feeling lousy. He had just been diagnosed with diabetes. He described to me a life marked by serious fatigue and inertia. He spent most of his day splayed on the couch watching television while keeping an eye on his preschool son. He started his day with coffee containing a mountain of sugar, drank iced tea throughout the afternoon and despite his lack of teeth, mainly ate an enormous dinner of starchy, fatty food which he said could probably feed five. At 380 pounds and smoking at least a pack a day, he could barely climb a flight of stairs. His ability to do the odd jobs he got paid for like mowing lawns and shoveling snow was becoming too difficult.

He presented with the common combination of desperation and despair but with a twinkle in his eye. I am always looking for some sign of the life force because making change necessitates pulling something out from the inside. Being illiterate and impoverished as Dan is, can profoundly dampen if not obliterate that inner will, but an eye twinkle is a good indicator that there is still fire within. Illiteracy and diabetes education are not a great combination but he has persevered and has made some amazing changes for someone who has only known mainly one path for half a century. He has literally and figuratively awakened recently and expresses his gratitude for the wake-up call. Though some of his work has been championed from my wonderful little office support team, he actually greatly surprised me by undertaking to quit smoking essentially from his own initiative.

At this week’s visit, he told me that his son just started a daycare program at a local YMCA. He and I had discussed his getting a Y membership which would now be great since he has to take his son there every day. He told me that he had tried to apply for a scholarship as I suggested, but that required bringing in some documentation and filling out some forms. Even as I handed him some free trial membership coupons I have for my clients, I knew that even this simple step requires filling out some paperwork at the other end.

At the end of our meeting, I brought him to the scale. I asked him to remove his old, worn-out heavy steel-toed boots that barely had a lace left between them. I weighed him and I weighed his boots at 4.2 pounds. Cumulatively, that is a lot of weight to drag around. Knowing the answer, I asked if he had sneakers.

With my steps already weary, I then walked back out to the waiting room to call Harry who I knew was waiting. I was still thinking about Dan–wondering how much a pair of good, supportive sneakers for his very large feet would cost. Being able to read and write and having some good sneakers sure would help this man to get moving.

I was abruptly brought back to the moment upon encountering Harry. There he was sitting at an empty table usually reserved for insurance representatives–about to dive into a take-out container of eggs, bacon, home fries, and toast. Though just last week I had to confiscate the bag of Swedish Fish a patient had brought into my office, in all my years I had never experienced catching anyone with a full-blown meal. “Where did you get that?” I asked in shock. “From the diner,” he replied. “How did you get it since I last saw you just a few minutes ago?” “I called them and they delivered it,” he explained somewhat surprised by my reaction and naiveté. “Am I busted?” he asked. No wonder he hadn’t minded earlier if I took my time. I dragged him and the breakfast into my office.

Harry actually has a lot more personal and community resources than Dan, but right now his blood sugar and health markers are much worse–and his situation had deteriorated since I had last worked with him a few years ago. I expressed my concern. He said that he had a lot of personal and family problems recently–though he was not making excuses. He lives alone and barely cooks at home. He is a personable guy and when I asked if there are a lot of local restaurants that know him by name–he confirmed my suspicion. Though he still has his teeth, he could soon not have working kidneys.

We looked at pictures from an old Parade Magazine about the comic Drew Carey’s diet and weight transformation. I told him the story of the film “May I Be Frank” that I discussed in Meditation v Medication. He put down the bacon and he told me he wanted his health.

I suppose I tell these tales to give a face and a fake name to the real people behind the current health crisis. Sometimes, I am hoping to inspire with stories of how people do overcome serious health and dietary challenges. Today though, I am wondering how to really help Harry and Dan a little more. I can assist Dan with the Y application and can call Literacy Volunteers of America; I will loan Harry my DVD copy of the film. But what would those who dream, think and act big do? Who should I call? Oprah, Shaquille O’Neal, Michelle Obama, Drew Carey, the Tom Shoes guy? What do NBA players do with their Nike’s and and1’s after they have worn them on the courts a few times? Is there a healthy food delivery service for patients left languishing while waiting in doctors’ and hospital waiting rooms?

If you have any ideas let me know. Besides, these guys deserve something. They have taken the biggest step to health by quitting smoking. I am thinking of lauding them by posting their photos in the Health Center. Maybe we could write them a Haiku? What do you think?

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: Meditation v. Medication; Inventive Incentive

Update 2020: The 2018 Farm Bill allotted $25 million dollars in funding to Produce Prescription Programs. These dollars have ferried in an increase in the number and types of programs designed to provide food as medicine. They are an extension of the pilot program I developed and managed beginning in 2012 at the Health Center where I worked and described in Inventive Incentive. These programs have evolved over time, becoming increasingly sophisticated, supported by additional dollars, research confirming savings in health care spending, and new technologies. Programs increasingly do include the provision of medically tailored meals for specific health conditions and home delivery. Harry certainly had the right idea, just the wrong food.

The Yellow Deli My Plate

My Plate Haiku

We serve the fruit of the Spirit

At the deli. Why not ask?

The Yellow Deli

how can you say no to a brownie?

Sep17

Yesterday, I attended a conference on Bariatrics and Nutrition, put on by the Bariatric Department of my local university medical center. Bariatrics is the science of obesity. Spell check is questioning my use of this word, so let me go appease it. My quick search into its derivation informs me that its root bar is the same as in the word barometer–the measure of the weight of air. The word was created in 1965 and first used in 1977. It rhymes with allopatric, geriatric, pediatric, podiatric and psychiatric, in case you wish to use it in a song or poem.

