Yesterday began ominously. I have been roasting chickens for a good many years now, and I have never lost one to the garbage pail. I learned to cook from Julia's Mastering the Art of French Cooking, volumes I and II. I feel safe calling her by her first name because first of all she's dead, and second of all, I have been cooking these chickens since I was sixteen, fifty three years ago, though of course not the same chickens. Anyway, The French insist, against all evidence, that a roast chicken is the epitome of French cuisine, and one cannot say one cooks until one can turn out a proper roast chicken, which I can do, and have done many times. Until yesterday. This was a young, fresh hen, plump and unsullied, but that was not what came out of the oven. What came out was slick, footballish in firmness and color, and unyielding to fork or carving knife. Then some juices shot out and burned me on the hand. I could not have been more shocked had the hen popped out of my oven and pecked me on the nose.
End result, after taking a small taste: the garbage can. Very disorienting.
The next disorienting event was finishing J.J. Virgin's The Virgin Diet and realizing that I was not a woman up to the job when it came to following her anti-inflammatory three week detox plan that requires even more self discipline, not to mention memory than I have, and believe me, I have quite a bit. No gluten, dairy, (what? No cheese? As Julia would say, "Impossible!" Say that with a trilling French accent and you'll have the idea,) no corn, and no practically everything else. I don't doubt J.J. has a valid point. ( I feel like I'm on a first name basis with her, too, especially after reading her chapters on "poops.") I lost more weight (in addition to the 50 pounds more or less than I have already lost in the previous five months,) my ankles deflated dramatically, and I practically sprinted out the door to my morning walk. Nothing but fresh fruits and veggies crossed my lips the rest of the day, except for that small sliver of heinous roast chicken.
Somehow, when exclusively on Weight Watchers, I didn't feel deprived, but as I read J.J., I felt deprived. Deprived but sad. Healthier, less puffy, but definitely sadder. J.J. will remain with me, because I buy her spiel. I am a true believer that foods are the path to health, clear headedness, energy, better eyesight, and really good skin after fifty(as long as you don't smoke or sunbathe.) I want that! And to be thin, too, but with some cheese. But I'll happily trade for sometimes foggy, now and then puffy, and eating more than three forkfulls of my birthday cake. No contest.
So last night, I dreamed that my husband was looking for a decent pair of scissors. That is surely symbolic of something or other, wouldn't you say?When I got home from grocery shopping today, I took a short nap and woke up starved for my favorite: chunky peanut butter and orange marmalade on rye bread (all three big no-no's from J.J.) and I got right up, made one and ate it, and I am glad about it, too.
And Zan Marie - Love your remodeled kitchen. Mine no longer has my husband's feet protruding through the ceiling and thanks to my darling daughter who has wizard like capabilities with drywall, (a skill no woman should be without,) the ceiling and pot lights look just fine. See my Facebook page.
Friday, June 7, 2013
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
There's Kale....and Then There's Kale
I have to be honest. Not long ago I had never heard of kale. There was that stuff in the deli counter that supplies the green frilly stuff between the potato salad and the meatloaf slices that the deli guy calls lettuce, which I know is kale, unless it is parsley or plastic, but other than that.....
I read someplace how incredibly nutritious is is (no one said delicious) and how it does great things for your skin and how it fills you up when you are trying to eat lots of salads, and so on.
So, long and short of it, I started putting it in the huge salads I eat everyday, and pretty soon I started to actually like its firm, sort of scrubby texture. I began making salads almost entirely with kale. And, don't underestimate it for stir fry. You can buy veggies already shredded or shred your own, and with or without, you can make a very decent vegetable dish or a main course. And it's cheap. I bought huge amounts of kale.
Then came the tipping point. My macarative degeneration in one eye seemed to reverse itself. Not seemed. It did reverse itself. Not there any more. Gone. No signs of cataracts, either, and my prescription has gone more toward toward 20/20. I had taken lutein, recommended by my doc, for years, but nothing got better with lutein. Only when I chowed down on kale was there improvement.
"Your eyes must be youthening," my eye doc said."Must be something you ate."
"Of course," said a friend of mine. "It's the kale. I've known about that for years. "
Really? She's known about it and hasn't told me? What kind of a pal is that?
