A Year Ago Today

A year ago last Thursday was a Wednesday.  On that day I sat between two German businessmen as I flew over the Atlantic Ocean.  I know they were business men because I asked them; they were flying back from Iowa.  I watched “Awesome Celebrity Weddings” on my personal television seated in First Class.  I would later discover what jet lag and four complementary glasses of champagne do to a person when they trade their usual sleeping pattern for an inverse one overseas.  I would also come to find out (especially on the flight home) that not everyone’s ticket gets upgraded for free. 

A year ago last Friday was a Thursday.  On that day I took my first bite of authentic Italian gelato (pistachio flavored) and had to wear my purple cami to bed because I forgot to pack a nightgown.  

A year ago last Saturday was a Friday.  It was supposed to rain so I dressed warm and ordered an espresso from a baristaman who brushed my money aside flirtatiously and said, “You pay tomorrow” in his thick Italian accent.  I sampled wine on a tour of an underground wine cellar and used my napkin to spit out anchovies on toast.    

A year ago last Sunday was a Saturday.  I toured a dairy farm, ate a seven course lunch and skipped dinner to go for a run.  Later that evening I cheered on foreign half-marathon runners just two blocks from our hotel in Cuneo.

A year ago last Monday was a Sunday.  After riding a bus for 4 hours I laid eyes on 55 thousand Parma hams being smell tested individually by the factory owner and his two workers.  That night it poured down rain and after taking a hot shower I hand-washed my limited supply of cold weather clothes in anticipation of more rainy tomorrows.  

A year ago last Tuesday was a Monday.  On that day I saw a breathtaking bride and groom posing for wedding pictures along the Arno River in Florence.  I received an e-mail that said, “HIMOLLYGLADYOUAREHAVINGAGOODTIMELOVEGRANDMA.”  (She didn’t know how to use the space bar.)  That night my roommates Monica, Teju and I laughed ourselves to sleep.    

A year ago yesterday was a Tuesday.  This day drizzled rain too.  At a flea market I tried on clothes behind the curtains of peddlers’ filthy panel vans and even got a thumbs up from a bicyclist.  I also climbed tilted stairs to the top of Pisa’s leaning tower and started my love affair with hazelnuts.   

A year ago today, in the middle of the night, an earthquake tremor rattled our several-story hotel in Bologna.  A 70-year old woman taught me how to fold tortellini and how to make homemade pasta without even using a bowl.   

For some reason today (and this year) I feel like embracing the rain.  I feel like drinking wine and saying “grazie” instead of “thank you.”  I feel like having…making buttery rich pasta without even using a bowl.   I just may.  Tomorrow we’ll reconvene our adventure and I’ll share with you what happened a year ago to date.           

Abracadabra Apricots

I had an amateur magic set when I was little.  In it were all the usual gags- the wand, the scarf, the latex thumb- and after learning new tricks, I would lace up my black cape (the one with gold stars and crescent moons) and put on shows.  With Mason as my assistant we would dazzle the audience, usually Mom, Dad, or Grandma with our sleight of hand and uncanny ability to make things disappear.  

We were stealthy ones.  Even long after the show my accomplice and I had the miraculous ability to make certain foods seemingly vanish into thin air.  Namely it was apricots, plums and Fruit Roll-ups that one by one (or two by two rather) didn’t stand a chance against our sorcery.   Back then the kitchen floor was still carpeted, enabling my sticky little fifth-grade feet to slink over to the counter with astonishing inconspicuousness; i.e. “Hocus Pocus.”  Also I had mastered the art of not banging my feet against the bottom cupboard whenever I sprung onto the counter to access the goods; i.e. “Presto.”  Covering our shiny wrappers and fruit pits in the trash with a napkin was part of the charade; i.e. “Now you see them, now you don’t.”   Not covering them would’ve alerted Mom to our chain fruit-eating shenanigans which normally occurred during episodes of Arthur and the like.  Disappearing fruit and roll-ups could have been part of the magic act.  Since they left the house as quickly as they had arrived.  

Normally I’m a pretty conservative fruit buyer but I’m a damn good magician when it comes to making apricots disappear.  So tonight I bought 38 and trust me when I say, “They’ll vanish before rotting.”  Abracadabra we’re down to 36, 35, 34….   

The Lemons Writing Process in 10 Easy Steps

Step One:  Brew and drink some fresh coffee.

Step 2: Play the Pandora radio station that alternates between 90’s country & edgy techno. 

Three: Word and reword the same sentence 5 times.

Step 3 ½: Tap your toes.

3 ¾: Stare at a wall and think real hard.

Steps Four & Five:  Go off on tangents then delete most of them.

6: Shuffle to the pantry for a palmful of chocolate chips.

Seven-9: Whisper sentences to yourself.  Laugh out loud. Admit that you’re crazy.

10: Go warm up your coffee and grab more chocolate chips while you’re at it.

(Repeat steps 3-10)

The Exhaustion That’s Not

Having executed a good variety of sprints, high knees, and exaggerated long strides between mailboxes and telephone poles the last few miles or so would consist of nothing in particular.  She would allow her mind to shut down completely, sitting back to enjoy the ride that her legs knew by heart.  For a while now her breath had been fixed to a deep and effortless rhythm.  Inhales lasted for about four strides and exhales required five. But again, no one was counting.  

The past hour had taken an observable toll.  Her drenched hair seemed to be 3 shades darker.  Tips and entire strands clung tightly to her neck.  Her shirt and shorts had greyer greys and blacker blacks in all the likely places.  Beneath her sunglasses were redder eyes.  Like always the water-proof, sweat-proof sunscreen had somehow managed to make its way into them.  She also displayed the subtler signs of a tired runner-  softer expressions, heavily lidded eyes and hands fixed in a decrepit position. One could easily tell that just the thought of succumbing to her tired legs with a walking pace was tempting.

Her right hand made a fist.  Then, from left to right, she swiped her chin with the groove between her first and second knuckle.  This, as it always did, produced a perfect bead of sweat which would roll from the back of her fist to her wrist.  Then wind down her forearm and fall from her elbow to the pitted gravel road below.  One of many.

When she rounded the corner her strides became more pronounced and her pulse quickened accordingly.  The sight of her parked car triggered the same innate response that all finish lines did, “You’re almost there.  This is when it really counts,” and what was that phrase?- “You can do anything for one minute.”  Because that’s all it was going to take.  Going hard enough anyway.

She closed her eyes determinedly and the entire world melted away.  Concentrating on not what she had already given, but what she had left to give.  What energy had she left to give?  Strides that were once, “left…right…left…” sped up to the pace of a sprinter, “right.left.right.left.right.”  With the promise of a near end and the imagery competition at her heals, sheer adrenaline took over.  Her shoes began making contact with the ground as if each step were too painful to bear.  Her lungs felt as if they would burst.  When at last she reached the finish her fingertips tapped the hood of her car as if to say, “end time.”  Then after allowing her legs to slow down drastically she turned around without hesitation and walked the 23 steps back to her car.  Exhaling a well-deserved, “Yessss” she sunk into the driver’s seat and drove away.  Although completely exhausted, she was not.  

Ditch Effort

We’re going green on LifesLemons this Mother’s Day.  It’s a cop out really- from buying an overpriced greeting card- but together, we can pretend to be environmentally conscious by going with the term “green” instead of “cheap.”  You in?  I digress.  You see…I’m in the habit of equating expenses with the amount of time that it takes to earn their value.  So in order for me to feel comfortable justifying four and a half dollars or 25 minutes after taxes on a greeting card, the card’s content has to be simply perfect and unparalleled.  No such luck in finding one this year and it may or may not be due to the fact that I spent all of 3 1/2 minutes searching for one before deciding that sharing a Mother’s Day story could potentially be muuuch better.  

At least better than most of my last-minute-Mother’s-Day-ditch-efforts.  Once during my pre-teen years on the eve of Mother’s Day, I searched frantically around my bedroom at Dad’s house looking for an adequate gift.  I thought, “Would she like this old picture-frame?  No, I think she bought it for me.  Can I give her my jewelry box?  Oh shoot, my name’s engraved on it!”  Makeshift or otherwise, the present just had to appear thoughtful and that I’d remembered before 10 pm the night before.  Naturally I ended up spraying a pile of Kleenex with some sample perfume before fastening them together with a sad looking green pipe cleaner.  This gift, as I’m sure you imagined, was an exceptional one.  Exceptionally lame.  Yet I’m sure that one day I’ll have a daughter who’ll present me with similar quick-and-dirty masterpieces.  Because that’s what it was.  A quick and dirty masterpiece.  It’ll be just like old times, only I’ll be on the receiving end of this sorry little scandal.  Good times.  Can’t wait.    

Having a car now enables a person to go out and buy decent gifts.  Which I did.  Yet, as mentioned before, finding cards are a different story.  Unless they’re extremely fitting, funny, or say things that I can’t express better they’re useless and quite frankly, a waste.  So here we are.   Seven minutes (Central Time) before the day after Mother’s Day 2013  confessing our card-lessness  and justifying it in a way that trumps the glitter and overpriced card-stock anyway.  A blog.  

