Posts from — September 2010

I generally don’t eat cereal from Monday through Friday. Those days are reserved for oatmeal, and as much as I’ve gone through periods of being completely sick of it (you know, like when I swore it off for good—I thought) it’s really the best weekday option.

Because I will not wake up even two minutes earlier to make breakfast at home. Because I’m sleep deprived. And I’m a very good sleeper.

Where was I? Oh, right—my teenage-like sleep tendencies. And the fact that it’s all oatmeal all the time during the week. But on the weekends? I crave cereal. The cold stuff, skim milk. Somehow it’s like a treat, which sounds really pathetic.

For the past four or so months, I’ve made this ritual cereal combo: Half a bowl of Puffins, half a bowl of Uncle Sam.

I love both, so I was excited when Uncle Sam asked if I wanted to share the love.

They were all, “Hey, wanna give a box to your readers?”

And I was all, “Heck yeah, because maybe they can make their own cereal combo.”

They were all, “Sweet, hold a contest will ya?”

And I was all, “Of course. Sounds like fun.”

I also decided to cook with it because A. why not, and B. I had the remainders of a box just sitting around and I wanted to use it up before breaking into the brand spankin’ new box Uncle Sam sent over. (Don’t tell me I’m the only one who likes new stuff that sparkles and all.)

Chaos ensued.

Not really. This ensued:

That’s soy sauce. One tablespoon.

That’s honey. Two tablespoons.

This is The Man whisking away.

And this is the chicken soaking up the sauce.

Look, now we’re shake ‘n’ baking in Uncle Sam cereal. Oooh, ahhh, flaxseeds. I love that part.

This is the cereal-coated chicken, topped with almonds because almonds makes everything better.

Oh, and see? It’s all cooked. And delicious.

So, who wants a box? I’ll tell Uncle Sam to send you one for the price of a comment. Tell me what cereal you’d combine with Uncle Sam to make the Ultimate Bowl of Cereal.

I used to love summer. I’ve always been chronically chilled, so the hot season was my favorite time of the year. It was the first time I could wear short sleeves outside without getting goosebumps. It was my only chance to turn pasty white skin the color of, um, human skin.

I loved the beach. And even after my knees gave up on me, I could still sit in the sand and take in the salty air.

But now that 70-degree weather sets my feet on fire, summer has been downgraded to my least favorite season. That’s right, I’m most excited for winter. (See EM? See what you did to me??)

So that’s why this year more than ever I’m excited for fall. I’m excited for the crisp air that actually nips at my skin instead of sears it.

As much as yesterday I poo-poohed the whole pumpkin craze, I’m really excited for it. (You know, when the temps finally drop beneath 80.) I can’t wait for the day I need to wear a jacket outside because there’s a chill in the air. On that day, when I can walk outdoors without fearing an EM flare, I’ll get a pumpkin latte. I’ll do the whole fall thing. But for now, I’m still waiting.

And in the mean time?

I’m gorging on my most favorite of all favorite fall things. This is the holiday item I most long for all year. (More than Cadbury cream eggs, more than candy corn, more than chocolate Santas.) It’s Macoun apples.

When I was in high school and worked at this farm stand slash country store, we sold fresh-picked Macoun apples from the orchards behind the shop. Let’s skip over the fact that I never really quit that job…

They’ve been my favorite fruit ever since.

Crisp. Tart.

They only last for about a month.

And then they’re gone.

What’s your single favorite piece of fall?

photo by kelly hart

There are a few things I have to get off my chest.

1. I made a meal plan. I made a grocery list off that meal plan. The Man bought only the food on the list. And over the course of a week we’ve eaten, oh, four of the planned meals.

Fact: On Sunday night, Amy’s broccoli and cheese potpies sound like the best idea. Ever.

2. I haven’t eaten pumpkin yet. While the entire blog world explodes and spills its orange guts all over the place, while Twitter chirps about Starbucks pumpkin spice lattes, I have yet to give in. There are a few reasons but primary among them is this: It’s 90 degrees out. That, my friends, is summer.

(A close second: I need to allot extra time in the morning to making a Starbucks stop, and when I’m already waking up at 6 a.m. that’s not happening.)

3. I own a Panini maker, but I’ve never used it. When you have just enough cabinet space to store pots and pans, you’re left with one place to store appliances: the closet. Somewhere between the extra linens and stuff I am unable to persuade The Man to throw out. Not that I don’t love Paninis. Not that I don’t love the idea of easily pressing a sandwich. I like that idea. In my fantasy, I make a sandwich on my Panini maker and eat it with William Shakespeare.