The other day I read an article in the AJ C about how the Atlanta public schools are trying to teach elementary school pupils better nutrition. On school had them grow their own vegetable garden and take the kale they had grown and put it to salads. They carefully cared for their kale, gave it plenty of water, and put the gently washed leaves into a bowl with their carrots and tomatoes.
"How does your kale taste?" the teacher asked.
"Great!" and "Delicious!" the kids shouted, and they ate it.
O.K., this was probably a lesson in growing your own foods, but it served mto boost kale's reputation, too.
And then another Atlanta school (and this is God's own truth) tried to introduce kale into the cafeteria menu. This is a baccalaureate school, run by some presumably some pretty progressive, smart people.
They cafeteria served the kids fried chicken, which everybody likes, and a side dish of steamed kale. Yes. Limp, ugly steamed kale.
The kids were anxious to say why they liked fried chicken. "It love it because its greasy," one kid answered. Obvious none of the lunchroom ladies had studied the Southern Living recipe for ungreasy fried chicken.
And the kale? "Yucky! It's nasty!" Most of them left it untouched.
Steamed kale? I'd have to agree. Probably had a a hunk of pork in the water, too, making it both ugly and bad for you.
Lots of lessons there.
I read someplace how incredibly nutritious is is (no one said delicious) and how it does great things for your skin and how it fills you up when you are trying to eat lots of salads, and so on.
So, long and short of it, I started putting it in the huge salads I eat everyday, and pretty soon I started to actually like its firm, sort of scrubby texture. I began making salads almost entirely with kale. And, don't underestimate it for stir fry. You can buy veggies already shredded or shred your own, and with or without, you can make a very decent vegetable dish or a main course. And it's cheap. I bought huge amounts of kale.
Then came the tipping point. My macarative degeneration in one eye seemed to reverse itself. Not seemed. It did reverse itself. Not there any more. Gone. No signs of cataracts, either, and my prescription has gone more toward toward 20/20. I had taken lutein, recommended by my doc, for years, but nothing got better with lutein. Only when I chowed down on kale was there improvement.
"Your eyes must be youthening," my eye doc said."Must be something you ate."
"Of course," said a friend of mine. "It's the kale. I've known about that for years. "
Really? She's known about it and hasn't told me? What kind of a pal is that?
The other day I read an article in the AJ C about how the Atlanta public schools are trying to teach elementary school pupils better nutrition. On school had them grow their own vegetable garden and take the kale they had grown and put it to salads. They carefully cared for their kale, gave it plenty of water, and put the gently washed leaves into a bowl with their carrots and tomatoes.
"How does your kale taste?" the teacher asked.
"Great!" and "Delicious!" the kids shouted, and they ate it.
O.K., this was probably a lesson in growing your own foods, but it served mto boost kale's reputation, too.
And then another Atlanta school (and this is God's own truth) tried to introduce kale into the cafeteria menu. This is a baccalaureate school, run by some presumably some pretty progressive, smart people.
They cafeteria served the kids fried chicken, which everybody likes, and a side dish of steamed kale. Yes. Limp, ugly steamed kale.
The kids were anxious to say why they liked fried chicken. "It love it because its greasy," one kid answered. Obvious none of the lunchroom ladies had studied the Southern Living recipe for ungreasy fried chicken.
And the kale? "Yucky! It's nasty!" Most of them left it untouched.
Steamed kale? I'd have to agree. Probably had a a hunk of pork in the water, too, making it both ugly and bad for you.
Lots of lessons there.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Well, Somtimes, Things go Right, and Sometimes They Gang...Agley.
And that explains why there was no Friday post, sort of. And thanks to that redoubtable Scotsman Bobby Burns.
Friday started with a pleasant walk, a neighbor who stopped to introduce herself ("Lived here long?" "Fifteen years." ) It's amazing what and who you don't know when you don't have sidewalks and live far back from the street, isn't it?