Ah Hem….

 ”Hey Mom.  Happy Mother’s Day. Love you, Molly & Mason”

Lookout Hallmark, I may be on to something.

What’s the Deal?

When I joined the Methodist Wellness Center the winter after graduating high school I selected a membership that only allowed for usage of their lap pool.  Buying a blanket membership that granted passage to the machines and equipment would have been a waste.  I just wanted to swim.  For one, I prefer the treadmills with slatted rubber belts and two, I imagine that I would have felt guilty or something for exercising in front of a combination of those rehabbing from surgery, the elderly, and cardiac/ bariatric patients. It’s no secret that the Wellness Center is designed for a more advanced crowd.  Many members curl 10 pounds on a good day and usually spend time circling the circuit in the comfort of their elastic waist jeans and black loafers.  I stuck to the pool though.  A place where I could concentrate on my swim stroke and not ponder the “Chafe Factor” of a pair of Depends while I watch some feisty old geezer do some possible major damage on a recumbent bicycle.  

Kidding aside, I truly loved Methodist and all of the people there.  A sense of belonging develops at those quieter, more laid-back gyms.  I did a lot of laps and became a seasoned swimmer in their pool.  Never one to swim circles in our neighborhood facility, I swam so much during my first winter that I went all out and bought myself an official silicone swim cap to do good by my poor hair.  I wore it all of eight laps, then tossed  it into the trash because I was so frustrated that it kept slipping off.  No matter how I adjusted my hair, goggles, or the cap itself it kept sliding off my stinking head!  Why am I telling you this?  I’m so glad that you asked.   

Having recently bought another swim cap and demoting it almost instantly to a reusable pita pocket storage bag, I must ask, “What’s the deal?”  I mean really, truly, what’s the deal?  I stretch it down after every lap but other swimmers seem to have no problem.  I feel like a newbie runner or something constantly stopping to tie my shoe mid-mile.   Am I doing something wrong?  I’ve been swimming without a cap for ages by now but would like to again try using protection… for my hair’s sake.  Any swimmers out there?  Why does my cap keep slipping off and how can I get it to say on?  And don’t say to get a chin strap like the girl in the vintage ad to the upper-left.  Although stylish, a band would impede my breathing.  This is an extremely frustrating situation to me, but if I get fresh advise I may remove the cucumber, heirloom tomato pita from my said former head gear in order to give its real functionality a final go.  Thank you in advance.    

The Soap Box Chronicles Present: Carrot Peelers

The aroma of coffee filled my nostrils as a squirt of grapefruit speckled my cheek.  Dad was sitting beside me at the kitchen table, using his special, bent, burnt orange handled, grapefruit knife to cut sections of fruit free from its thick peel.  The metal spoon clicked gently against my baby teeth whenever he’d share a bite.  My hands were full.  I was peeling carrots.  The wooden table had been covered earlier with overlapping layers of vibrant newspaper comics and now orange shreds of carrot were piled high on Snoopy’s doghouse.  Innocent voices of cartoon characters hummed in the living room.  A pain pulsed in my scrawny, bent, blond-haired pubescent leg, originating where the bones of my ankle met the hard chair.  So I shifted to the other side.  A simple fix.  The coffee maker gurgled.  My vegetable peeler jingled.

Dad began demonstrating to me how dangerously sharp these peelers are. “It’s razor-blade sharp, and if. you. ever…”  I began daydreaming about the Magic School Bus.  “All it takes is one swipe…”  The episode where Arnold eats Seaweedies,  “one inch…” which is a fictional food, “and you’ll cut your finger…”  containing so much carotene that his skin turns orange!  “clean to the knuckle…”  Can you imagine?!? “clean to the bone!”  Your skin turning orange!?  

The next thing that I knew there was shrieking and there was blood.  Blood everywhere, soaking through each layer of The Funnies, pooling when it didn’t absorb fast enough.  The peeler dropped from a frozen hand.  Cool air and salty tears were seeping into the meaty raw muscle of thumb.  Shards of sunlight seemed to sizzle the glassy red flesh as peachy skin dangling heavily by a thread.  Loud sobs rumbled deep from within my chest. It. Was. Horrific.    

Sorry about your thumb Dad.  Lesson learned, if it’s any constellation   

Did you ever hear a story that was told to you so descriptively,  so vividly, that it actually felt like you were there, part of the action?  Have you ever heard a tale or received a warning that was so disturbing it scarred you for life?  I’m not entirely sure that the last part, the gashed thumb part in the preceding story, happened in real life.  But I am sure that I will never, ever, own a carrot/potato/vegetable peeler for the rest of my life!  Thanks to Dad and his Soapbox Chronicles.

Self-Proclaimed “To-Do List Schedule Maker”

I like making lists.  Visual persons, such as myself, just love to write everything down that they’d like to accomplish for the day, or buy at the grocery store, or better understand from their medical nutrition therapy books.  Then, we stare at the list for a long while. Which is almost as productive as doing the tasks, buying the eggs, and learning the concepts themselves.  Just kidding…staring only happens for a short while.  Then, I get out a fresh sheet of paper and devise a schedule.

I like making schedules too… just about as much as I like making lists- devising both for everything. Everything. Deadlines, what I need to clean, to buy, to mail, answers I need to know, where I need to go, when and how I need to do everything. Yes, everything.  When coping during busy times it’s how I stay in control, and actually see the things that need to get done and by when.  It’s how I stay on task.  It’s how I remember to feed my goldfish and how I remember that I do not have a goldfish. After reading Brian Tracy’s book to end procrastination, Eat That Frog, I learned the value of making lists, assigning time frames and tackling important tasks first.  The time spent jotting down and prioritizing to-dos is well worth the investment, because you’re more prone to stay on task rather than later wondering, “What should I be working on at the present time?  Hmmm, I think I’ll just go make a sandwich.”  Tracy has “consulted for more than 1,000 companies, addressed more than 5,000,000 people in 5,000 talks and seminars throughout the US, Canada and 55 other countries worldwide.  As a Keynote speaker and seminar leader, he addresses more than 250,000 people each year.”  Read his book if you like the topic of time and self management, otherwise just take my personal expert advice, which is listed below.  I’m a self-proclaimed, “To-Do List Schedule Maker” who has the potential to reach billions upon billions of people via World Wide Web on a daily basis.  

Personal experience reveals 2 easily made mistakes when making To-Do List Schedules:

1.) Under/overestimating the amount of time that it will take to execute a task. For example, say… transit takes longer than the time allotted. Then it cuts into the next activity and the next and the next.  Might just as well toss your agenda out of the car window.  If transit takes less time than allotted, the new-found time alludes to a license to waste (time.)  Helllllo shopping.  

2.) Blatantly ignoring the pitfalls, snags, and distractions that are likely to happen when executing certain tasks.  In good conscious, for example, I simply can not write, “Study for MNT; 9am-3pm” because I’d be setting myself up to fail.  Try as I might, I will not stay focused (and retain) test materials when I study for several consecutive hours, but wouldn’t that be nice?  Six hours to committing concepts, vocabulary, and mechanisms to memory is split up into two, three, or four solid study sessions. Otherwise I get antsy, angry, then I act out and nothing productive gets done. Why do you think I’m blogging right now?  *Winky face.  Back to the books.  

Happy Birthday Life’s Lemons

Happy Birthday LifesLemons…I baked you a cake!

Okay, let’s be real.  Obviously it’s not pineapple-upside down, (although I know that’s your favorite) it’s chocolate and vanilla and eleven layers tall!

Wanna be real again?   I didn’t exactly “bake” your cake either.  Hence its resemblance to a tall stack of waffles.  Each layer was forged two by two in my little waffle iron by strategically plugging and unplugging so that the fluffy batter wouldn’t scorch.  That, my two-year-old friend, was tedious.  So was cutting up page 2 of an old multiple choice biochemistry test to make a doily.  You know that I like you when I pause to snip a doily, because then I’ve got to sweep up the snippings.  Still being real?  The cake was a boxed mix.  Who do you think I am?  Michelle Lomelino?

Let’s a start a birthday tradition Lemons.  We’ll list our favorite posts of the year.  Which is easy for me because when I scroll through, they jump out with effortless recollection.  Remember these?

A Person’s Worth a Thousand Words

You Can’t Vacuum Fuzzies at a Coffee Shop

Our Little Paradigm

To My Baby Brother On His Eighteenth Birthday

Lemons Don’t Fall Far From the Tree

When Life Hands Me Tomatoes

What posts do you favor?  The short ones probably, because the long ones are daunting.  I get that.  Because I read blogs too.  I also gravitate towards the heartfelt posts about people.  What about you?

Happy 2nd Birthday LifesLemons!  Lucky you. Lucky me!  Your cake’s going to be delicious!

