Category — Healthy Living

photo from we heart it
Well, that’s taking it a bit far, I think…

Friends, I finally have a reason to cheer. A new study says cranking the thermostat up in the winter may make people fat.

I might be sedentary…

My feet might burn like they’re stuck in boiling acid…

But, gosh darn it, I live in an icebox. Score!

Here’s the deal: Even without shivering, scientists say, people generate heat when the temperature is nippy. They think that’s because humans have this stuff called brown fat, which acts differently than normal fat. Normal fat stores energy and calories while brown fat consumes calories.

But in order for it to expend that deep-fried burrito you just ate, it needs a trigger—like cold temperatures. So, to activate your brown fat, you’d need to hang out in a 60-degree room instead of a 70-degree one.

photo from we heart it
OK, well not that cold. Also: Jack! Don’t go!

The authors of new study say the trend to heat our homes in winter could factor into the obesity epidemic. Check out these statistics from the New York Times: In Britain, the average living room temp rose from 64.9 degrees in 1978 to 70.3 degrees in 2008.

And get this, according to a researcher in the New York Times article:

“When we put people in a 60-degree room, they increase their energy expenditure by 100 or 200 calories a day if they’re in light clothing,” like hospital scrubs.

First, I’ll say neener, neener, neener. (Oh, come on. When do I ever get to brag about EM life actually benefiting me?)

Second, I’m dropping the temp even lower. Why, hello, 63.

At what temperature do you keep your home?

*Does anyone else instinctively want to respond with: There must be some Clovers in the atmosphere? Or am I the only one with a Bring It On cheer permanently stuck between brain folds?

Sometimes when you really look, you’ll find wisdom in the most unexpected places. Like the paper attached to your tea bag.

What’s your teabag words of wisdom?

photo from we heart it

I’m not a vegetarian. I like the way chicken and steak and fish taste. Pork I’m so-so on unless we’re talking about bacon and then I’m all for it.

(I’m more than OK with bacon.)

(Someone pass me a strip, will you?)

Sure, I’ll order a burger or chicken or fish when I’m at a restaurant if I’m in the mood, but I’d just as soon eat pasta or grains or, um, cheese pizza.

Part of this is because I hate handling raw meat. And if that meat we’re talking about happens to be fish, the house stinks for days. I’m not so much a fan of that. The other part is that it takes longer to cook chicken than put together a full salad (yeah, I’m lazy). Oh, and then there’s the fact that I like my beef grilled. And the George Foreman I have doesn’t count.

But there are, like, legitimate reasons to make most of your meals vegetarian:

1. It’s cheaper. Way cheaper if you want organic, free-range chicken, grass-fed beef, and fish that aren’t farm-raised.

2. It’s healthier. I know I said this isn’t one of my reasons, but it’s a good one regardless. Cultures that are mostly vegetarian live longer. Period the end.

Ahem. I’m saying this because I realized today that I’m a natural vegetarian.* I like salads. Not because they’re healthy or because I’m supposed to but because I think they taste good.

Sometimes I feel as if I should feel bad for opting for the salad. Like I’m breaking some code that says you can only get salad if you’re dieting or committing some equally terrible form of self-sacrifice. We’re at the most amazing restaurant in the history of amazingness and you feel like … a salad? You’re visiting and I made a full dinner and you take seconds of … the salad? I feel like I should be ashamed. But still.

But still I’m not. I like salads and veggies gosh dern it! and I’ll eat them instead of pork belly if I feel like it.

So last night when I was thinking of dinner, I went with veggies. Um, a lot.

See, The Man is sick so I didn’t want to eat any real food (you know, like those recipes I showed you yesterday) while he slurped down chicken soup. Instead, I had what I like to call the Cleaning Out the Kitchen Fridge meal.

That would be broccoli, carrot, and radish slaw. It’s chopped broccoli, grated carrots, finely sliced radish all in a Dijon mustard, red wine vinegar and olive oil dressing.

This would be diced red potatoes sautéed in olive oil with salt and pepper and rosemary.

I didn’t set out to eat vegetarian, but somehow that’s the way it always seems to go. I’m OK with that.

Do you incorporate a lot of meat into your meals?

* I don’t, however, have vegan tendencies. Just thinking about a life without cheese makes me sad.

Gooooood Morning friends.

A while ago, I had been planning my meals out a week in advance because:

A. It prevented me from eating quesadillas for every meal. (Now I only eat them for every other meal.)

B. And it saved money.

I’ve fallen out of doing that for some reason other than laziness (I promise—I just can’t recall what it is). If I had thought far enough ahead—and, let’s face it, that totally didn’t happen this weekend—here’s what I’d want to eat this week:

Joy the Baker’s soft seasoned pretzels
Crispy, chewy pretzels. I have no idea how I’d do it, but I would make these gluten-free and then devour them.