Plans were to head out in the late afternoon to attend a friend's poetry reading and go on to dinner. Heading out meant an hour plus drive each way, but I've become accustomed to that. Then, my husband (and chauffeur for night time driving)was tied up at work. Let's just say, CNN never sleeps and neither do its people. So after working on a special project from 4 a.m. until 1p.m. after a full nights work the night before that, he was diverted on the way home by the news that our van had unceremoniously slowed to a creep in the middle of Cobb Parkway,(said van being driven by a child doing a good deed for us) all the while making screeching and moaning sounds as it did so. Fortunately its agony was in close proximity to the repair department we generally use. Once home, with about two hours for my husband to sleep before we had to head out, we had a short respite until there came a call from the same formerly and now presently stranded child, now in his or her own car, who had locked his or her keys in his or her car (I promised I would keep them nameless.) An electric lock. Hard to break into. No AAA card handy (locked in the glove box)and no spare key, etc., a problem which Magic Daddy solved, but not before another hour passed. The time to sleep had expired, and with it any chance of poetry or dinner.
Now as you can see, I am not mentioned above as being a party to all the comings and goings. Just let me remind you of another quote: They also serve who only stand and wait. And search on Google and make calls.Those people do not blog.
So, Richard, do you see why I didn't attend your poetry reading?
So I will pick up again tomorrow, Monday, with a moving tribute to kale. It is thundering now and I will have a large Black Labradore in my lap soon, so I am signing off for the day.
Friday started with a pleasant walk, a neighbor who stopped to introduce herself ("Lived here long?" "Fifteen years." ) It's amazing what and who you don't know when you don't have sidewalks and live far back from the street, isn't it?
Plans were to head out in the late afternoon to attend a friend's poetry reading and go on to dinner. Heading out meant an hour plus drive each way, but I've become accustomed to that. Then, my husband (and chauffeur for night time driving)was tied up at work. Let's just say, CNN never sleeps and neither do its people. So after working on a special project from 4 a.m. until 1p.m. after a full nights work the night before that, he was diverted on the way home by the news that our van had unceremoniously slowed to a creep in the middle of Cobb Parkway,(said van being driven by a child doing a good deed for us) all the while making screeching and moaning sounds as it did so. Fortunately its agony was in close proximity to the repair department we generally use. Once home, with about two hours for my husband to sleep before we had to head out, we had a short respite until there came a call from the same formerly and now presently stranded child, now in his or her own car, who had locked his or her keys in his or her car (I promised I would keep them nameless.) An electric lock. Hard to break into. No AAA card handy (locked in the glove box)and no spare key, etc., a problem which Magic Daddy solved, but not before another hour passed. The time to sleep had expired, and with it any chance of poetry or dinner.
Now as you can see, I am not mentioned above as being a party to all the comings and goings. Just let me remind you of another quote: They also serve who only stand and wait. And search on Google and make calls.Those people do not blog.
So, Richard, do you see why I didn't attend your poetry reading?
So I will pick up again tomorrow, Monday, with a moving tribute to kale. It is thundering now and I will have a large Black Labradore in my lap soon, so I am signing off for the day.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Give That Woman Space....She May Be Hurtling Our Way
As I walked this morning, I noticed that cars approaching me on the opposite side of the street tended to slow more than necessary and sometimes even stopped until I had passed. Is this Southern courtesy? Fear that I will suddenly stagger and pitch myself beneath their tires? Awe struck amazement rendering the driver unable to operate large machinery? Or something akin to funeral procession manners, which might appear to be imminently necessary, with me red faced and sweating as I climb the final hill to my driveway.
I pondered that while I browsed at Target, looking for something else to wear that would be a little cooler than twill slacks and T shirt. I settled on a sleeveless top and knit pants that stopped a few inches short of being full length - not so short as to be alarming, but short enough to possibly have some cooling properties. Looking in the mirror at home, I realized that with a single outfit I had the potential to lower property values in my entire neighborhood. When did my arms start to flap? At one time, not so long ago, I was proud that they looked pretty good for a fat person. Then, it was more the fat but firm approach, and now, just a lame impersonation of a turkey buzzard with wings extended above some tasty piece of carrion. And formerly fat people are very happy to tell me that the fat will continue to flap when my arms are positively skinny. The flesh does not miraculously vanish. Of course there is surgery, but there is no chance of that. No paring off this tallow with the surgeon's knife, even if my face-lift veteran friend is rooting for that solution.