Getting Matched to a Future & What I Will Bring

My program coordinator and I had a candid discussion about the unique passions, priorities, and obligations that I’ve had as an undergrad, as well as how they’re able to influence the probability that I’ll get matched to a Dietetic Internship this year.  He explained that it can be tricky to express a person’s potential during a sometimes superficial application process and remarked how he noticed on the class trip to Italy that my strengths and personality differ greatly from my peers.  The value of these strengths are at the discretion of each internship and overlooking areas with a need for improvement must follow established guidelines.  Knowing my facets of unequivocal proportion, saying that I would be a tricky applicant to evaluate was an understatement.  At the time, hearing his observation was a jagged pill to swallow.  It felt like my wherewithal was flawed, but now, I couldn’t agree more.  I’m spunky. 

It’s probable that I won’t get matched to a Dietetic Internship this year.  Keep reading Dad, it gets better.

It is also probable that no matter what, I will get matched to a future that leads me wherever I’m destined to go.  Pretty deep huh?  I’m prepared to pack up for Boston,  Little Rock, and nowhere at all.  (In no particular order.)  With me I will bring the passion and influence that no one else can bring.  I will bring enthusiasm and initiative.  I will bring ambition that’s almost naive.  Internship, temporary job, start of a career (again, in no particular order) here I come. 

Clean Eating Does Not Mean Barely Eating

We’re subjected to pictures and examples of meals with virtuous nourishment or “clean” eats on a daily basis.  Online, on television, in magazines it’s insane.  “Clean,” as it applies to consuming food, can be described as taking in minimally processed, nutrient dense, smaller meals that contain few ingredients.  Those who eat this way also aim to eliminate processed foods, preservatives, chemicals, saturated/trans fats and sugar.  Are  the meals balanced?  Sure.  Are the meals delicious?  You bet.  Are the meals enough?  Sometimes.  Well, it’s  debatable.  Let’s explore. 

Off the tip of my brain a sample “clean” breakfast might consist of a lean, mean, and obscenely green smoothie with a sprinkle of ground flax seed for healthy good fat measure.  A “clean” lunch might be a mashed hard-boiled egg with mustard on a whole grain tortilla, a dish of cubed melon and a scant handful of raw (and organic) almonds.  “Clean” dinner?  Try poached fish served alongside a thin smear of hummus, a lemon wedge and a green bean.  Ok, two beans (and they can be long.)  I kid.  Yet self-proclaimed nutritionists and media forums may suggest restricting more than just ultra-processed food, bad fats and sugars when sitting down to a “clean” meal.  Do you get what I’m implying?  Don’t get me wrong.  Scientific research continues to discover and document the benefits of consuming a variety of minimally processed food.  Combine these health benefits with piercing colors and a stunning presentation… “clean” meals are a true work of art.  All 250 calories worth.  I’m totally kidding again.  Mostly. 

Does anyone else catch sight of a “clean” meal and get the feeling that it’s a little stingy on the calorie front?  Not always of course but sometimes I think, “What a lovely snack, oh wait…my bad.  That’s someone’s dinner.”  Diligently consuming and feeling satisfied from three square 200-300 artfully arranged calories perplexes me.  Supporting an equally encouraged active lifestyle requires more than just Resting Energy Requirements.  So during National Nutrition Month, let’s simply distinguish “clean” from “extreme” and remember that  ”clean” eating does not mean undereating or overeating for that matter.   It is our personal responsibility to feed a relevant variable that is often overlooked during the hype.  That is, our appetite.

Go Bake a Salad

“Huh?!  Another salad post, how can she possibly go on and on about salads?  She’s a psychotic veggie loving freak I tell you!  I visit LifesLemons to escape boredom, not promote it.  I come to see pictures of cats and stuff.  I come to read about edgeless silicone spatulas and to check the length of her shiny hair.  Really Molly… go start a blog about salads already if you love them so much.” - Your Mind’s Voice, laced with disgust, after judging the title.

Graduation party- soft buttery mints cast from tiny diploma molds, cookies, and making small talk with strangers. Baby/wedding shower- cupcakes with pastel frosting, chicken salad croissants, and politely sitting with your legs crossed. Thanksgiving- pies, tiny cheese-spreader knives, giving thanks (mostly to the aluminum foil Gods for easy clean up.) Birthday party- pinatas duh…and cake.  A common denominator is associated with these and many other celebratory events; baked goods.  To celebrate we tend to bake.  Would you tend to agree?  So what baked good would be associated with National Nutrition Month?

 Baked salad of course.

It hits the spot perfectly during crummy March weather because if you’re a fair weather friend to cold salads like me, you prefer softer, warmer foods during the chilly months of winter.  Baking/roasting vegetables in the oven is an easy way to enjoy a hot salad with cold weather texture/temperature preferences.  Celebrate National Nutrition Month. Go bake a salad.

I Made Plans for Us Saturday

Good news!  I made plans for us on Saturday.  ”Saturday” as in, March 23.  ”Us” as in, you and me.  We’ll be running a 5k.  It’s official.  I took off work and you’ll take off…whatever it is that you do on Saturday mornings.  Kapeesh?

Where: Hy-Vee, 4125 N. Sheridan, Peoria, IL

When: Saturday, March 23rd, 2013, Walkers begin at 7:45AM, Runners begin at 8:00AM.

Why: Help support the Central Illinois Dietetic Association promote optimal nutrition, health and well-being, shape food choices, and ultimately make an impact on the nutritional status of our local community.

Tours Anyone?

Wouldn’t it be a crime to be ISU’s Food, Nutrition & Dietetics Club Public Relations Rep. and not use LifesLemons as a platform to promote a public service that me and the peeps are up to nowadays?  Wouldn’t it be a crying shame if I didn’t reach out to my millions of worldwide readers?  When I say “peeps” I actually mean fellow club members, and the term, “millions” ranges somewhere between 17 and 23 on any given day, but that’s another story.  We’re doing this really cool thing- pairing up and shuttling small groups of people around Meijer’s grocery aisles- knocking on melons, smelling peaches and stuff.  It sounds exhilarating  I know, stay tuned.

Our student guides will begin the journey in the produce section, scoot over to the breads, meander through the meats, and so forth, all while doing their very best to answer your pressing questions about soy lecithin and what it’s doing in your granola bar.  

The innovative Nutritional Scoring System (NuVal) that is slowly being adopted by grocery stores nationwide, will also be touched upon.  So if you’ve seen these numbers in stores like HyVee and Meijer but never known what they are, allow us to explain.  We’ve been trained by Meijer Dietitian Maribel Alchin.

Meijer has graciously agreed to host our happenings, provide coupons, handouts, and recipe cards.  Each tour is about 50 minutes long and promises to be a good time.  
When I say “good time” I mean that I’ll personally be having a blast offering my ever-expanding knowledge of nutrition while acting out a fantasy that I’m a real-life RD.  You, on the other hand, may be shocked since we’ll be revealing the devastatingly high sugar content of some cereals and break the news about yogurt that you may be missing out on.  It’s not greek, it contains..*gasp..fat.  Don’t worry, it’s easy to get duped by the food industry.  Dietitians (and we undergrads) are here to help.   

Oh, and each tour is tailored so that it is relevant for the group.  For example, when guiding a gaggle of girl scouts we’ll most likely be explaining that a person cannot survive on Thin Mints alone as well as what they should reach for after school.  If you or a group that you know may be interested in taking a tour of Meijer’s grocery section from ISU Food, Nutrition & Dietetics Club forward this post to them or e-mail me directly for details so that we can make it happen!  Don’t be shy, especially if you are hesitant or happen to be an incognito internship applicant evaluator with a hidden agenda coming specifically to evaluate our people skills/potentials as dietetic interns.  Have a nice day.

“Eat Right, Your Way, Every Day”

Preferences, availability, lifestyle, health concerns, beliefs, and personal goals all impact an individual’s food choices.  So the theme of this year’s National Nutrition Month is, “Eat Right, Your Way, Every Day.”  Pretty deep huh?  The Academy of Nutrition and Dietetics challenged bloggers to write about what this expression means to them.  Alright, I’m game.

To me it means that you can totally melt mozzarella on mushrooms and call it “lunch” when need be.  And I’m sure that it’s completely normal to use kale as a vehicle for hummus while you’re studying Nutrition Therapy.  The 2013 theme means that if you want your “mac” to be beans instead of pasta, go for it.  And who’s going to stop you from eating corn on the cob for breakfast?  Nobody, that’s who.  You can easily get away with drinking yogurt on the go when you’re out of plastic spoons.  And there’s no shame in eating donuts for dinner every once in a while/inhaling a certain pasta that smells like pie crust if you’re visiting Italy.  

“Your Way” loosely translated means that there is no shame in pursuing exactly what you want to eat.  In fact, just yesterday I returned a chocolate chip cookie because it was as hard as a rock.  (These ones are normally are soft.)    At restaurants ask for extra (something you like) if you really like them and forgo the (something you don’t)  if you won’t miss them anyway.  And lastly, it’s not a crime to run inside Kroger, ask for a single chicken tender at the deli counter, and eat it as you stand in line waiting to pay.  After all, it’s better than dying of hunger when you’re trying to find your “Plus” card.  

