Ah, Bruce. Where are you when I need you?

In the last week, an odd form of courtesy has befallen me, and I don't like it one bit.  It involves parking, a thing I am very good at.

The first incident happened to me while I was parallel parking on a street just off the Marietta Square. Parking was at a premium, and I was elated when I found a largish spot between two parked cars. Or rather, a parked car and one, just in front of me, with a driver still in the car, having just completed what he apparently felt was a spectacularly good parking job and  had to pass his skills along to me.

As I maneuvered the rear of my car backward,  a silver haired driver sprang from his driver's seat like St. Nick and began waving and gesticulating as if he were guiding a 707 into its berth at O'Hare. When I turned the wheel, he pantomimed the same, shouting when he thought I had turned too far or not far enough.  A space I could have whisked into with no fanfare became a three act play with choreography, as I went forward and back, turn to the right, turn to the left, pause, begin again. Left alone, I would have been fine. With this parking aficionado, it took me forever to finally complete the job to his satisfaction.

The second incident, just this morning, involved the simplest of parking maneuvers, a straight back- out from a shopping center parking spot. This was not a particularly busy location, and I was unlikely to be swiped by passing cars.  Once again, silver haired and full of human kindness, this gentleman who had parked next to me jumped from his car and swooped in right behind my car. Presumably he couldn't hear my expletive as I nearly knee-capped him.  Waving and gesturing to indicate all was clear, he guided me back past the SUV on my other side, and got me into the stream of non-existant traffic with nary a dented fender.

What is this?  What have I done to attract the attention of these unwanted helpers?  Have I forgotten how to drive? Do I look befuddled?  I don't think so.  I don't do befuddled, and my children are still willing to ride with me without grabbing for the keys.  Is it the gray hair? Misplaced Southern manners? I'm not sure, but twice in a week? Something is afoot.

 I suggested to my family that maybe I should do a full McClain.  No, not John McClain (think Bruce Willis.)  I am talking Shirley.  Flame red spikey hair, lots of scarves and jewelry, plenty of make-up.
Scare the Bejesus out of these old guys who want to help a little old lady. It's not as bad as it was in Ireland where everyone calls gray haired women "Mother."  That is the definition of ego deflation.  But...you old goats, if I want parking help, I'll let you know, O.K? Maybe Bruce Willis' John McClain is a better model for me after all.

A little stir fry sauce in the pantry can be a very good thing.

With the nearly silent hum of the dishwasher in the background, I have a moment to look back on the last few days.

The untimely deceased dishwasher was replaced by by my husband at around 4 a.m. the morning of Christmas Eve, with only the smallest leak dripping into a bucket under the sink.  By Christmas Eve, he had that conquered and we could dirty our dishes without fear.

My favorite day of the year had arrived, murky and cold. No, not my birthday. Not even Christmas.  No. Winter Solstice. My daughter says it is because I am a Druid, but I share my love for this day with my late father-in-law, who was anything but a Druid.  It is the moment that days start getting longer.  Spring is stirring, the earth is turning, and it will be green again. He would noticeably brighten and his spirits would lift, just as they sank at Midsummer's Eve, when the days slowly grew shorter. The one thing, I think, that we had in common.

Our two children were with us, and happy to be here, and that, of course, makes me happier than anything else. On Christmas afternoon, we took our two dogs to an open field close to Kennesaw Mountain, where we could walk and they could run with unbridled glee. This time no deer were in evidence, no other people or dogs, and we had just the blazing blue sky, winter woods and soaring hawks for company.

And then home for Christmas dinner.  This time, determined to cut down on on the work of producing our traditional replay of Thanksgiving dinner, I had the turkey cooked by Publix, and picked it up Monday. "It's fully cooked," the lady reminded me.  "Just warm it in the oven. Directions are on the package."

And so, trustingly following directions, I put the bird, still in it's inner wrapper, into the roasting pan. And when the oven timer summoned me, I pulled it out of the warm oven and cut the cover only to discover... a raw turkey! Publix! How could you do this to me, I who spend an absurd amount on your wares, day after day, week after week?