So, today was weigh-in day. The Weight Watcher's web site was full of little pop-up stars and digital cheering because it says I have lost another five pounds. Not this week mind you, but from when I was five pounds heavier, I guess. I am still a little mystified with the WW system, mostly because I have not taken the time to carefully read all the explanatory material. I guess that is where meetings with a group leader help. She has read all that stuff and can parrot it right back to you, saving you from the info overload I always sense when I get deep into the rewards and points and who knows what else that circumscribe my days.
Tomorrow morning I vow to venture past the stop sign that has marked my turn- around point and go forth into the cul de sac. I am still omitting side streets, because those include hills, and I am not really into any hills that I don't have to deal with to actually get back into the air conditioning of my house. Once there, I collapse in front of the Today Show, iced tea in hand, and wipe off the sunblock. Somehow, it seems as if that much sunblock will clog the plumbing if I don't get it off before the shower hits it.
Actually, health issues aside, the sun can have almost any part of me except my neck. I have not slathered on a fortune in neck cream every night for years to let the sun bake me to a piece of jerky. Thoughtless teenage years bathed in iodine infused baby oil to get that golden glow did not result in cancer, blotches, dryness, or almost anything else I should be suffering from, so I am not going to take it for granted now. Bring on anything the grocery store or cosmetic department has to offer, I'm your girl.
My mother's theory was that it did not matter which product you used, but how determined and faithful you were in its application. I like to think she was right. Now that I think of it, her theory applies to pretty much everything, doesn't it?
I pondered that while I browsed at Target, looking for something else to wear that would be a little cooler than twill slacks and T shirt. I settled on a sleeveless top and knit pants that stopped a few inches short of being full length - not so short as to be alarming, but short enough to possibly have some cooling properties. Looking in the mirror at home, I realized that with a single outfit I had the potential to lower property values in my entire neighborhood. When did my arms start to flap? At one time, not so long ago, I was proud that they looked pretty good for a fat person. Then, it was more the fat but firm approach, and now, just a lame impersonation of a turkey buzzard with wings extended above some tasty piece of carrion. And formerly fat people are very happy to tell me that the fat will continue to flap when my arms are positively skinny. The flesh does not miraculously vanish. Of course there is surgery, but there is no chance of that. No paring off this tallow with the surgeon's knife, even if my face-lift veteran friend is rooting for that solution.
So, today was weigh-in day. The Weight Watcher's web site was full of little pop-up stars and digital cheering because it says I have lost another five pounds. Not this week mind you, but from when I was five pounds heavier, I guess. I am still a little mystified with the WW system, mostly because I have not taken the time to carefully read all the explanatory material. I guess that is where meetings with a group leader help. She has read all that stuff and can parrot it right back to you, saving you from the info overload I always sense when I get deep into the rewards and points and who knows what else that circumscribe my days.
Tomorrow morning I vow to venture past the stop sign that has marked my turn- around point and go forth into the cul de sac. I am still omitting side streets, because those include hills, and I am not really into any hills that I don't have to deal with to actually get back into the air conditioning of my house. Once there, I collapse in front of the Today Show, iced tea in hand, and wipe off the sunblock. Somehow, it seems as if that much sunblock will clog the plumbing if I don't get it off before the shower hits it.
Actually, health issues aside, the sun can have almost any part of me except my neck. I have not slathered on a fortune in neck cream every night for years to let the sun bake me to a piece of jerky. Thoughtless teenage years bathed in iodine infused baby oil to get that golden glow did not result in cancer, blotches, dryness, or almost anything else I should be suffering from, so I am not going to take it for granted now. Bring on anything the grocery store or cosmetic department has to offer, I'm your girl.
My mother's theory was that it did not matter which product you used, but how determined and faithful you were in its application. I like to think she was right. Now that I think of it, her theory applies to pretty much everything, doesn't it?
Monday, May 27, 2013
Really, Stevie Nicks and I have nothing in common.
I am starting this past my bedtime, one imposed by my dogs who, at the appointed hour, jump up and go through an elaborate doggy pantomime of dragging themselves in exhaustion to bed. Since I am the lone person in the house four out of seven nights, they are very comforting. I doubt that they would be vicious protectors in a pinch, but they put on a good vocal act when they hear a raccoon on the porch.