But really, a full teapot gets the job done.

4. Last night I’m had chocolate chip cookies before bed. Because The Man had one of those cruddy days, and we’re not above using food to make us feel better.

Anything you want to get off your chest?

P.S. If you want a real article, I went all acronym again over at Side of Sneakers. Check out my post on the Never-ending Injury Society. Betcha wanna belong…

This is what happens when your parents come to visit but you can’t walk:

Lunch

Sit, sit, sit, sit

Dinner

Movie

Sleep

Lunch

Sit, sit, sit, sit

After the first meal—a big Greek salad—I felt satisfied. After the second—butternut squash ravioli with hazelnuts in a buttery sauce, a bib salad with almonds, apples, and manchego, and some appetizers I won’t even mention because you’ll start crying glutton—I felt full. After yesterday’s lunch? My stomach is crying for mercy.

Here’s how much eating we did: The Man is craving a salad. I know.

I had wild ideas of doing something with my parents, but it was 90 degrees out, which means it would have taken 0.007 seconds for my feet to burst into flames. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to this EM.

In other news, I must have slept like a pretzel last since my neck’s kinked up like an old garden hose. Last week, I could barely look left what with the pinch in my shoulder. Now this. I’m thinking new pillows and a massage. Yes, definitely a massage.

Oh, and speaking of massages, researchers who studied people got massages (to be a part of that study…) found that the relief goes beyond muscle relaxing. Go here for more info, but the bottom line: Massages lower stress hormones and raise contentment chemically. Pretty cool.

So, basically, massages are wonderful.

And all of that means I need a spa appointment. Someone tell The Man.

Realistically, I’ll be doing that whole one-armed self-massage at my desk today. What do you do to ease kinked muscles?

photo by rae134

Today, I’m (not) Superhuman goes sci-fi. Which means that we’ll be talking about creepy monster fish. Let me set the stage:

In a tragic future not too different from now, mad scientists with money on the brain take genetic material from one fish and add it to another. The new animals grow fast, and pretty soon the mad scientists decide it’s a good idea to sell the Frankenfish to the townspeople. Because the mutant fish look just like regular ones, the townspeople unknowingly buy pounds and pounds of them.

The mutants grow so fast that it’s cheaper to buy them than native fish—and pretty soon all of the townspeople are eating mutants nonstop. But one day, when the mad scientists have their backs turned, the mutant fish grow even bigger—to the size of a shark. They snap their giant mouths over the scientists’ heads. The Frankenfish escape, leaving a trail of carnage in their wake. And everyone dies. The end.

OK, so maybe that’s a bit dramatic. I said this was sci-fi, right?

Still, a company is trying to get approval of a genetically engineered salmon that grows twice as fast as regular fish.

(Oh, and the FDA says labeling the fish “genetically engineered” may not be possible. From the New York Times: The F.D.A. made no ruling on the labeling, but officials made clear that the agency was not permitted to change the label on a food merely because it was genetically engineered. The food itself must be different — in its taste, nutrition or safety, for example.)

Would you eat genetically engineered fish?

photo by d. sharon pruitt

Today more than ever it feels like healthy living bloggers are a community. There’s the Healthy Living Summit and Healthy Living Blogs. And, well, we all just love each other. In the spirit of inclusiveness, I thought I’d reveal the secrets of being a Health Living Blogger for those who may not belong to the club.

So here are the five rules of healthy living blogging, summed up in this handy-dandy acronym: N.U.T.S.O.*

To be a healthy living blogger you need hefty doses of …

Narcissism
Think you’re just kinda so-so? Get an ego, man. You can’t possibly blog three times a day (or even once, for that matter) if you don’t think you’re pretty great. We health bloggers assume we have something worth saying, after all.

Unlimited funds
Pecan butter. Goji berries. Coconut water. Do you think these things grow on trees? (Don’t answer that.) These things are expensive, so if you’re planning on being a healthy living blogger, make sure your bank account is well-stocked. Otherwise, how will you afford bottles of kombucha when it’s re-released?

Time
Now would be a good time to break up with all your friends. And mother. That’s because blogging once a day takes time. If you plan to blog multiple times a day, you better have a good chunk of time during which you’ll reveal your wonderfulness to the world.