To March…

Should I justify to you why I splurged on the overpriced pickled peppers and a few good olives from the grocer’s antipasti bar?  Rest assured that these delicacies were put to good use and not relished alone.  For they accompanied at least 17 shakes of hot sauce, every tall vegetable burrowed in the depths of my refrigerator that I could find, a splash of vodka, and a “dash” of black pepper poured through the shaker’s spoon hole.  Does busting out an old pickle jar for shaking up a Bloody Mary on a weeknight really require a reason?  Not necessarily- but I have two of them just in case.  1.) March is National Nutrition Month and 2.) We senior dietetics students, who have recently applied to internships via the centralized application system, have an entire month to anticipate our futures.  Either it will change in ways that we wish that it will… or in ways that we’d prefer it not to.

Before you go, we might as well raise our pickle jar glasses to make a toast.  Cheers to the calm before the storm.  During March, we shall lead a life of ignorant bliss.  Let us “act as if it were impossible to fail,” be prepared to pick ourselves up if we do, and know that worrying will not change the outcome.  Let us seize opportunities and flourish daily from the choices that we make.  Let us pretend like we would do nothing differently.  Because…we wouldn’t.

To March…

Welcome to the Family Waffle Iron (aka the Latest Addition to our Cherry Pie Maker Club)

Many of us may attest to going through cooking phases, ”Who wants one more cherry pie before I clean the maker for good and put it away for another year?”  After reading yesterday’s post about resisting the urge to invest in cabinet-space suckers (a technical term) you may assume that that I’m anti-small-kitchen-appliance; that I own a spatula and not much else.  There are some people, I’m sure, who would take their George Foremans to the grave with them while clutching its stupid plastic grease scraper.  But let’s be honest, there is very little that a skillet and sauce pan can not cook.  Extraneous appliances are just the cherry pie makers of the kitchen.  

Don’t get me wrong.  I love hovering over the hole of a dehydrator to waft its moist and fruity air during banana chip production.  And who isn’t seduced by the rumble of a long serrated knife when they’re cutting that first slice of hot bread after the loaf is wiggled free from the maker?   So I caved in to my own rule about preserving kitchen cabinet space and recently adopted a waffle iron.  I’m justifying this decision because he is small, cute, and seems easy to clean.  In the three weeks that he has been living with us, I’ve got him to make cornmeal, chocolate, pumpkin, and chocolate chip cookie waffles.  Weston and I are happy with our new little bundle of joy which is the latest addition to our kitchen’s Cherry Pie Maker Club.

What “cherry pie makers” do you have (and love) in your kitchen?  Do you randomly personify your kitchen appliances mid-blogpost and talk about them as if they’re living people?

Forgoing Cherry Pie Makers

We had a cherry pie maker when I was little.  But…don’t quote me on that since I’m not exactly sure that, “cherry pie maker” was the correct name for the device.  In fact, I know that it wasn’t; it was actually a Sunbeam sandwich maker.  Although pillows of cherry “pie”  are all that I can ever remember making in it.  We’d slather slices of bread with Country Crock and dollop canned cherry pie filling in the center.  After three minutes the two ingredients emerged as crunchy triangular pie puffs and were sprinkled with powdered sugar before serving.  In my opinion store-bought Toaster Strudels easily trump these pieangles (pie triangles) but there was some family bonding involved with devising these makeshift confections and brushing the cobwebs off of our nearly useless kitchen device to make them was practically worthwhile.  For 99.9% of the year our “cherry pie maker” was exiled to The Land of Hard-to-Reach Cupboard Space.  During the other .1% it collected dust on the counter top until someone got tired of looking at it or the abnormally large can of pie filling was gone or had spoiled in the fridge.

When I first began hoarding collecting things for my hope chest (or HCC as it was once lovingly referred to) I kept in mind that we had several special cooking appliances growing up but we were also  fortunate to have ample storage space.  So I took diligent care to select only the best, most practical, durable, and multipurpose kitchenware available.  You remember me at a garage sales, “Oh!  What a crisp snap from that secondhand Tupperware.  I must call it my own.” Or my affinity for edgeless silicone spatulas  (the kind that are a cinch to clean because they have no crevices to scrub around) that double as fly swatters.  #Those aren’t chocolate chips.  Just kidding.

Anticipating limited shelf space was certainly a factor in forgoing use-once-a-year cookery.  Extra inches of cabinet space should be viewed as a blessing, not an emptiness that you feel  challenged to fill.  Forgoing the countless bargain panini presses, popcorn poppers, and Perfect Pancake skillets at stores and at garage sales was not an easy feat during my travels.  These items can be so shiny and enticing, indeed.  If I had a dollar for every household whom tried to sell me their Perfect Pancake skillet I’d be a rich little girl.  The first few I was tempted to buy but after each run-in with the renowned Perfect Pancake, my notion was confirmed: things like Perfect Pancake skillets and 5-piece garlic graders aren’t worth the six square inches of cupboard space that they take up; let alone much bigger things like blenders and bread makers.  Mostly because people don’t make foods that require these gadgets enough to keep them within reach.  Saving three minutes during production normally ends up costing you ten after factoring in the time spent rummaging for missing parts beforehand or giving these novelties a sponge bath afterwards.

What’s your kitchen’s “cherry pie maker?”  Do you get swept away by the promise of an awesome appliance or tool but end up only using it a few times?

If You Could Eat One Letter for the Rest of Your Life…

I’m breaking from this to ponder this…

“If you could only eat foods that started with one letter for the rest of your life what is the letter but I guess more importantly…what are the foods?”

I’m going with the letter P, because several of my staples start with Ps and I’m fairly certain that I could stay reasonably satisfied.

Popcorn and pickles and pumpkin and pancakes and peas and peanut butter and pizza and palatino linotype  (not that again) and peaches and pork…

…and we can pretend like I wasn’t inspired to write this after eating an entire jar of bread & butter spears just now.

Happy Valentine’s Day if we don’t talk before then.

B-Mod. for iPads (…and Abs)

Last night at the Rec. the sign read something like, “Could our Millionth Visitor come today? Could it be YOU?  Win a free iPad.”  As a matter of fact, I was feelin’ lucky!  As I approached the check-in station I could feel that the count was close; the abundance of “employees” hovering around the front desk, the slow and suspicious way that my card was swiped…

Dear Millionth Visitor,

Uggg.

Yours Truly,

Molly From LifesLemons

(aka Visitor #999,998)

One elective class that I took this summer, (Principles of Behavior Modification)  I took for the fun of it, not for the credit.  What a concept.  Our major’s Didactic Program in Dietetics, in my opinion,  has many “Food” oriented classes and not enough psychology related ones.   Sure we need to know how to cook, budget, and menu plan, but since one of a Dietitian’s main objectives is to evoke healthy behavioral changes, wouldn’t it make sense to equip these young professionals with the knowledge of how to reach patients on a personal level?  Before bombarding them with “do this and not that” shouldn’t our first step be to seek their motives and find out what makes them tick?  It’s an essential piece of the puzzle in order to impart what we’ve learned in school and evoke everlasting change.  I feel very strongly about this.  B-Mod. taught me that there are four reasons a person exhibits certain behavior; 1.) To gain access to something (tangible.) 2.) To escape something. 3.) For attention. 4.) Sensory (because it feels good.)  

Do we eat to escape hunger pangs or because it feels/tastes good?  Do we shop because we need shoes or because wearing the new shoes will get us noticed?

There are several reasons why a person might check into the college’s Student Fitness Center; whether it be to gain reinforcement or to escape punishment.  The Student Fitness Center can be a great escape from other obligations; i.e. seeking refuge on a rowing machine instead of writing a paper.  Swimming, cycling, or rock climbing may make visitors feel good, feel accomplished and proud.  Perhaps others pop in for the social attention aspect; i.e. taking part in pickup games or attending yoga classes.  Maybe they like “gaining access” to the scenery from treadmill #17.  Maybe they wish to “gain access” to more defined muscles, better aerobic stamina, or a paycheck from working there.  In rare cases, like if you’re the millionth visitor, you could “gain access” to the Ultimate Intermittent Positive Reinforcement, a free iPad!  Dang… so close.

How Late Nights Affect My Better Judgement

I’ve been a bit of a wild child lately.  I’ve been staying up past ten.  When this happens my better judgement goes out the window and I start doing things that “Normal Molly” would not do.  Like dying my jeans with bleach.  That happened two nights ago.  I then proceeded to use the dishwasher to rinse the bleach out of my jeans.  Twice.  With Cascade Power Packs.  Since we don’t use the thing for dishes, it made perfect sense for me to spare my other clothes from the effects of bleeding bleach and wash my new “special” ones in isolation.  Then, last night I went to town!  Not in a literal sense mind you.  Figuratively.  My discernment wanes as the night grows later.  I was doubled over, head half in the toilet, holding back some of my hair with one hand, and cutting the rest with my other.  I was going to town on my hair with a pair of rusty Fiskars!