Tomorrow will be the first day since I started my morning walks that I will not be able to burst from my driveway, walking stick in hand, to greet the day. I have my writers' group tomorrow at 10, and since I have to leave home at 8:30 for the hour plus drive, building in extra time to get coffee and maybe tilt the seat back for a fifteen minute rest at some point, there is no walking time. As it gets hotter day by day, I know that afternoon walks will be out of the question, soon if not already.
I have found myself in the interesting position lately, of having nothing to wear. I mean that quite literally. As I creep closer to the "fifty pounds lost" mark, I find I can't really fake it with anything I own. The idea seems so attractive. Lose weight, buy a new wardrobe. It doesn't quite work that way. For one thing, a new wardrobe from the skin out costs a lot of money. I want to be slender, not broke. Also, since I am nowhere near my final weight loss goal, these clothes shall also be too large soon, and will have to be shucked for a smaller size. That has sort of a "good news/bad news" quality. My new jeans, which I liked quite a lot and spent too much on were too big two weeks after I bought them. Now I have one pair of khakis which I can actually wear out of the house, and their days are numbered.
I have resurrected several broomstick skirts from what my daughter calls my "Stevie Nicks period."
Although when Stevie Nicks was slithering about the stage in her cobwebby black gowns,with her long blonde tendrils sliding over her shoulders, my cohorts and I were wearing Villager shirtwaists and Capezio flats, my daughter refers more to my middle aged discovery of the forgiving nature of those long skirts. I have not been a skirt person for most of my adult life, tending to awkwardly step on trailing hems and cause general bodily harm to myself and others, but here goes nothin.'
Tomorrow will be the first day since I started my morning walks that I will not be able to burst from my driveway, walking stick in hand, to greet the day. I have my writers' group tomorrow at 10, and since I have to leave home at 8:30 for the hour plus drive, building in extra time to get coffee and maybe tilt the seat back for a fifteen minute rest at some point, there is no walking time. As it gets hotter day by day, I know that afternoon walks will be out of the question, soon if not already.
I have found myself in the interesting position lately, of having nothing to wear. I mean that quite literally. As I creep closer to the "fifty pounds lost" mark, I find I can't really fake it with anything I own. The idea seems so attractive. Lose weight, buy a new wardrobe. It doesn't quite work that way. For one thing, a new wardrobe from the skin out costs a lot of money. I want to be slender, not broke. Also, since I am nowhere near my final weight loss goal, these clothes shall also be too large soon, and will have to be shucked for a smaller size. That has sort of a "good news/bad news" quality. My new jeans, which I liked quite a lot and spent too much on were too big two weeks after I bought them. Now I have one pair of khakis which I can actually wear out of the house, and their days are numbered.
I have resurrected several broomstick skirts from what my daughter calls my "Stevie Nicks period."
Although when Stevie Nicks was slithering about the stage in her cobwebby black gowns,with her long blonde tendrils sliding over her shoulders, my cohorts and I were wearing Villager shirtwaists and Capezio flats, my daughter refers more to my middle aged discovery of the forgiving nature of those long skirts. I have not been a skirt person for most of my adult life, tending to awkwardly step on trailing hems and cause general bodily harm to myself and others, but here goes nothin.'
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Buddhist Monks and Gandolph Walking Sticks
Today marked the beginning of my exercise attack on fat, to go along with Weight Watchers. I have not added exercise before because lugging a lot of extra pounds is brutally hard on the knees and back. With forty of those pounds gone, or as I like to think of it, the equivalent of a large bag of dog chow, it was time to start. Also, it was a gorgeous morning, with a cool breeze, the scent of honeysuckles, and the sky a blazing blue. I walked in my quiet little neighborhood, in an area that is relatively flat, and for a short distance, although it took 45 minutes.
After about 5 minutes, I was joined by a neighbor, a Thai Buddhist monk, who with several fellow monks has lived here for 20 years. We met early on after my family moved to the neighborhood, when he came to my door in a panic looking for someone who could handle a problem with the phone company. He could not speak enough English to be understood by his "customer service representative" or, in fact by me, and it was only after I found that he and I could communicate fairly well with a combination of French and pantomime was I able to resolve his telephone problem. He has been forever grateful, and we have had pleasant exchanges over the years. Every day, rain or shine, he breezes past my house, smiling and waving if I am outside. He maintains a brisk pace, so today he kindly slowed down to my pitiful speed to chat for a while and then sped off on his routine. What a lovely, happy spirited man.