The seductive brownie (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We mainly use the word regarding bariatric surgery or the surgical approach to weight reduction. I have worked with a few people who have had this surgery. There are increasingly newer and easier procedures and more centers doing them–and thereby more people having them–so I chose to attend the conference to better inform myself.

I walked into the dimly lit hotel conference room, with bad feng shui, grabbed the last seat at a table with a few other women, put my stuff down and made my way over to the breakfast spread in the adjoining room. From left to right there was coffee, tea, small glasses of orange and cranberry juice, a big tray of danish, another of white bagels with little individual cream cheese servings, a platter of fruit and an icy bin filled with Sierra Mist, Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, and Brisk iced tea.

The morning session was well presented by highly credentialed physicians, a pharmacist, and a psychologist. I did learn some things that were of professional interest to me, but I was finding myself with another one of my nutritional dilemmas. An endocrinologist spoke about how these procedures and their concomitant weight loss results are greatly reducing blood pressure, cholesterol, sleep apnea, and even the high blood sugar levels of diabetes–and are thereby also reducing the cost burden to our health care system of these conditions. However, I was still unsettled by such invasive methods with major implications for nourishment and still uncertain as to how these experts felt about their own program.

After a few hours, I was drained from the bad room energy and hungry. I stuffed my dilemma and headed out to the more naturally lit lunch area. I was pleased to find myself satisfied by a meal that met my own personal nutritional needs and headed back feeling much better and fortified for the afternoon session. It was a good thing too. Three surgeons, whose mothers or kindergarten teachers must have taught them very good craft skills, were soon to reveal to me the gorier aspects of the art of bariatrics.

Currently, there are three major types of either restrictive or malabsorptive bariatric surgeries that are performed in this country–gastric bypass, gastric banding, and sleeve gastrectomy. Sleeve gastrectomy is the newest of the three. While I imagined something more benign, a young boy wonder doctor described the procedure by way of both schematic and actual slides of our insides. He explained that the procedure entails using a stapling device that creates a thin vertical sleeve of stomach while the other two-thirds of the stomach on the other side of the staples–is lopped off. Oh.

The next surgeon, who at least looked like he was born before the first use of the word bariatric, also described various procedures. He was very careful to explain that all of these come with some significant complications. Despite his obvious experience and calm demeanor, transparent in his message was that the safest surgery is no surgery.

As I was digesting this, the woman I had been sitting next to all day raised her hand and asked that if one had already had gastric banding, which has the highest weight loss failure, could they be a candidate for sleeve gastrectomy.

At the next break, at risk of being intrusive, I asked the woman if she’d had the band procedure. She replied that she had, and was frustrated that she only lost 50 pounds. She had the band re-tightened which is done by filling it with more saline solution. Quietly, she admitted that she was responsible for having made some bad choices. I left it at that.

A few minutes later she returned from the break room which had been freshly stocked with a new array of sodas and sweets, with a Pepsi and a brownie. The other women at the table, who I had come to realize were not medical professionals, muttered something to her and she replied, “How can you say no to a brownie?”

The final speaker of the afternoon was a plastic surgeon. This guy was a Michelangelo in GQ clothing. Through a series of slides, I witnessed the graphic photos of about twenty post-bariatric surgery patients clad only in their underpants, before and after the liposuction and body contouring procedures he had sculpted on them. I saw the flaccid flesh of breasts, bellies, arms, thighs, and butts hanging in folds from alien-looking bodies. One woman’s belly flesh reached almost to the floor. Matter-of-factly, he showed how he lifted skin, sucked out fat from one area, stuffed it back into another, and sewed people back up often around their entire circumference. He told of removing up to twenty-five pounds of skin and fat during a single procedure.

As shocked as I was by what he was showing, it was what he explained in closing that was more distressing and deeply telling. He shared that some patients have said to him, that in retrospect, even though they may even feel better, they actually liked their bodies more before the procedure. They may have been fat but they felt they at least had a healthier glow or more natural body. Some, express dissatisfaction with other minute parts of their bodies that they had never thought about before, and many still perceive themselves as fat as they ever were. There is no guarantee that the person will experience a greater sense of well-being and less depression–though many do.

At the end of the day, the Bariatric Program Director and conference facilitator asked the panel of presenters, where did they think we are heading in the next five to ten years. Are we going to be doing way more procedures as the obesity rates continue to increase? Do we fully know what percentage of people who have undergone these procedures truly keep the weight off and the diseases at bay? Do we know the correct prevention measures? The presenters looked a bit deflated in response.

Regarding the prevention question, I left one respectful suggestion on my evaluation form–that the medical community should be particularly mindful of the food it offers at conferences. We talk about healthy eating and yet are unable to establish a new food paradigm in this culture.

Digging for my car keys, I found my dilemma at the bottom of my pocketbook where I had stuffed it. It looked me in the eye and asked, “How can you say no to a brownie?” “It’s tough”, I responded. I headed out into the late afternoon traffic.

How do you say no to a brownie?

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

Adirondack lake

Soothes us from the heat–weightless

We float like feathers. by Elyn

the nutritionist's dilemma

a nutritionist's musings on the realities of eaters and eating

Archives

swept away

faur faur away

walt whitman and mark bittman

visions of sugar plums

where it all began

no passing

dear you, the readers

yesterday

some big feet to fit

how can you say no to a brownie?