I’ll uh, spare you the gory details.  My cousin’s going to school to cut hair, and so did my mom.  So it’s not like I don’t have connections to affordable trims.  For some reason I grew up in a “cobbler’s children have no shoes” sort of situation and I’m used to trimming my own locks.  Mom never treated a trim like it wasn’t a chore; so I stopped asking.  Last night I went far though.  I was grabbing chunks and cutting; going from the toilet to the mirror, back to the toilet and then back to mirror until I placed the trash can on the bathroom counter so that I could cut and check twice as fast!  I was yelling, “Weston, come stop me…I’m not going to have any hair left.”  The next thing that I knew I was seriously considering giving myself bangs.  I’ve never had them before and ultimately decided that it was best to sleep on the decision.  Especially considering how these late nights are affecting my better judgement lately. I’m lucky, for my hair’s sake, that I didn’t bust out the bleach again!

So I woke up this morning with very layered hair and I have to admit, it might look halfway good.  I’d hate to put my cousin out of a job when she graduates from beauty school but if this dietetics thing don’t work out, you can hit me up for a discount due.  I’ll be standing on the street corner.  Just me and my rusty Fiskars.

 

MVP; Salad Edition

Let’s talk about salads for a second.   More specifically, let’s talk about the Most Valuable Part of our salads.  But before we do, let’s make a promise.  I promise to tell you my favorite part of a salad, and if you’ve got a second, you promise to tell me yours in the comments below.  Deal?  I’d like to get some new ideas for my greens, and I know that you’ve got a second.  You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.  It’s not exactly like visiting LifesLemons is at the top of your to-do list.  I’m quite sure.  Unless you’re some crazy insane LifesLemons Fan Club member visiting my site at the very last second just before jumping on a locomotive that’s traveling 60 miles per hour!  I get that.  In your case there’s no time for comments.  You LL Fan Club members are a crazy bunch, but aren’t the most talkative knives in the drawer.  You read my words and go on your merry way.  Which is cool too.  (But I’m still going to assume that if I have 45 views today and only 3 comments, 42 were from people that had just a minute because they were on the verge of hopping a train.)

Personally when I make salad I start with all of the toppings; corn, cheese, peas, chick peas, cottage cheese, Lima beans, green beans, black beans, kidney beans, Beanie Babies,  broccoli, broccoli slaw, regular slaw, shredded meat, Shredded Wheat, nuts, bolts, mushrooms, nutritional yeast,  cabbage, cucumber, celery, Fiber One, Fiber Two, onions, thumb tacks, tuna, oranges, seeds, sea salt, The Old Man and the Sea, pepper, bell peppers, pepperoni, cooked/chilled squash, cooked/chilled sweet potato, little green pimento-less olives plus the oily juice that they come in, sun-dried tomatoes, factory-dried fruit, dry your hair before going out in the cold, carrots, cauliflower, eggs (hard boiled or fried,) and avocado.  But NO black olives because that would be gross.  If you are lucky enough to have an assortment of these ingredients (something crunchy, something chewy, something soft, etc.) you’ll get so full and satisfied that you might as well forget the lettuce and dressing!  I do.  In fact, my salads normally don’t have lettuce or dressing.

So what IS the Most Valuable Part of a salad?  Most likely, it depends on the salad.  For me the answer is easy because there IS one essential element.  The bowl.  A great big gigantic bowl is crucial in order to stir everything around.  I’m talking about the kind of bowl that you mix cookie dough and meatloaf in.  Forget the tiny soup/cereal bowl, because tossing around salad ingredients takes space.  That way each bite is laced with flavor, texture, and satisfaction.

Still got a second?  What your MVP of salads?

A Person’s Worth a Thousand Words

Hi.

What’s up?

Cool.  Me?

Not much, I’m only in the process of writing the single most important document of my existence.  My personal statement.  We’ve been told that when it comes to bagging an internship, it is this essay that can break us or make us.  Those that have “gone” before us and people like, Jenny Westerkamp, author and founder of allaccessinternships.com, have instilled this fear in our little senior hearts.  In a good way.  If a person’s essay isn’t the biggest way applicants are evaluated, they’re likely not far behind.

Personal statement writing is a time for deep reflection.  As well as a time to consider all of the little things that have made you into the unique applicant that you’ve become.  It’s a time to suggest your strengths and to admit your faults- and an opportune time to address how you’re working to diminish the latter.  It’s a humbling time that requires patience and honesty.  It lets you list the things that you’ve learned and mention things that you plan on learning.  You can convey your intentions for the near and distant future, and count your accomplishments.  You can become neurotic about it, like me.  Wording everything just perfectly.  Methodically.  Honestly.  Making sure that each word serves a specific purpose.  These essays are supposed to be 1,000 words and mine’s already over 3,000.   How does one summarize their situation and justify their shortcomings?  How does one indicate that they’re more than the eye can see and convince a panel of evaluators to put their faith in you?  It’s not easy.  I’m, in a thousand words, figuring out what’s important to mention but more importantly… what’s not.

Then, when it’s all over, I hope that what made the cut in my final draft said it best.

Back to it!  Thanks for the break Lemons.

The Only Recipe I Will Ever Need to Know For The Rest of My Life

I’m sure that we can all remember the first few foods that we were able to make without the aid of others.  I’m talking about the ones that require a tad more effort than simply pealing a banana or punching a fork through cellophane.  By the age of nine I knew how to make three things: stovetop popcorn… eggs…and oatmeal cookies.   It is these first few foods that we take a tremendous amount of pride in knowing how to make before we are even tall enough to open cupboards.  Picture me planting my palms on the surface of our dated blue kitchen counter tops, elbows high, knees spring-loaded then bouncing up
(spider monkey style) in order to reach things like leavening agents and the little brown vanilla bottle.  I had no clue how to make anything other than eggs, popcorn, and oatmeal cookies, nor did I have the desire to.  So ”Cooking with Molly’s” imaginary audience tuned in and saw episode after episode of how to make, “Vanishing Oatmeal Raisin Cookies.” Which, by the way, are the cookie’s official name according to the underside of the plastic-rimmed Quaker Oat lid. 

Looking back, I suppose that a person could live exclusively off of these three foods.  I mean, technically… they would survive.  Sure they may develop scurvy (a Vitamin C deficiency) and be prone to a multitude of other health complications, but at least their energy requirement would be met.  Let’s just assume that the cookie’s flour was heavily enriched and that the eggs were laid by chickens whose diet consisted of linoleic and alpha-linolenic laden grain.  Who am I kidding?  Popcorn, eggs, and oatmeal cookies does not a diet make.  So it’s a good thing that I learned how to make more.

And yet…when one Googles, “the only recipe I will ever need to know for the rest of my life” something like these pop up.  Sounds good to me!  So let’s pretend…ok?…because Google said and we wish that it were so.

The Right Column Archive

Look.  Do you notice anything different?  No, that’s not a head-shot of me.  Look above.  I added a page.  It’s called, “The Right Column Archive.”  It’s comprised of images that have been to the right of my posts at some point in history.   There you’ll notice that I love photos with quotes and one line jokes, words to live by and believe in.  I’m also a sucker for cat pictures.  Check it out if you’re so inclined.

Exciting things are happening in the near future and I’m planning a theme week for Lemons.  Have a great week.

One Story About My Red Coat and One Not

On the fifth step of a metal ladder rested the end of a long wooden pole. Approximately seven feet away another fifth step of a different ladder supported the opposite end of the aforementioned pole.  From this pole hung hangers which dangled coats, sweaters, and slacks above the steamy sidewalk.  Twas a makeshift clothing rack, (typical of summer garage sales) to encourage customer browsing.  Every little bit helps, because in the heat of a ninety-five degree day nobody’s on the lookout for winter garb.  I wasn’t.

I was sweating, dashing from house to house, and smelling used Tupperware like a madwoman; wearing a tank top and shorts that were barely street legal; on the hunt for things that I didn’t know I needed, because… I can’t even count all of the stuff that I’ve bought for a bargain and used later on.  I have the ability to think ahead and see the value of getting things, doing things, because somehow I know that they’ll be useful, or beneficial, in the future.  I saw this red coat dangling from a hanger, which hung on that pole, which was resting on the fifth steps of those two ladders.  I loved it and traded four dollar bills to call it my own.  It’s stylish and comfortable, just not on summer days.

Just like it’s hard for me to pass up a red coat, it’s hard for me to say, “No” to doing things, often that I can learn from.  They may not be “useful” at the particular time, (like my red coat when buying) but it is these experiences that are actually opportunities helping me to become the dietitian that I aspire to be.  I have a deep passion for involvement and an eagerness to learn.  I’ve learned weekly from my time spent at the hospital and at a homeless shelter; from being a caretaker to a stroke victim and designing an eating checklist for her.  I’ve especially learned from my ten weeks at the Community Cancer Center.  I’ve taken from being a peer nutrition counselor at Nutrition Mission and even the face behind LifesLemons.  I am grateful for everything and everyone who has given me the opportunity to learn.  From them I have gained something else invaluable, confidence.  The confidence to handle any situation a Dietetic Internship throws at me.   