After my initial panic and too shocked to cry, I sliced the raw meat, just enough for modest servings(our daughter is vegetarian and her tofurkey with wild rice stuffing was perfectly cooked and delicious - I couldn't bear to eat that turkey,) threw the meat into a deep skillet with stir fry sauce and a few other things, and produced edible, if somewhat Japanese restaurant flavored turkey. And only about an hour later than the announced dinner time.

The sides and dressing were great, made by me or Whole Foods. The beet salad, not a hit, no surprise to me, was an experiment. I happen to love beets, the "in" vegetable of the moment. They remind me of childhood holiday dinners, but without the goat cheese and chopped walnuts that graced my beets, resting picturesquely in a nest of butter lettuce and purple radichio. My son even had seconds of the stir fried turkey and is still alive this morning, so all is well.

So we come to Boxing Day. Between now and New Year's Eve, it is time to clean out the fridge, with everything but the truly current food stock cleared away for the New Year. And with a husband who is one of five "kids" who still give one another Christmas gifts, which nowadays consist of baskets filled with forbidden sweets, crackers and cheeses, wines and etc., that means a post Christmas selection that looks like the interior of Dean and DeLucca for friends who wander in had leave with chocolate covered coffee beans, brie en crout and gourmet jelly beans.

To her everlasting credit, our dear daughter took the largest, most lavish (but wine free) basket, given to her in thanks by a very large family of out of town friends whom she hosted for a couple of days last spring, and gave it, along with some kid oriented gifts, to a large family who would never see such bounty. Hers is the very definition of a good soul,  and she blesses us in so many ways.

So, I go forward bravely toward the New Year, counting Weight Watcher points, never skipping the gym except for major holidays, and always keeping some stir fry sauce in the pantry, because you never know when you will need it.

Rituals and weight loss

We have a ritual in my family.  It is not limited to Christmas, just the major holidays that involve a lot of eating. A major electrical appliance crashes just before or even during the holiday, and our local Lowe's delivery man gets a call, brings a new appliance to our house, greets our dogs by name, asks to be remembered to any family members not present and then disappears until the next holiday, next appliance crash.

Last time, our refrigerator checked out the day before Thanksgiving (this was a year or two ago) while entrusted with our turkey and everything else  I was planning to serve.  This year, our dishwasher gave up on Thanksgiving, refusing to pump adequate water to distribute the soap. It made a brief comeback so that a repair man said it might hold up a while longer. Repair was possible for an estimate equal to the cost of a new dishwasher. It did hold up, unrepaired but with our fingers crossed, until the Sunday before Christmas. Our faithful delivery guy delivered a new dishwasher today, Dec. 23, but alas, no installer will be available until the week after Christmas.

I'm OK with washing dishes, but with four major meals in a two day period, my husband has undertaken to install the dishwasher himself.  He is more than moderately handy and installed a dishwasher in another house not long ago, so you might ask why five hours after wrestling it into place (and removing the old dishwasher), and leaving a wake through the living room, den and kitchen, we are not hearing the comforting swish of dishes being washed .

One word. Instructions. No mention of how to hook it to the electricity. Internet not helpful. Suggestion of pulling it back out until an installer can come, not well received.

I'll leave this saga here, since I plan to go to bed soon, but I'll let you know how it turns out.

In other news, three days ago was my one year weight loss anniversary.  My goal was 100 pounds. I succeeded in losing 75, so I have the rest to look forward to in the New Year.  Since I  gained a lot of muscle, and muscle weighs more than fat, the result size-wise is a somewhat slimmer me than the loss of 75 really indicates. But, anyway, it was a full time time job to work with a trainer, completely restructure my nutrition, and retrain my brain. Time well spent, in my opinion.

Never explain, never complain

Regarding the title of this post, just let me add, No one cares, any how. Let's just say it has been a long and strange autumn. And now to what I was talking about when last we met. Or close to it, any way.

About Jack.  I went back to my hometown for my 50th high school reunion, which was, all in all, a good experience. I also arranged to meet and old and dear friend who was not in my h.s. class, for lunch, along with another friend of ours from the "old days." This friend, whom I am calling Jack, was a larger than life character, a prodigy, wealthy and good looking, who had just sort of dropped off the radar. It was a long and complicated process to get in touch with hime and to set up a meeting. I could give the CIA and Homeland Security a few tips for reaching those who don't want to be found, but I did reach him, which is all that counts.