101 Cookbook’s Double Broccoli Quinoa Recipe
Quinoa, broccoli, almonds, avocado, Parmesan. Um, yes please.

Smitten Kitchen’s Sweet Potatoes with Pecans and Goat Cheese
Best topping for sweet potato fries ever.

New York Times’ Celery Root, Potato and Apple Purée
If I had a food processor, I’d have made this three nights ago.

Gluten-Free Girl’s Gluten-Free Whole Grain Muffins
This will probably be my first foray into gluten-free baking.

Elana’s Pantry’s Summer Squash Salad
I just happen to have zucchini and squash in my fridge. I think I know what’s for dinner tonight.

What’s on your menu this week?

photo from we heart it
And if I had any male readers, they’re gone with that photo. Sorry guys.

Thank you all for your kind comments about my burning hands. You guys are the best cheerleaders. Bonus: You don’t even have to dress up in slutty uniforms to do it, which, honestly, benefits us all.

Today we’re going to play the game Look What Came In the Mail.* Most nights the mailman brings us one of two things.

1. Bills, and applications for every credit card under the sun.

2. Someone else’s mail. (Seriously mail dude, what’s up with that bimonthly tradition? Next time you deliver me a Rachel Ray, Real Simple, or Self magazine belonging to someone on the other end of Alexandria, I’m going to read it cover to cover while eating something greasy.)

Well, the past two nights have brought presents. Except for Monday night, in which case we received a package we purchased. But whatever. It’d been weeks since we bought it, so I think it counts as a present on the Package Fun-O-Meter**.

Up first: Our new water filter.

This sucker filters out viruses, bacteria, fluoride, chlorine, toxic metals like mercury, lead, cysts (I really don’t want to know), and other things that I couldn’t identify without a google search. Suffice it to say it’s the most pure water you can get while living in a major city.

Supposedly it could filter pee into drinkable water, but I don’t want to find out. (To The Man: Do not pee in the water filter. Love, your wife.)

Why did we spring for this? Well, if you just found my blog you should know that for the past six months my feet have been burning. And when I say burning I mean, aside from flames, they’re quite literally on fire: red, swollen, and about a bazillion degrees. Which means: Pain. So I’m at the point where I’m willing to do anything that might help.

Also, my symptoms started when I moved to D.C. so who knows—it could be the cause.

I know I have mercury poisoning so I don’t want to take an even bigger risk and drink water that might be contributing. Is there a good chance this was a ginormous waste of money? Yes. This is what desperation looks like, folks.

And next: My mother sent me a package and aside from an adorable sweater I’m not going to try on for you because I look like death in PJs, I got these awesome gluten-free chips. (Yeah, I’m trying that, too. Can’t say I’m not trying here.)

These are made from popcorn and, you know, they’re pretty darn good. The flavor is mild (especially the cheddar ones) but not in a bad way. I’ll be adding this to my “gluten-free foods I can eat in a pinch until I take the time to learn how to make gluten-free foods” list.

Finally: The Man ordered Season One of How I Met Your Mother because we watched Season Two, which we had on DVD.

I know, we’re backwards. We also bought it because I love Neil Patrick Harris and want to high-five him every time I see him. The Man hates that because, as you may have guessed, I only see Neil Patrick Harris on TV. Which means I’m getting fingerprints all over the it with every high five.

If there’s one thing you should know about The Man, it’s this: The TV is his precious. In fact, when he talks about the TV he looks like this:

Serious. I almost didn’t marry him because my taste runs more like this:

The things you put up with for love.

What’s in your mail?

*Fun for all ages. Find it wherever board games are sold.

** What? You don’t rate your mail? Weirdo.

photo by thekitchendesigner.org
Don’t even ask if that’s my kitchen. I’ll cry.

Apparently you guys aren’t barefoot running fans. Point taken.

Also, some housekeeping: Apparently Akismet—the widget you use to weed out the spam—thinks I’m a spammer. (Free Viagra!) I’m not sure how that happened, but I’ve been unable to comment on a lot of your blogs recently. (Cialis! Viagra! Buy Free Meds Here!) Here’s all you need to know:

I’m still reading your blogs. And I’m asking Akismet to take me off their hot list of spammers. So don’t think I don’t like you (as if you noticed); think Akismet doesn’t like me.

That is all.

Also BUY PRESCRIPTION MEDS NOW!

Right, not sure why I’m considered a spammer.

On to my most recent obsession. Can you believe I made it to age 28 before I got one of these?

Pathetic or cheap? That’s your call.

We got it at first to make squeezing lemons and limes for recipes that much easier. But then I got to thinking: I love water. I love citrus. I’d love citrus water all the time.