You Can’t Vacuum Fuzzies at a Coffee Shop

There are several things that you can do at a coffee shop.  For example, you can order coffee.  You can order scones.  You can order chai tea.  You can pine for their beautiful shiny travel mugs.  You can use their restroom, collect your drink, and add cream to it.   You brush the crumbs off of a small vacant table and log on to your laptop… to do homework.

You begin doing your homework.  Write a lab report.  Take an online quiz.

You can stare at the ceiling.

You can use the restroom again and order more coffee.  You can listen to people speak in a language that you do not know.  You can imagine how long it would take you to learn that language as you walk back to your seat.  You can perfect your personal statement. You can think it’s weird that raisins are considered a “good” source of iron and research why they are.  You can look up how to cook with persimmons.   You can watch a lady park her fancy car for three minutes, then chuckle to yourself because you notice that her tires are still on the divider line.

Place both hands around your warm mug.  Sip your coffee.  Shift in your seat.

You can stare at the aforementioned fancy car lady from across the room and envy her perfectly matched outfit.  You can spot a secret artist then pretend to use the restroom again in order to look over his shoulder and see if who he’s secretly drawing looks real.  You can tell Facebook about the secret artist and you can want to create a makeshift table tent that says, “Draw me next. :)”   But don’t do that.  Instead, you should do more homework.

So you log on to Lemons and begin to write.

Clearly, it is much easier to do homework in coffee shops because there are less distracting things to do there.  At least you can’t busy yourself with house chores.  You can’t do your laundry at a coffee shop.  You can’t do your dishes and you certainly can’t vacuum unsightly white fuzzies off of dark green carpet because they’re “bothering” you.  (But this is typically due to the fact that most coffee shops don’t have dark green carpeting.)

What I Wrote Wednesday

“What I Ate Wednesdays” (or “WIAW” as they’re earnestly referred to in the blogging community) are quite popular amongst my fellow “healthy living” bloggers.  The devotees post pictures of their food intake on their little corner of the internet for all of the world to see.  It’s almost as if one Wednesday a blogger couldn’t think of anything better or decent to write about, slapped up some food pics, and WIAW was born.  Other bloggers caught on to this charade and adopted the weekly affair.  At one point in their blogging career, all that partake in this activity have deemed it useful, catchy, or at least a good excuse for a nearly wordless Wednesday.

There are scads of bloggers who celebrate the fact that they’ve eaten on Wednesdays and post pictures to prove it!  Clearly though, I do not.  Post my meals that is.  I doubt very much that Lemons readers care to see what I eat in a day…especially on  a Wednesday.
They aren’t always super healthy, complicated, and well-rounded like the ones that I often see on many blogs.  They don’t have several funky and novel ingredients.  If I started posting sub-par pictures of my two-ingredient lunches (mushrooms with melted pepperjack) and on-the-go breakfasts (leftover chocolate birthday cake, in case you’re wondering) you’d be bored to tears.  My six views on a typical Wednesday afternoon would dwindle to just  two and I’d fall asleep while just typing the darn thing.  Besides, I prefer to think that my readers stop by to read something with a little more of a storyline.

I want people to visit Lemons so they can see what I wrote on Wednesday, not what I ate.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m a sucker for bloggers that publish this sort of “thought provoking” entertainment on Wednesdays.  The bloggers that I read, who participate in What I Ate Wednesdays do so for fun.  Without them, I would never have thought to put eggnog in my oatmeal or sprinkle nutritional yeast on my popcorn.  Although you’ll never log on to see my dietary intake on Wednesdays, I’ll continue to appreciate WIAW bloggers who share great ideas and recipes.  I’ll continue to admire the ones who eat real meals and who enjoy each and every indulgence with reckless abandon.

Salted Caramel Crispies

It seems like everywhere you turn nowadays there’s a newfangled salted caramel confection; example, Starbucks’ Salted Caramel Cake Pops.  Or coffee creamer; example, International Delight’s Salted Caramel Mocha.  Or concoction; example, Cold Stones’ Salted Caramel Crunch.  Salted caramel this, salted caramel that.  

So when my Aunt Sue invited Weston and I to a real life party to kick off the holiday season it was easy for me to exclaim, “Oohh goodie!!  I’ll bring Salted Caramel Rice Crispies…they’re really good!”

When, truth be told… I’ve only salted, not carameled my crispies.

Put yourself in my shoes for a moment and consider the significance of this matter.  This is the very first party (on my side of the family) that Weston and I have been invited to that 1) hasn’t been a family function, 2) that hasn’t been laced with under-aged drinkers, 3) that hasn’t been the result of a “courtesy invite.”  It is a genuine adult holiday party with h’orderves and homemade wine.  We even got a sitter for grandma if that tells you anything.  It’s legit.

I simply offered to bring the first mind-blowing thing that popped into my mind which, by default, happened to be something salted and with caramel.  Crispies!  Even if I’d never really made them before, never really had them before, never really seen or heard of them before, I was willing to bet my hat that there would be several online recipes to heed advice from.  I came across several recipes in fact, but ultimately devised my own version with pretzels and chocolate chips. (Click here for recipe.)  I practiced making them tonight (just to be safe) and they’re good. Veerry good.  Translation?  I’m in like Flynn.  Yes… I’m riding the coattails of this season’s salted caramel goodness and that my friends, is how I plan to achieve my rite of, “Parting with Adults” Passage.”

Have a great Thanksgiving if I don’t talk to you before then.

“Mountain Lodge”

“Mountain Lodge” smells rich and serious.   It smells like cologne and a good clean neck.  It reminds me of madrigal dinners, makes me want to spell “color” with a “u” and hum, ”Carol of the Bells.”  I feel like shuffling down a long dimly lit stone corridor 
past tapestries and suits of armor.  It makes me hear shoes click faintly and window panes creak from icy gusts of wind like the ropes of an old docked ship.  Then it makes me feel a rush of heat from the fireplace as I enter the study.  I want to polish my coin collection on a huge polar bearskin rug while drinking red wine and eating dark chocolate with shards of candy cane from a sterling silver dish.  The woody smell makes me want to sit down at a solid oak wrap-around desk and pull the cold gold chain of its built-in desk lamp.  It makes me want to wear wire spectacles and smoke a pipe, just so I can hear the ivory mouthpiece click against my bottom teeth.  My eyelids grow heavy as I breath in “Mountain Lodge.”  My brown leather chair creaks as I lean back and furrow my brow, looking up to my moose head for writing inspiration.

Our Little Paradigm

The summer and fall of 2011 was a rough time for my Mom’s side of the family. Grandma suffered a stroke in the right hemisphere of her brain and initially lost the ability to use her left appendages and see out of her left eye.  It was devastating for our
family to see the tie that bound us, in so many ways, lying in a hospital bed and using her right hand to maneuver the left.  After spending six weeks in the hospital and another ten in a nursing home, she has been living at home for one year on December 1st. Our family takes turns spending time with her around the clock, helps her to get around, makes her meals, and administers medication.  We contribute our own unique abilities to aid her recovery.  For example, Drew, my cousin who is the same age as me, is studying to be a physical therapist.  It’s really neat to watch him handle and speak to her as if she’s a patient.  Calmly.  Methodically. Undeterred.  Whereas I’m more of a, “Right foot.  Left foot.  There you go, now we’re cookin’!” kind of girl.  I like to think that I can aid her in other ways, in the dietary department.

On more than one occasion, Grams and I have looked up recipes that have nutrients someone in her position should consume.  It’s challenging to make sure she receives fibrous nutrition, especially when all she seems to want since the stroke is sweets.  No matter how eye-pleasing a dish, she’ll always choose sweet over savory and chocolate over…everything else.  I only mention the low sodium, low fat, high protein, and higher fiber options.   Since all choices given are beneficial to her health she can’t choose wrong, and thus won’t be disappointed from not getting her way.  Grams tends to “act out” whenever she senses that she has no say in what she does, what she eats, etc.  So it’s all in how you phrase things. “Do you want to do exercises before or after dinner?  Would you rather have an apple or a pear?”         

Grams has been Drew and I’s little paradigm when it comes to working with stroke victims.  Possibly the most important thing that I’ve learned from being a caretaker is to enable the dependent to feel as if they have complete control, even in the most minute instances.

Since the protein and fiber content in chickpeas is high and the flavor possibilities are endless, I thought that it’d be easy for Grams to select a dressing or seasoning of her choice.  Theoretically, she would get an ample amount of nutrition no matter what she decided to dress them with.  If she happened to be uninspired, I could always cheese them up and make them “Mac.“

So I asked, “What do you want on your roasted chickpeas Grams?  Ranch, ketchup, garlic powder?”  Without missing a beat she answered, “How ’bout brown sugar and maple syrup?”  She’s so sly.  Of course she’d figure out a way to make chickpeas taste like french toast.  Well played Grams.  Well played.    