I had heard that he had disappeared after his wife died a couple of years ago, that he had sold his palatial home, that he was in a wheelchair, a drunk, a drug addict. And I'll admit that in those few times I actually reached him by phone, the conversations were bizarre. He had a host of charming memories of things we had done and the people we had done them with that never happened. Ideas forgotten in mid sentence, repeated questions, confusion about dates and place.  But then, we all do some of that, don't we? Don't we?

So, as he requested, I called him when I got into town to remind him of the lunch we had planned for the next day. No answer. No answer late into the night.  Early next morning, the third member of our party called to say he had reached Jack and he was expecting us. Lunch. 11:30.

Jack had moved into a one story home once owned by his family. When I approached the front door, I could see through the extensive front windows, the dining room with glittering chandelier, crystal, plates and cutlery, set for at least a dozen people. Another person, a youngish man ( to me that means 40ish)  answered the door. Butler? House manager?  Probably not in a golf shirt and Bermuda shorts (it was warm that weekend.)

And there was Jack. Leaning heavily on a walker, blonde hair now white, body thin, features old looking. Long hair works with a tan and blond hair. With white hair, it is just sort of creepy.

We sat in the den , an impeccably decorated, cozy room he said he seldom left.  He keeps it at the temperature he likes, has a fire in the fireplace whenever he wants it, and seldom goes outdoors.  Read: Never.  The beautiful slate terrace visible just outside overlooks a valley of hardwoods. Inviting all weather furniture is scattered about, stone sculpture punctuates expert plantings.

The unknown man who answered the door turned out to be a friend and houseguest, a world traveler, from his tales, who has been in Antarctica six times. Funny, charming. Not exotic by the standard of Jack's friends. We talked at length and Jack broke down and cried once, when his late wife was mentioned. His memory and wit seemed sharp, no signs of drink or drugs.  And no signs of food, either.

After a couple of hours, someone dropped a heavy hint about lunch, which passed unnoticed.
Into the afternoon, after a house tour, a discussion of the provenance of a number of pieces of art (We found these Carnival costume designs when we were in Venice...)I excused myself, citing a later appointment with a friend (whom I prayed would feed me.)With my pending departure, Jack cast about for food, which seemed to be an very short supply.  That which he had was frozen and not promising. No wonder he's thin.  And repeatedly, he urged for me to stay with him, in one of the guest rooms with a bed so high and enormous it would take me a ladder to get into it.  No, thank you. Can you say "all the tea in China?"

It was a little bizarre, although not the strangest get together I have ever had.  I don't know whether that says more about him or me. I want to go back, maybe in the spring when I plan to pass through town, collecting an old friend for a trip to New York.  And next time I'll visit armed with a fully stocked picnic basket.

Fighting sugar on the way to remaking myself.There's a mantra for that.

O.K. This is what has come into my house in the last week:

Ten excessively frosted cupcakes.
A jar of Nutella. Honestly, who does that- take a jar of Nutella to someone who is dieting?
A bag of Halloween candy as big as a three year old.
Several Godiva bars.
Vanilla ice cream.
The making of a pancake breakfast. That happens tomorrow.

This sugar excess is the star-crossed combination of Halloween and my daughter's birthday.

Oh, I forgot. Cokes. I gave up Diet Coke a few weeks ago. Not a sip since. Diet carbonated drinks are horrible for you and contribute to belly bloat.  Went off them cold turkey. There is now a 6 pack in the fridge. I don't know who I have to thank for that, since no one else in the family drinks them.

On the positive side, I went back to doing Yoga, along with my thrice weekly workouts with a trainer, so now I am not only stronger and can kick some butt, I can do it calmly. I also taught my trainer to use a mantra and how to visualize the floating horizon so he can go to sleep almost instantly. No "monkey mind."

So  you can see, I've been busy, with the meditating and all, and haven't blogged. And all on de-caf, too. That's necessary if I am to get to bed before ten. I can't believe this person is me,  after thinking 2 a.m.was a reasonable bedtime for most of my life. Tonight I am up way too late so I can write this and watch the Cardinals lose. They were wonderful until they forgot how to play baseball, and  the Red Sox probably deserved to win, but it is still a sad outcome in this house.

Next time, back to Jack, my hometown friend, enigma, stranger, wandering soul. It has taken me a long time to  attempt objectivity, but who can be objective about parts of your own heart.