Self-depreciation
As much as you might like to stroke your pretty little ego all day long, hold off. Readers like nothing else than to know our favorite bloggers are made of flesh and blood. So blog about your faults. For instance, if you were to, say, have a disease that turn your feet into torches, don’t hide the fact from your readers. If nothing else, it will make them feel better about themselves.

Obsession
This one goes without saying, really, since no one in their right mind would spend countless hours a day blogging if they weren’t obsessed. Non-obsessed people do not photograph their food. They do not move food that’s about to be cold to a different spot just to get the best lighting. They do not document their workouts. And they most definitely do not stalk other people’s blogs to find out exactly how they lived their day.

As you can see, the road to becoming a healthy living blogger isn’t easy. And it’s not for the faint of heart. Frankly, to maintain a blog, you must be N.U.T.S.O.**

* Said with love and a hefty dose of sarcasm.

** You know that, right?

The eternal dilemma: how to eat a taco without wearing it.

It’s not just me, right? Other mammals with opposable thumbs still have a hard time eating a taco without dribbling sour cream down their chin and dumping salsa on their shirt, right?

Right.

I’m going to share a secret with you: Tidy tacos taste better. (It’s kind of like how a clean home is more comforting. Clean hands type faster. People sleep deeper in a bed with clean sheets. Trust me.) That’s why after I made these taco cups I shed a proverbial tear of joy—the fillings actually stay inside the shells.

And also, they’re cute.

Step 1: Forgive me for the dark photos. See, my kitchen has four tiny lights and my microwave light, which is just as bright as those four. Seriously. I think whoever designed it was going for that dark and mysterious thing—or had learned to cook in a cave.

Next, press warm tortillas into a cupcake tin and brush with olive oil. (Warm is the key. Push them in when they’re cold and riiip.) I used corn ones, but I’d probably switch to flour next time only because they’re easier to shape. I used small bowls to hold the tortillas in place before baking. But before they went in the oven, those bowls became dirty dishes.

Bake the tortillas for about 15 minutes, so they’re all crispy.

Fill with refried beans.

And cheese.

And chicken seasoned with a new brand of taco seasoning you just discovered. Make sure it’s burn-the-roof-of-your-mouth hot.

Top with sour cream, lettuce, and tomatoes.

Dig in.

(OK, maybe you need a few paper towels, too.)

What’s your favorite way to eat a taco?

image by eda cherry

So, in it’s-not-all-about-me news, did you hear that the Corn Refiner’s Association is asking the USDA to start calling high-fructose corn syrup “corn sugar”? That’s because HFCS has gotten a bad rep and, well, corn sugar sounds sweeter.

In honor of this brilliant marketing move, I’d like to offer a few other name switcheroos that might help other industries win back customer support.

photo by superfantastic

The product: Cigarettes

Why it needs some good PR: What’s the first thing you think of when you hear this? Lung cancer? Emphysema? Do the words tar, formaldehyde, and arsenic come to mind? I thought so.

The new name: Mist Stix™. As in, light up one of these dainty numbers and mist away. Forget thoughts of slow, painful death. Smoking Mist Stix™ will conjure this image: You’re on an empty beach, feeling the spray of salt water on your face. A lone unicorn appears out of the mist. Followed by a rugged man with rippling abs.

photo by steve snodgrass

The product: Lard.

Why it needs some good PR: Let’s be honest, just like tissue and Kleenex are interchangeable these days, so are the words fat and lard. (See: lard ass.) Using an object as a synonym for an adjective (one with a negative connotation, no less!) is just plain wrong. You don’t see people using the words  PC and failure interchangeably, do you? (Hm, maybe not the best analogy.)

The new name: Pork Butter. Let’s be honest: Butter’s having a revival after all those years of Margarine, Margarine, Margarine! If lard could piggyback (ha!) on that trend, it too could be a go-to fat. I can hear it now—honey, would you pass the Pork Butter? I’m making fajitas tonight.

photo by bukowsky18

The product: Aspartame

Why it needs some good PR: Aspartame had a good thing going until a scientist found out it gave rats tumors. Plenty of research now says that study was bogus, but somehow people still fear that those little blue packets contain toxins. At the very least, no one wants to eat so many chemicals. And, let’s face it, it tastes gross.

The new name: Heavenly Sugar™. See, this is where the Corn Refiner’s Association went wrong. They didn’t shoot high enough. Yeah, corn sugar sounds OK. If you want to appeal to those with earthy palates. But Heavenly Sugar™? C’mon, doesn’t that sound about five gazillion times tastier? Well, it is. Think fluffy white clouds. Rainbows. Double rainbows. Doves. Frolicking angles dusted with aspartame Heavenly Sugar™.