The Macs of Your Cheese

My pantry is chock-full of ingredients.  Bulgar.  Quinoa.  Couscous.  (I have a thing for whole grains.)  Every time I open the door a sack of wheat berries, an impulse buy, stares at me blankly from the second shelf as if to say,  ”You were so pumped to try us, what happened?” 

Life happens.  You understand.  My culinary creativity wanes when life gets busy.  I do what I can.  

More often than not those grains will appear in what I lovingly refer to as, “Mac N’ Cheese.”  The first time I threw some shredded cheddar into a bowl of hot rice, I served it to a captive market.  In other words I ran it, in Tupperware, up to Weston at work so he was obligated to eat it or go hungry.  He ended up loving it.  He called me a genius. I have been cheesing my macs ever since.  Rice, polenta, and even oatmeal. Works every time.  The next time you’re in a pinch, when you need a delicious convenience food, forgo the frozen bricks of Cordon Bleu and box of enriched elbows in powdered “cheese.” Remember that it’s this easy to make the macs of your cheese something special, something with staying power, something with nutrition.

Pictured above is lunch today; brown rice, quinoa, chickpeas, and bulgur in a web of shredded cheddar.

Lemons Don’t Fall Far From the Tree

Nearly all facets of my personality, both the good and bad, can be traced back to one parent or the other.  Judging by the fact that I’ve been called more, “Little Alan” and less, “Joy Jr.”  throughout my years, it may be safe to say that Dad’s dynamic personality has rubbed off on me a bit more.  No one is born with the ambition to juggle six-hundred plates in the air at one time.  We see and are taught by another persons’ accomplishments and successes, then aspire to be like them.  Even how we choose to spend our time, our passions, I believe are provoked by the people that we look up to.  They open the door for us.

So I’d be lying if I said that I developed a love for writing all on my own.  Much of my aptitude can be attributed to my mother, who is a fantastic writer.  During her time at a community college a professor asked for her permission to publish a short story that she had written for composition class.  It was a memoir about her time spent working at a nursing home.  Believing that the piece was too personal for publication, my Mom declined the offer.  Fortunately she didn’t completely disregarded her talent because she continued to write for her own enjoyment. For example, shes been known to save computer files for me to come across unexpectedly titled things like,“Molly Read Me.” My mom has written about her pregnancies and the birth of Mason and I, memories from our and her own childhood, and even about her father’s painful mental deterioration due to Alzheimer’s disease.  One of her unfinished stories is about a fictional character.  Varying in length they usually finish in a round-about way, much like the endings that I strive for.  In middle and high school my Mom would always proofread my papers and show me ways to make them better. She’d often come up with my topics and draft the first few (or several) sentences before I would eventually get into my own groove. She and her writing have been a great inspiration to me, and I wouldn’t be the writer that I am today if it weren’t for her talent and help at the beginning.  If my readers are lucky maybe someday they’ll log on and see a guest post, “LifesLemonsbyMolly’sMom.”   (Hint hint.)

Monday Funday

Monday is like no other day for me. Why?  Because I can do the things that I please whenever I please to do them.  On Mondays if I wanted to dress uplikeasultan

inmyonionheadhat, I could.

Monday is the only day of the week that no one is counting on me to do something or be somewhere.   It is a sacred day.  I pretend that I have no cares in the world.  It rules.  I’m not in a classroom or on a time clock. Monday has no obligations, commitments, or scheduled events. There is no dreading Mondays because there are no deadlines on Monday.

On Monday nothing needs to be done, but that does not mean nothing is done. Sleeping in is done.  Running is done. Leisurely homework doing is done. Laundry is done. Decorating for autumn is done.  Buying cool shorts is done.  Wearing the cool shorts is done.  Running is done again.  Writing on and feeling good about LifesLemons is done.  Sanity is gained.  Mondays are a holy day indeed.

Hope your Monday was as good as mine. Thanks for stopping by.

Cheap Therapy Part II; Becoming Consumed

As I sit in the corner of Starbucks, rattling away on my keyboard, tapping my feet with startling vigor and making myself laugh out loud every so often, I have no awareness of time or space.  I didn’t notice when my headphones stopped playing music and probably won’t look up if a nuclear bomb goes off.  That is, until I finish this paragraph.

Writing, acting in plays, swimming, running, researching fiber (kidding, maybe,) and shopping in second-hand stores (where no two items are exactly alike) are all activities that completely consume me.  Weston knows of a time that I was once completely consumed at the supermarket.   I like to… you know… compare unit-price per ounce, examine meat’s marbling and stuff.  I couldn’t help but notice the subtle look of horror as I slowly came walking back to him from the breakfast meats.  He stood innocently by our shopping cart and claimed that according to his cell phone, it took me four minutes and twenty-two seconds to settle on a single pack of pork.    He explained how other bacon buyers had come and gone in the time that it took me to feel satisfied with my selection.  “That’s so weird,” I retorted, “to me it felt like no time at all.”

Haven’t you ever wondered how this happens?

How can you not get excited when you feel like you’ve been abducted by aliens as you peel the goggles off your head and the wall clock claims that a half an hour has passed?  Why do we experience “time-fly” and become trance-like while we are doing the things that we enjoy most?  How could something as small as, being in a high school play provide a person with such ecstasy?  I read up on the matter and what I found is astonishing. The explanation in full detail is easily fodder for another post, so today the answer that I’m going with is simple:

It may be that your brain is super stimulated and is processing a lot at once.  You aren’t able to focus on the time at all.  It is up to you to find meaningful moments within your day and become completely consumed by them.  They will fill your life with purpose.  Our daily journey towards a higher consciousness is tinged with these muses to experience instant vitality.  Doing the things that you enjoy will sustain you and you’ll progressively develop towards your personal version of self-fulfillment.  It takes extra time to seek out the lonely fruits who were separated from their banana brothers, stop by the potato bin to say hi to my little Quasimoto buddies or give every peach, pear, and plum a squeeze; but I feel sorry for people who don’t let themselves go and experience the therapeutic effects of being deep in thought.  If completing certain tasks meticulously makes me feel thorough and accomplished, by all means why not?  It’s a gift.  It’s like therapy, cheap therapy, as long as your not a gambler.

Writing, running and reading energizes me.  It heightens my perception and sense of self-worth.  What consumes you?  Gardening, watching a movie, rocking a baby?

Cheap Therapy Part I; Rock Picking

A couple of weeks ago I stopped at a playground water fountain during a long run.  A gnarled concrete block which had been extracted from the ground (from anchoring a swing set) caught my eye.  I made my way over to it and began picking out imbedded rocks.  The next thing that I knew, I came out of what felt like a deep sleep.  I hoisted myself up from a squatting position and whispered, “Where am I?  How long have I been here?”  Time has a tendency to fly when you’re concentrating hard (more on that tomorrow.)  It was as if each rock represented a worry or a struggle of mine and every time I freed one loose, I also released a worry.  Does that make sense? 

Another example of this “picking” therapy of mine is when I was little.  I had a fist-size chunk of fools’ gold rock.  With a desk lamp overhead and a pair of tweezers in hand, I would set up shop on the fireplace, silently peeling back layers of translucent faux gold for hours and lining them up on a tissue.  Talk about a good time.  True story.  (You can stop reading about this crazy person any minute now.)

I once extracted a baby tooth on the first day that it began to budge.  I couldn’t leave it alone and once it was out: I. Was. So. Relieved.  My dad would call this neurotic.  But for some reason losing teeth was therapeutic to me and to this day, picking at embedded rocks will always quiet down the things that are on my mind.

URGENT Update! (To Whom it May Concern)

Today I canned for the very first time.  To the people that I’ve encountered in the past week, this is old news.  I’ve brought it up in nearly every conversation, “How’s school goin’ Moll?” ”Good.  Hey, did you know that I’m going to can on Monday?  Dad’s pears…it’s gonna be a good time.”  [Insert cricket noise here.]

So I’m just following-up.  You know, in case anyone that I’ve encountered in the past week is concerned about the outcome or wondering how it all went.  I’d hate for anyone to lose sleep over it.  (I’m also very proud of myself.)

Thank you to those who contributed to my efforts.  Dad; who helped me pick the pears and let me take them.  Grams; who gave me a steel trivet and an extra jar of nutmeg that she just happened to have lying around.  Aunt Sue; who lent me the jars, lids, and rims… gave me a funnel, and some advice. 

Today my project went splendidly.  When I heard my first lid pop I squealed with delight.  The picture to the right only shows four of my six finished beauties, because two of the jars were being rebellious and wouldn’t seal.  Not to worry though…I boiled those buggers longer and they complied.

You may also like…this or reading about another kitchen project.