Can you say "fish fork" three times fast?

Well, I'm back from my fiftieth high school reunion, and I will have to say that all in all, it was a good experience. When yours rolls around, you should go.

For one thing, you will feel grateful to still be alive, if you have a bulletin board posted with all of your deceased classmates.

I was in a big class, and I have to admit I recognized precious few of the attendees, especially the men.  We wore name tags bearing our senior photo and name, and the photos alone would not have given adequate clues, in most cases. If I had known that my senior photo would have followed me for the remainder of my days, I would have tried a lot harder, let me tell you. I was thin then, true, but I wouldn't go back to my 1963 look even now, so I guess you could say that's a good thing.

But, it was a good looking class then and now, and it was fun. And my home town, fifty years later, was, well, a little alarming. My home is gone, replaced by condos, and many more random commercial strips have sprouted, but some things I was sure would have been paved over are still there. Like the Sheridan Road Nursery where we bought plants.  Close to a shopping center, but not consumed, at least not yet, and still surrounded by pretty little houses. And the unkillable Lariat Club, not a club but a burger and steakhouse,  once log cabin-ish, now slicked up , but, I was assured, as greasy as ever.

And I saw Jack, the old friend I wrote about some time ago who had become unreachable after the death of his wife. I'm going to tell you about that, but in another blog. It's happy and sad and complicated, as those things usually are, and I can't put my mind there right now.

Two non-reunion things of which I am proud today: I've hammered off a little more weight and have moved the scale down to the next decade lower, so progress is happening, although slowly; and I put away my Christmas china.

Please don't visualize my plates sitting on the table these last ten months, flecked with bits of Christmas ham and plum pudding. I'm a casual house keeper, but not that casual. These were shelved months ago, but not properly housed in their little quilted bags, separated by foam pads, zipped up cozily in their litle round houses, as they are now.

No, these were lovely creamy porcelain, bordered in dark green and edged in gold given to me by my mother-in-law many years ago. In fact, I used them for the first time only a couple of years ago, being under the impression that the set, housed in our storage room, consisted of desert plates and cups and saucers.

Not so. Bowls for soup?  What kind of soup? Cream?Clear? Feel like a fish course? How about shell fish?  Need little bowls of ice under your shrimp cocktail? No problem. How could I have missed this? I should have known, because this is how my mother-in-law operates.

A number of years ago, when our daughter was attending  a small North Eastern college, she occupied an apartment in an old house.  The whole top floor.  This made her perfectly suited to provide er, shall we say," housing" for a rock band visiting the campus for a performance.  One of these purported rockers was the brother of my daughter's closest friend, which is how she came by the opportunity of supplying room and board, more of less, for the weekend.

My husband I thought this was hilariously funny and reported this event to her grandmother, my mother-in-law-of-the-china. She said, "Heavens!" shocked by the ad hoc nature of the arrangements. "Did she have enough place settings?"

And not long after, an enormous Neiman Marcus box arrived, containing a silver chest, with enough silver (thank God it was stainless, not sterling ) to entertain the Red Army Chorus, should they be on tour and pass her way. Fish forks, condiment and appetizer forks, luncheon sized and dinner sized forks and every other piece of silverware you have ever heard of, or haven't heard of.

Bring on the Mormon Tabernacle Choir!

The thought of all that peachy, whipped creamy goodness....

Kay called about breakfast, as she usually does when we haven't had any greasy food in a while.

"Have you seen those peach pancakes on t.v.? The ones with whipped cream all over them.  And peach syrup, too. Have you ever had peach syrup? I've never even heard of peach syrup, have you?"

"Food poisoning," I managed to gasp.  Why oh why did I pick up the phone?

"No, I don't think so," she said.  "If somebody had gotten food poisoning from them, we would have heard about it."

"No. I have food poisoning." I gasped into the phone. The thought of all that peachy whipped creamy goodness was almost too much.

"Probably all that healthy stuff you eat all the time," she said. "I told you it would make you sick. Remember when we couldn't eat spinach a while back? Contaminated or something."

"I don't want to talk about it, or food in general, for that matter. Anything else on your mind?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. Uggs."

Kay has almost as many pairs of Uggs (those notoriously clunky and delightfully comfy shearling boots) as she has color coordinated flip flops.