So anyway, slathered with sunblock and wearing a floppy white cotton sun hat and carrying my hiking staff to steady myself, I poked along and looked at my neighbors' beautiful flower and vegetable gardens, until I reached a stop sign, took it to heart, turned around, and headed for home.
I should elaborate on my staff, because elaborate is exactly what it is. Made by a Georgia folk artist who doesn't have so much as his own website, I picked it up in Newnan a few weeks ago. His staffs could be said to be themed. The top is crowned with a picture encased in a clear plastic, trimmed with glitter and bead work, then the rest of the staff is ornamented with large "jewels," more bead work and trim. And the picture up top? I chose a picture of St. Francis, but one was capped with the face of Sarah Palin, another with the Budweiser logo, and others with the American flag.
He's nothing if not eclectic, but with his finger on the pulse of the people, so to speak.
I looked suspiciously like Gandolph as I plugged along, but I am just sorry that I am probably not brave enough to take my staff out in public beyond my neighborhood. I sense it would like a good trip further afield, but would my family be seen with me? They are a little suspicious of me sometimes as it is.
To those thoughtful souls who have offered comments on my blog, I want you to know you are read and appreciated, and I will respond soon. Time has been at such a premium lately that finding time to blog three times a week is about all I can do. You aren't being ignored! Have a good Memorial Day weekend, and to my friends at the Decatur Book Festival, I am thinking of you and wishing you cooling breezes and good sales.
After about 5 minutes, I was joined by a neighbor, a Thai Buddhist monk, who with several fellow monks has lived here for 20 years. We met early on after my family moved to the neighborhood, when he came to my door in a panic looking for someone who could handle a problem with the phone company. He could not speak enough English to be understood by his "customer service representative" or, in fact by me, and it was only after I found that he and I could communicate fairly well with a combination of French and pantomime was I able to resolve his telephone problem. He has been forever grateful, and we have had pleasant exchanges over the years. Every day, rain or shine, he breezes past my house, smiling and waving if I am outside. He maintains a brisk pace, so today he kindly slowed down to my pitiful speed to chat for a while and then sped off on his routine. What a lovely, happy spirited man.
So anyway, slathered with sunblock and wearing a floppy white cotton sun hat and carrying my hiking staff to steady myself, I poked along and looked at my neighbors' beautiful flower and vegetable gardens, until I reached a stop sign, took it to heart, turned around, and headed for home.
I should elaborate on my staff, because elaborate is exactly what it is. Made by a Georgia folk artist who doesn't have so much as his own website, I picked it up in Newnan a few weeks ago. His staffs could be said to be themed. The top is crowned with a picture encased in a clear plastic, trimmed with glitter and bead work, then the rest of the staff is ornamented with large "jewels," more bead work and trim. And the picture up top? I chose a picture of St. Francis, but one was capped with the face of Sarah Palin, another with the Budweiser logo, and others with the American flag.
He's nothing if not eclectic, but with his finger on the pulse of the people, so to speak.
I looked suspiciously like Gandolph as I plugged along, but I am just sorry that I am probably not brave enough to take my staff out in public beyond my neighborhood. I sense it would like a good trip further afield, but would my family be seen with me? They are a little suspicious of me sometimes as it is.
To those thoughtful souls who have offered comments on my blog, I want you to know you are read and appreciated, and I will respond soon. Time has been at such a premium lately that finding time to blog three times a week is about all I can do. You aren't being ignored! Have a good Memorial Day weekend, and to my friends at the Decatur Book Festival, I am thinking of you and wishing you cooling breezes and good sales.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Twenty-nine ounces less of me
Official weigh-in day, and I've lost a bit less than two pounds this week. I weigh myself every day, but in the future I will note only my "official" weigh-in date weight. Otherwise, just too much information.
Two friends, two wonderful women, are making some transitions of other kinds. Diana Black, artist, writer, organizer of so many good works and accomplished at many things, is no longer going to send us her wonderful Wednesday missives after four and a half years. Although she will be missed in that capacity, she will continue to be involved in so many projects.