To My Baby Brother On His Eighteenth Birthday

Happy Birthday Mason.  I can’t believe that you’re eighteen years old.  I was four years old when Mom and Dad shared the news that I would soon be a big sister.  When they asked me if I’d rather have a brother or sister, I answered excitedly that I wanted a baby sister and immediately began making plans.  (Being the only girl in my daycare class had finally taken its toll.)  We were all three standing in the kitchen when they gently explained to me that you were a boy and I was flabbergasted.  I can remember staring at the nearest wall for what seemed like eternity.  “Impossible,” I thought, “How could this be?”  Hopefully the doctor was wrong and I started wishing that you were the opposite gender until August 30, 1994.  Today, eighteen years later, I’m writing to explain how you’ve grown on me more than I care to admit.  Let’s just say that I wouldn’t trade you for anything, not even ten sisters.

I’d also like to take this opportunity to apologize for a few things that happened in our childhood. First, I’m sorry for tricking you to take afternoon naps by faking to be asleep before silently rolling off the bed and tiptoeing out. I’m sorry for putting your little gold locks in pigtails for fun and stuffing Nerf balls down your shirt to make you look chesty. (You can thank me later for not posting the picture online.). I’m also sorry for scrunching you into a laundry hamper. (But, when I figure out how to post that video gem, I will.  It’s hilarious.)  Lastly, I’m sorry for telling you that, “there ain’t no Santa Clause” just because you wouldn’t share the plastic blue rocking horse so that I could surf on it. (I quoted the famous movie line because it was the meanest “lie” that I could think of…I use the word “lie” because I was still skeptical about Santa at this point in my life.)

I am so lucky to have a brother like you.  Everything that you have been forced to overcome in your short life has made you such a compassionate and inspiring person.  You have an incredibly caring and deep thoughtful side that is fascinating because of the rarity in which you present it. I will never forget the first time that you visited me when I moved away to college. You brought me my electric toothbrush and the charger. Apparently you insisted to Mom that I probably forgot to take it with me and she couldn’t talk you out of bringing it (even though she tried explaining that I didn’t use it anymore.)  To this day, the brush goes unused in the cupboard under the bathroom sink. The only reason that I don’t throw it away is because it reminds me of you and that specific instance of your thoughtfulness. It truly makes my heart ache.

I know that some things do not always come easy to you.  I also know that you are scared of getting older because you haven’t found something that interests you enough to make a career out of.  Do whatever makes you the most happy and if you don’t know what that is yet, doing nothing is not the answer.  By doing nothing you can’t make mistakes, but you also can’t have successes.  When you want to do something don’t rationalize that you may not be good enough, that you may not know enough, or that you might try to do it later when you feel more like it.  You are good enough and you have resources to learn, so go after it!  Sometimes I think that your easygoing facade and “I-don’t-know-what-to-do-so-I’ll-do-nothing” behaviors stifle your great personality.  Don’t let it.  Don’t be afraid.  I am here for you.

I’ll never forget about five years ago when we saw a little boy that looked exactly like your 4-year-old self in Culver’s and I immediately started bawling uncontrollably.  Overcome with emotion, it made me wonder if I read you enough Berenstain Bears books or if I twirled the locks at the nape of your neck enough when you were that little boys age.

Whenever I see a little girl and her younger brother it takes me back to our wonderful and loving childhood together.  We certainly had our share of sibling rivalries but I will never forget playing “Indians,” “Rodeo,” and “Circus” with you on the backyard swing set.  I will never forget playing “School” and “House” while watching Arthur in the basement or acting out that insanely in-depth imaginary game around the yard. What was it called again? Ah yes, “Subdivision.”  That game had so many invisible neighborhood characters, we had to write down their names (and their assorted personalities) on a white board in the garage. Which brings me to another thing that I want to apologize for: All of the make-believe nonsense that I put you through whenever I dragged you into an imaginary world with me.  I’m sure that you had fun too, but at least forgive me for always making you be the servant boy when we played, “Ship.”

You’ll always be my little Johnny, Junie, Maxwell, and any other ridiculous nickname that for some reason I called you during your eighteen years. I love and will look out for you for as long as I live.

A Healthy Dose of Physical Activity

Remember that one time?  I told you that I wrote an article for my Professional Practice?  Here it is.  Hopefully my Lemons readers will like it.  It’s nothing too brilliant but it will tide you over until this Thursday.  Which, by the way, is a very special day and I’ve a post to prove it.

With locked elbows, Darcy uneasily shifted her body weight on the faux leather exam table.  Her dangling legs had recently come to an abrupt stop from swinging impatiently once the doctor had entered the room.  Now they were hanging motionless and anxious to walk Darcy out to her car which was conveniently stationed at the first non-handicap parking spot.  She had waited a whole 53 seconds for the space and even celebrated by whispering, “Oh Yea” when she spotted the white reverse lights coming from the car exiting the two lines before her.  Now the only thing between her and the 18-second walk out to it was her doctors’ famous last words, “You need get more exercise.”

Suggestions to limit sedentary lifestyles should never be taken lightly, but often, they are.  Maybe if the doctor had said, “Darcy, you should garden” or “Try walking Baxter more,” she may have been more receptive.  For some reason, the word, “exercise” made Darcy picture herself in workout clothes (that had somehow managed to get tighter since the last time she had them on) exerting the same amount of energy attempting to move the clock hands telepathically, as she was on the gym treadmill.  Exercise, physical activity, working out or whatever you want to call it is any “bodily movement produced by skeletal muscles and such movement results in an expenditure of energy.”  Therefore Darcy could technically meet the doctors’ request wearing her street clothes, in a stairwell, taking two steps at a time.  She could take a bike ride with her husband after dinner, make a habit of walking around the block while she waited for her daughter’s dance lesson to dismiss, or maybe vacuum the house more than once a week (if she was really ambitious, the stairs.)

It should come as no surprise that using physical activity to stay within a healthy weight range will decrease an individual’s likelihood to develop a host of health complications, especially those that have been linked to having excess body fat.  Some may argue that heredity plays too big of a role in genetically predisposing us to certain illnesses, but doctors continue to encourage “exercise” as a way to stack the deck in your favor because it retards tumor development, lowers insulin levels, and improves the immune response in addition to the more obvious reason (assisting with weight maintenance to avoid a high body mass and excess body fat.)  Exercise lowers the likelihood that you will develop metabolic syndrome, high blood pressure, heart disease, depression, and even certain types of cancers that have been linked to excessive body weight.

Large studies in the US have confirmed a direct correlation between physical inactivity and higher overall cancer incidences; breast, colon, endometrial, and prostate cancers to be specific.  One study, for example, suggests that women who are physically active have a 20 to 40 percent reduced risk of developing endometrial cancer (with the greatest reduction in the risk amongst those with the highest levels of physical activity.)  London researchers found that women with BMIs fewer than 25 appear to receive a greater level of cancer protection.  But a different study, presented at a 2010 American Association of Cancer Research, found that it doesn’t matter what the someone weighs.  The likelihood of developing cancer will be lessened from exercising for at least 150 minutes a week; (a widely suggested amount) also equating to, “30 minutes…5 days a week.”  Until there is a “magic” pill for staying healthy, patients like Darcy can expect to be prescribed a healthy dose of physical activity whenever possible.

Oh So Cheesy

Oh LifeLemons I’ve missed you so!  Let me count the ways….or we can just share a rainy day lunch and catch up.

For the past 8 weeks I’ve been spending my time at the Community Cancer Center to fulfill a Professional Practice course requirement in my senior year curriculum.  I’ve been reading so many journals and writing so many reports and learning sooo much (from the best) that I’ve hardly had time to do much of anything else.  My experience was beneficial in every way and completely relevant for supplementing my classroom learning.  The Dietitian that I shadowed helped me to connect classroom concepts in a clinical setting, challenged my thoughts, but also helped me to discover the answers to my own questions.

Early on during my Professional Practice experience she asked me to write a 500-600 word article about, “using physical activity to prevent cancer” for a local health magazine, Healthy Cells.  Eager to impress, I quickly finished my 600-words-exactly editorial and gave it to her proudly.  She also seemed to like the work that I had done and even complimented my ability to pull the reader in from the beginning.  She submitted my article to her boss so that it could be approved for publication in the next edition of Healthy Cells.  Needless to say, her superior didn’t like it.  The message of my article wasn’t believed to benefit the people who read local health magazines in central Illinois.  (Perhaps it could benefit LifesLemons readers?)  It may have been my writing style, my long-windedness (in the sentence-structure department) or the dramatic flair that I tend to put on things (in this case, it was the benefits of exercise for cancer prevention.)  Dozens of changes were made and at least three other drafts were declined for approval, but more importantly lessons were learned in the process.  1.) When writing for the general public scale back on the scientific journal citations (they tend to bore.) 2.) Perhaps don’t use such   big fancy words and shoot for a sixth grade reading level.  Despite the constructive criticism, I was given boatloads of encouragement and kind words.  I feel more confident than ever in my decision to continue my education in the field of dietetics.

 
So what am I doing now?  I’m laying low for a week before fall semester starts up.  Right now? I’m making a big sign for our Local Honey booth at a community event this Saturday.  Right this second now?  I’m watering the LifesLemons drought by sharing a few words and my grilled cheesy, split-peasy rainy day soup.