"Do you really think you need any more pairs?" I asked.

"Of course. They have new colors every year. I was going to ask you you to come with me, but it sounds like you don't feel like it."

That's an understatement. All that fuzziness, and in candy colors, too. I passed her offer of shoe shopping and pancakes.

I hung up and crawled back to my bed which I had unwisely left less than an hour before. I had just closed my eyes to continue suffering alone, when I heard the front door close and the dogs go wild with glee. My daughter had arrived.

She found me cowering under the covers, hoping not to talk to anyone.

She held up a bag with a few tell-tale grease spots on the bottom. "Guess what I have? These will get you up." She opened the bag revealing pastel macaroons, and worse, releasing their icky- sweet coconutty fragrance.

After I returned from my rush trip to the uh, er, commode, she ingenuously asked, "Sick?'

I know that macaroons are now a very hip desert, but I have never actually liked them much. And now that they come is so many lovely pastel colors, I like them even less. Just imagine what havoc a pale green macaroon can wreak on a fragile digestive tract.  Come to think of it, no, don't.

And so I await tomorrow when I have cancelled all plans to get over this unholy state. Perhaps, in peace and quiet. Or perhaps not, since my husband is on vacation. And he is relentlessly handy. Right now there is a saw on the hall table, a threat if I ever saw one (get it? saw...and saw. Bad, I know, but what the heck? I'm sick, I said.)

Woman Falls Shortt of Weight Loss Goal. Does Not Care

Well, I thought -wished, hoped- that by now I would be about thirty  pounds lighter. The truth is, that was an unrealistic goal, and I knew it at the time I set it, but hey, why not go flat out. One hundred pounds lost in 9 months? Only if I were giving birth to a moose.  In 12 months - that takes me up to some time in December - yeah, probably.  The good news is that I am building muscle every day, gaining energy and strength and regaining balance and co-ordination, and at this point, those things are more valuable than more lost pounds.  So, yeah, I feel OK with it. Good, even.

Now that Autumn is coming to Atlanta, albeit in fits and starts, walks in the woods and along creeks with the dogs have become even more beautiful and sometimes last two hours at a stretch. And, I have to admit the down side, the humiliation factor has increased at the gym.

To his everlasting credit, my trainer does not cringe or laugh, and he has plenty of reason, believe me.
Today was a prime example. A core exercise that I think is also supposed to be good for the legs (if not one's dignity) is to lie flat on a narrow, padded bench so that your legs are over one end, knees bent and feet flat on the floor. Now I have a fear of falling off almost anything, and since the bench is narrower than my rump, I have good cause to feel I will pitch over the side at any moment.

My trainer, due to his education and an ample amount of kindness toward ladies as old as his grandmother, keeps reassuring me not to worry.

"You can't fall,"he says. Yeah, right. "I'll catch you before you fall," he says.

Yeah? You and who else? I want to ask. After all, he definitely weighs less than I do and although he has muscles, they are the muscles of youth, muscles that have never really had to catch a flailing panicky woman, plunging all of 16" or so to the floor. I need a forklift, for God's sake. Maybe a fireman, trained in the shoulder carry while climbing backwards down a ladder. Out of a 6th story window. If I fell on this young man, I would squash him like a bug. Of this, I am certain.

But the worst is yet to come.  We start the exercise, which means that I have to elevate my legs at ninety degrees to my body, knees straight, feet together, and then lower them slowly until my feet are once again on the floor. Just my feet. Not the rest of me.

The first couple of times I barely get my legs horizontal. On the third time I hoist them up a bit more, obviously encouraging him to think I might eventually do this. I am sweating like a longshoreman. On next try, I heave my body into it and get my legs up to about a fort-five degree angle, whereupon I feel someone (guess who) firmly grasp my calves and help me hoist my dry, flaky, and yes, somewhat hairy legs a bit further.

Do I go to the gym with unshaven legs? Shocking thought. Of course I do. So does every woman in American over the age of twenty-seven.  Not simian hairy, but stubble-ish, and hairier than the stubble on his chin, that's for sure.

So, I survived this ordeal and we  know each other a bit better than perhaps we want to.  Let's just say my legs will be as smooth as a baby's bottom before my next workout. And he is trying to build his client list, so if you want a cute, young guy grab your calves, just let me know and I'll pass along his number.