I’ve been cutting a lime in half then leaving it in the press all day. Whenever I fill my water, I squeeze in some lime. It doesn’t help me drink more during the day because I already drink plenty. But it does make the water more fun.

People who suck at getting their eight-a-day (c’mon, fess up) might try this to get more.

And now a confession: I’m beat. I might be getting sick. I might be letting the past week’s burning get to me. Either way, I’m ending this post without giving you much useful advice. For that, I’m sorry.

Let me make that up to you:

Don’t just watch. Turn up the volume. This little pup lets out the most awwwwww-inducing squeals.

So you forgive me, yes? I mean, who can resist a teensy puppy yapping and rolling over and rubbing his eyes? NO ONE, THAT’S WHO.

And with that, I say Happy Weekend. May it be filled with cute baby animals.

What do you think is the hands-down most useful tool in your kitchen?

I have two bananas left and some butterscotch sauce, but only the very bottom of a jar of peanut butter. As I mentioned yesterday, using the crumbly peanut butter makes for a lumpy “butterfinger” sauce. So here’s the deal:

You bring the peanut butter, I supply the rest. I’ll even make butterfinger bananas for you. Deal?

Deal.

So, remember how I told you The Man got an iPad? Remember I said it’s like his second wife that he loves just a little bit more than his first wife and that he takes everywhere with him? Well, one day I stole it and was browsing it because, frankly, it’s awesome. And also I wanted to check out Project magazine, which is the first iPhone-only magazine.

(Side note: As a magazine writer I wanted to check out how they’re transferred to an electronic version. I thought Popular Science did a great job and then I saw Project. Holy interactive, Batman. That magazine is crazy cool and probably requires 2 gazillion employees to produce, including photographers and videographers and tech geniuses whose titles I can’t even name because I have no idea what kind of person is able to do things like make video appear within a pop-out to an article.)

Anyhow, I was browsing the magazine when I came across this:

It’s still in the concept stage, but that, dear readers, is a Dutch product designer’s answer to the barefoot running craze. The foot stickers aim to cover the most sensitive parts of the foot without changing a person’s gait. (No word at this stage how they’ll stick on or hold up to something like, say, trail running.)

What that means: You can run, hike, and do whatever else you want barefoot without getting cuts, scrapes or—if you live in a city—tetanus.* Some of the designs have some traction, so I imagine they’d be a good way to solve the sweaty-feet-on-slippery-yoga-mat problem.

As for the connection to Nike? As far as I can tell, the designer created these as an “independent graduation product” for Nike Europe, whatever that means. Bottom line: No, you cannot buy these**, but it’s cool to think where the barefoot trend may be headed.

You know I wouldn’t wear them (oh feet, how I love thee) but would any of you?

* On second thought, your chances of getting tetanus while wearing these in the city are equivalent to your chances of getting tetanus from jumping in the Hudson.

** But for fun, let’s see how many skimmers*** are ready to purchase.

*** No offense, skimmers. I’m busy, too. But you skim, you lose today.

Whew, what a Monday.

I got in bed at 10 p.m. on Sunday with my foot massively flaring. Pain to the fourth power.

And when I woke up in the morning? Still a massive flare. Now, let me explain something: walking while I’m flaring is like having your leg lit on fire then walking on nails. (And not one of those beds of nails that look like they’ll hurt but really don’t because they’re uniform and all.)

I grabbed the two fastest things for breakfast—well-rounded: a banana and tortilla chips—so I wouldn’t have to stand on my feet for too long, and continued to flare until noon. Noon. That’s 14 hours of flaring. Oh. Kill. Me. Now.

After that I proceeded to run around like a chicken with my head cut off, only I didn’t do any running. And my head is firmly in place. I think.

When The Man got home he made warm spiced nuts and chickpeas because he’s made of awesome. Almonds, cashews, and chickpeas roasted with salt and pepper:

They so beat chips.

Lastly, lovely Lisa at Thrive Style tagged me for an award on my blog and I thought I’d spread the love. So, some things about me (you know, those eight things that you don’t already know)…

1. I love the movie Zoolander. At one point in my life I could recite each of Derek’s monologues, including the eugoogly.

2. Despite my love for that movie, I can’t stand Will Ferrell.

3. My closet is color-coordinated and divided by season.

4. I woke up at 11:30 a.m. on Saturday. Shame. Shame. Shame.

5. It’s because I went to bed at 3 a.m. on Friday.

6. I might be a vampire.

7. No, I don’t hang with R-Patz.

I’m supposed to highlight 15 new blogs I love but I thought I’d be fair and set a category: New readers. (Also, I cheated and didn’t hit 15.) Here’s where I tag* those new(ish) readers. Go give ’em some love.