And brilliant pastel artist Margaret Dyer, after a sad, tumultuous couple of years, has come to rest in a warm, embracing place where she can begin to create again. So whether we see her arts in spots in Georgia, nationally, or in France or Ireland, she is vibrantly back with us, and we will all be richer for it.
And I am just methodically carving off my ill gotten gains, and thinking about the scale tomorrow.
That brings me to asparagus. I grew up on five gorgeous acres in central Illinois, with pasture, a creek, an old apple orchards, rows of Concord grapes, pear, plum, cherry and apricot trees, strawberries and black and red raspberries. A large patch of land was devoted to asparagus, and one of my early memories is picking the tender green and violet stalks along side my great-aunt, her hair bundled up in a kerchief.
In our home, asparagus was prepared this way: chopped into small pieces, cooked in boiling water at length until the chunks were uniformly stringy, then covered in a sauce of butter, milk, flour and cheddar cheese, and cooked some more. My grandfather would fish out a few poor little green chunks before the cheese obliterated them for good, but that aberration was disparaged. I didn't taste plain steamed, or God forbid uncooked, asparagus until I was an adult. Never even thought of it.
I recalled the asparagus episodes of my youth when I moved to Atlanta and was introduced to green beans, not suitable to eat until they were boiled in fatty water and mashed with a fork. My hostess, considered an excellent cook, observed my daughter's plate, containing an untouched serving of grayish greens and declared that she apparently didn't like vegetables. My daughter was a vegetarian. Just a few years ago at the GAYA Awards for distinguished writing by Georgians, the lady sitting next to me at dinner pronounced her green beans unfit to eat because they crunched. The rest of the table agreed.
I am not putting down Georgians or Southerners or my family. Cooking vegetables into library paste is not a southern prediliction. I suspect it has country roots, North or South. Now a large part of the population all over the country recognizes the superior nutritional value, not to mention taste, of uncooked or slightly cooked vegetables. So, if you still prefer your vegetables mashed and redolent of pork, give unsauced and perhaps just steamed veggies a try. Your body will thank you.
Two friends, two wonderful women, are making some transitions of other kinds. Diana Black, artist, writer, organizer of so many good works and accomplished at many things, is no longer going to send us her wonderful Wednesday missives after four and a half years. Although she will be missed in that capacity, she will continue to be involved in so many projects.
And brilliant pastel artist Margaret Dyer, after a sad, tumultuous couple of years, has come to rest in a warm, embracing place where she can begin to create again. So whether we see her arts in spots in Georgia, nationally, or in France or Ireland, she is vibrantly back with us, and we will all be richer for it.
And I am just methodically carving off my ill gotten gains, and thinking about the scale tomorrow.
That brings me to asparagus. I grew up on five gorgeous acres in central Illinois, with pasture, a creek, an old apple orchards, rows of Concord grapes, pear, plum, cherry and apricot trees, strawberries and black and red raspberries. A large patch of land was devoted to asparagus, and one of my early memories is picking the tender green and violet stalks along side my great-aunt, her hair bundled up in a kerchief.
In our home, asparagus was prepared this way: chopped into small pieces, cooked in boiling water at length until the chunks were uniformly stringy, then covered in a sauce of butter, milk, flour and cheddar cheese, and cooked some more. My grandfather would fish out a few poor little green chunks before the cheese obliterated them for good, but that aberration was disparaged. I didn't taste plain steamed, or God forbid uncooked, asparagus until I was an adult. Never even thought of it.
I recalled the asparagus episodes of my youth when I moved to Atlanta and was introduced to green beans, not suitable to eat until they were boiled in fatty water and mashed with a fork. My hostess, considered an excellent cook, observed my daughter's plate, containing an untouched serving of grayish greens and declared that she apparently didn't like vegetables. My daughter was a vegetarian. Just a few years ago at the GAYA Awards for distinguished writing by Georgians, the lady sitting next to me at dinner pronounced her green beans unfit to eat because they crunched. The rest of the table agreed.
I am not putting down Georgians or Southerners or my family. Cooking vegetables into library paste is not a southern prediliction. I suspect it has country roots, North or South. Now a large part of the population all over the country recognizes the superior nutritional value, not to mention taste, of uncooked or slightly cooked vegetables. So, if you still prefer your vegetables mashed and redolent of pork, give unsauced and perhaps just steamed veggies a try. Your body will thank you.
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