Where's Your Heaven ?

I received an email from a dear friend a few days ago. As I recall, it was a general note including a number of fellow writers. In it my old friend briefly described where he was, in the far NorthEastern U.S and parts of Canada, which have always been heaven to him.  How nice, I thought, to know exactly where heaven is. A longitude and latitude are comforting. This writer is no simple thinker; science and philosophy are his friends. He knows that heaven is not to be taken lightly.

I remember my mother telling me where heaven was to her, without exactly calling it that.  It began at that point on a long train trip from the mountains and deserts of the west, when the train windows began to reveal thick, lush woods, fields, little country streams, and tall, cool grass of the Mid-west. It was that point at which she said to herself, "I could walk home from here." That's it: the turning point for our heart's home.

I walked into my portent of heaven the other day, with two giddy leashed dogs, dancing with the excitement of their prospective walk and the chance to go leash-free and fly back into our arms when called.  On a warm, blue sky morning, we drove just a few miles to a place called Price Park.  Only about one hundred and twenty-five acres, very lightly trafficked  and home to birds and butterflies and no doubt many feathered, furred and scaley creatures. It begins just off a busy road, with an asphalt turnoff and lot this day unoccupied by other cars.

A wide swath had been mowed , creating several adjoining pastures, making the most distance of a fairly small area. The paths are bordered this time of year with meadows full of purple, yellow and white flowering weeds (?)  taller than our heads.  At the far edge, all around, there are tall oaks, some with benches beneath.

Walk far enough and you will come across a small incline down to a creek, bubbling over sharp  granite outcroppings and polished pebbles, home to glittering fish swimming among the stretches of mica-laced sand. There is even a narrow sandy beach where dogs and children can dabble.

Back on the trail, a field of what I think is yarrow and maybe wild mustard is filled with bumble bees, so fat they make the stems bend when they alight on their blooming tops.  The sound of ciccadas and crickets competes with the bees' buzzing and the bird calls from the oaks and fruit trees.

I never thought, when I left my beautiful Mid-west, that my portal to heaven would be in the deep South, although I know well that the South is the very definition of heaven to many. But there it was, a little stretch of land near a busy road, preserved in it's pristine form, close enough to visit on an early fall morning with two eager dogs.

And to make it even more certain that it is in the territory of heaven, there is a biscuit shack on the way home where we sat on porch rockers and  had wonderful, just-made, flakey biscuits and coffee. Well, no coffee for the dogs. Just bowls of cold water and warm biscuits. Heaven for them, too.

Don't tinker with me, colds and flu. I am armed!

I have taken this exercise thing to new heights, for me, at least.  That explains why I was in Walmart buying lifting gloves. Those are what weight lifters wear to keep from tearing up their hands on barbells. "Wimps" my daughter said. I should note she has been a rower, and a pretty good one, at that. "They should just pound their hands to numb them. And if the cuts are too deep, just put in a little SuperGlue." Rowers are seldom hand models.

Listen, Sugarplum, I thought , if you knew how much I can bench press, you'd be calling me Mom Ma'am.

"Well, I sometimes have to shake as lot of hands, " I said, "and I don't want them to feel like I'm a stable hand in my free time."

"You still shake hands?" she asked in amazement? "That is so germy.  Everyone I know just hugs."

And blowing your germy breath into someone's neck is more sanitary? I wondered  .

And that brings me to my question. Just what do you know about Goji berry juice? Or Acai berry, for that matter. And does Airborne really work?I have been thinking a lot about contagion lately, ever since the the We Now Have Flu Vaccine sign went up at the Kroger doc-in-a-box.

I  usually deal with cold and flu season by not going out much.  Now that my children are grown and I don't do school related things, and I no longer work with little kids, I can have pleasant solitude for a good part of the winter, which is fine with me.  This fall, however, my calendar is buzzing with unaccustomed activity, the germiest probably being airplane flights and the gym.

Call me flirting with danger, but I have never had a flu shot.  Ever since my mother-in-law nearly died from her flue shot (either the shot, or she got the flu at the doctor's office, also entirely possible) I have avoided the "Elderly should be vaccinated" warnings and the AARP scare literature and have been vaccineless and flueless. But now, I think I may have pressed my luck far enough.