Lu at Done Dieting

Alina at Duty Free Foodie

Cynthia at It All Changes

Katie at Peace Be Me

Ashley at 365 Things I See

Ashley at Ashley’s Adventures in Alaska

Kat at Tenaciously Yours

Rufus at What She Eats

Susan at F2%

Running on Coffee

Teresa at Teresa Tastes

OK, everyone else I still think you’re the greatest. I’m mentally sending you all a virtual brownie. I’m sorry it’s not warm, but the Internet isn’t as fast as you think.

Quick: Three random facts about you.

* Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write a post featuring this award, link back to the person who sent you the award, share seven things about yourself, award 15 (or so) bloggers you recently discovered, then let them know they won. This message will self destruct in 5 … 4 … 3 … 2 …

*#!!^ KAPOW!

photo by onion

Breaking news: The nonstick is back.

OK, not completely back. But I took everyone’s suggestion and kept one pan for eggs. If that pan does nothing else but keep eggs fluffy I’ll be happy I kept it.

Most of you suggested using more oil or butter, which I think is a good solution for anything but eggs. I like my eggs dry. (So dry that the though of “dippy eggs” makes me gag a little.)

So, I learned something this weekend as I was writhing in pain during a terrible flare. I’m resilient.

I read this article in the New York Times about what makes some people bounce back from their own slice of hell faster than a kickball on a trampoline. The key? Get this: how often someone has faced adversity.

That’s right. In a study the people who were the most resilient weren’t those who had never experienced a setback. It wasn’t the people who experienced one big problem. Nope, it was the people who went through many trials that scored highest in tests of well-being.

Like a bunch of health problems piled up over the course of half a decade.

Of course, given three wishes I’d still opt to be a healthy person with poor coping skills. Then I’d wish for a gazillion dollars.

And world peace.

How resilient are you to tragedy? Also, what are your three wishes?

photo from we heart it
Yeah, the challenge is kinda like that.

Just a reminder, if you write a letter to your teen self, let me know. I’m posting all links in the original post (there are some great ones up already), which is now located convenient in the left sidebar.

← See?

Also, a story with a point:

Early on in my relationship with The Man (at the time, he was just The Boy), he spent the long weekend at my parents’ house. We’d been seeing each other for two months, during which time I spent a month in Europe then moved to Massachusetts, which is about eight hours from Baltimore, where The Boy lived, on a good day. Since good days never happen on the Jersey Turnpike, the trip was always upwards of 10 hours.

Anyhow. We were doing the whole long-distance thing and racking up minutes on our primitive cell phones, which dropped calls every other minute. It was cute and we’d talk about things like how the nubs on the insides of socks are pretty annoying and the fact that both of us were more or less addicted to Listerine. (Incidentally, this is also the time when we found out neither of us like onions. I’m pretty sure The Boy went ring shopping that day.)

Right, he was visiting my parents’ house, where I was living until I could find a job right out of college.

So there we were in the bathroom. A bottle of Listerine on the counter. Two Dixie cups ready to be filled. The Boy looked at the bartender:

“Hit me.” I poured him a shot then filled my own cup.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” I asked.

The Boy nodded.

“I’m a pro. I won’t think less of you if you back down,” I lied.

“Don’t think I dislike you just because I force you to eat my dust,” he said. I snorted.

We raised our glasses. Tapped them together. Tilted our heads back. The Boy and I drained the cups, slamming the empties on the counter. Green liquid splashed as a cup collapsed.

photo from we heart it

For a minute, I didn’t move. My theory was that the mouthwash would burn less if I didn’t swish. Wrong. I figured swishing just spread the burn. Holding the liquid in place would centralize what burn there was. Wrong.

The fire started in the middle of my tongue. Expanded to my cheeks. Burnt the roof of my mouth. My lips hurt. My teeth ached. I’m pretty sure I blew smoke out of my nostrils when I dared breathe at all.

One look at The Boy and I knew he was struggling, too. His face became red. His eyes bulged. We waved our hands out of sync with one another just to do something other than swish burning mouthwash around our mouths.

One minute in, my tastebuds were gone. Burnt clean off, I thought. It didn’t matter. I knew that if I could swish for just one more second The Boy would give in.

He looked at me.

“Mmmmmwp,” he said. I nodded.

“Mmmne,” I said.

“Mmmoo,” he said.

“Mwwwe,” I said. We spit.

I shut my eyes and panted. I imagined my mouth smoking like a fired gun. My mother walked by and rolled her eyes. I think she mentioned that we were the biggest dorks she’d ever known. I think we ignored her and let out short screams.

My teeth were clean.

That, my friends, is how much I used to love Listerine. So take it from me when I say that Tom’s of Maine’s natural, burn-free mouthwash tastes good and leaves my teeth feeling clean. As you now know, that clean feeling is of utmost importance to me.

In case you were wondering.

Are you a mouthwash person?