What other products need a name change? And, more importantly, would you buy Mist Stix?

Guys.

Seriously, you’re the best. Not only did you listen to my week ’o whining without leaving comments like “Big deal,” but you also left some of the sweetest comments ever. Each and every one of you made my day. Which means my day was made multiple times all week. Much needed.

And those of you who didn’t comment because, well, what do you say? Well, I know you were reading and that also makes me warm and fuzzy inside. So a big huge thank you to you, too. (See, look, a hug: ♥)

I’ll still be mentioning my EM because, at least for now, I’m stuck with it. But don’t worry, my posts won’t be all Woe Is Me from here on out. Pinkie swear.

And there’s more good news. Inspired by Jayne, a reader with EM who says I can still have a life despite my ability to turn into a human torch, The Man and I explored a nearby town on Saturday.

It was the first weekend we’d left the house in a long time, which is at once pathetic and encouraging. And aside from one flare-up, my feet did pretty good. (It didn’t hurt that it was a merciful 68 degrees that day.)

So without further blabbering, here’s what happens when you face your fears:

First, you grab lunch at the Red Fox Inn, which thankfully had an extra chair to put my feet up on. Somehow this made me happier than reading the dessert menu. I KNOW.

I had an awesome arugula, granny smith apple, goat cheese, and pecan salad while The Man ate his weigh in fried chicken and biscuits. He laughed in the face of my leafy greens. And then felt the wrath of his stomach. That’ll teach him.

Ah, books. I’m on a spend-money-only-on-medical-treatments kind of budget, so window shopping it was.

And because we have basically been inactive for the past few months, and because The Man ate enough fried chicken to feed a small village, we rested.

Completely Unrelated Question of the Day (CUQD, for you acronym lovers): You get to eat one food for the rest of your life. Which is it? (Yes, you sugar addicts, chocolate chip cookies totally count.)

photo by veo
Oh look, it’s the number of vitamins I take at breakfast. Yippee!

Thank you to everyone who’s left me amazing words of support, and to anyone who’s just reading. You guys are the best.

I thought I’d end this whole series on a positive(ish) note. A couple days ago I went to another doctor to get to the bottom of my EM. Let’s do the bad news first, mkay?

For starters, his office is more than an hour away, which means I need to take a day off work every time I go.

And also, he doesn’t take insurance. Which means I forked over $295 for the initial appointment.

Finally, he didn’t take one look at me and say, “Figures. I see this all the time. Well, I’m sorry you had to come all the way out here for something as simple as this. All you have to do is take this one vitamin twice a day and you’ll be back to normal in a week.”

OK, so maybe that last part was just a fantasy. On to the good news.

The guy spent an hour and a half with me. As in 90 minutes. That’s, oh, 88 minutes longer than that vascular hotshot spent with me. Unless, of course, you count the time I spent in the waiting room, in which case that’s 55 minutes longer than I spent at the last doctor’s office.

So, he didn’t know why I suddenly got EM or what’s causing it. (Sigh.) But he does think something triggered it, and if we can find the cause and squash it like the pest it is, I can beat this. Of course, finding a cause seems like playing a game where we open a medical textbook and shoot darts at possible disorders. (Oooh look! Maybe it’s testicular cancer!)

Anyhow, the point is that even though he doesn’t know the cause, he’s willing to go on this whole treasure hunt to discover it.

For starters, he’s testing me for Lyme disease, heavy metal toxicity, and a bunch of vitamin deficiencies. If those come back A-OK, it’s to the drawing board again.

He also prescribed a medication that might in some people maybe just maybe alleviate some of the symptoms. No, it doesn’t make EM go away. But it might make it less painful. (Let’s skip over the fact that it’s really an anti-epilepsy medication, all right?)

I’m also on so many vitamins that I’m going to buy a vitamin purse to carry with me every day. Seriously, I think I’m chugging about 30 pills daily. (Note to self: Get higher doses, take fewer pills.)

The bottom line: I’m just kind of trying everything to see what works.

But I’m not going to let this EM sideline me. It might bankrupt me, but I’ll get to the bottom of this. Or, you know, burn to a crisp while trying.

Anyone ever have to seek out a cure or treatment on their own just to get to the bottom of an illness or injury?