I toyed with wearing a mask on the plane. Not some merry Halloween interpretation of Lady GaGa, but one of those staid white medical masks like the Chinese wear in their polluted cities or that Japanese seem to wear just because they know something we don't. That could be a good way to avoid chatting with my seatmate, so it has some appeal.

Of course there will be an excessive amount of hugging and insincere air kissing at my reunion.  If I had known fifty years ago that I would be expected to hug and kiss some of these people, well, let's just say, I would have used them even more cruelly as characters in my books than I already have.  But it's never too late.

Anyway, on to the remedies. I posed the question of Goji berry juice to Kay and MaryBeth when we had lunch last week.

"I wouldn't know a Goji berry if it came up and bit me on the leg," Kay said, although perhaps a bit more colorfully.

"Well, an acquaintance of a friend had cancer, and he went into full remission after drinking huge amounts of Goji berry juice for several months," I said.

"So you decided to drink it, too?" Kay was unimpressed. Kay had cancer, too, and she got rid of it after chemo and a diet of eggs fried in bacon fat.

"Well, yes, sort of, " I said. "But only 3 ounces a day. It doesn't taste bad."

"Boy, are you a sucker." Kay dug into her unusually healthful lunch of sliced steak on a green salad.

"She is," MaryBeth unhelpfully added. "I can attest that she has an entire kitchen drawer full of Green Coffee Bean capsules, which Dr. Oz was peddling."

"Listen, this is not about me. What about Acai berries? Zinc? Super C? "

So, here it is:  I am going to drink my Goji berry juice (a powerful antioxident, everyone agrees on that ) get a shot, take my extra C and maybe take zinc (two people I know swear by it) plus eat all the vitamin loaded good stuff I already swear by, and hope for the best.  And I better not get sick.

But, my daughter put a positive spin on it. "Look at it this way.  You'll just lose those stubborn last 40 pounds a little faster."  Ah, the  annoying cheer of youth.

Temptation, Thy Name is Cheesecake

Yesterday, I did something I haven't done in years.  In fact, I can landmark when I did it last. There was a Woolworth's Five and Ten in Ansley Mall. That's how long ago it was. And I did it this time because of my friend Kay.

Over one of our horrendous, cholesteral-laden breakfasts, I lamented that I was planning on trying on a few of last winter's clothing items, and I wished there were a way to save some favorites without expensive alterations. I was thinking particularly of a black and white tweed jacket.

"Simple," Kay said. "Just slap a belt on it. You put a black belt on that sucker, and it'll be brand new."

Hmmmm, I thought. A belt. They show this all the time in the fashion mags. It might even give it a little peplum effect around the hips. Peplums are in this fall. I was obviously not thinking clearly, since  the models in the magazines are about twelve years old and as big around as my finger. Of course they can well afford that fanny ruffle. They haven't got fannies, for God sake.

So that is how I found myself standing in front of the belts at my local Target. Since I bought my last belt at Woolworth's, not a lot has changed in the belt world, as far as I can tell. They are still generally made for women with waists. Losing weight or not, a waist is not really in my future. It wasn't in my past, either, but I didn't let that deter me from making the purchase.

I picked out a black belt with many grommet options which would let me strap myself into the boxy Chanel-esque jacket  so it would look a bit less like a cozy tent for a family of four. Instead it looked as if I had decided to strap closed a piece of luggage with a broken clasp that I just happened to be wearing. Not the effect I hoped for.

But I haven't returned the belt.  Maybe I'll put it over that white "big shirt." It looks like a lab coat, now, with snappy pleats down the front. At least a belt, any belt, is something of a triumph. I am advancing into core exercises now. In case you aren't up on fitness lingo, "core"is pretty much the same thing as "gut."I am working on having less core, although that isn't how they put it in the fitness world. I am "toning" my "core," presumably so I can tie my sneakers without needing oxygen.

Tonight I lifted weights while I watched Masterpiece Theater.  I deeply wanted a cup of coffee and a slice of cheesecake with a swirl of strawberry chocolate ganache as the label so cruelly taunts. And curses on the person who brought it to my dining table and refused to take it home, knowing full well I couldn't put its beautiful swirls down the disposal. There is a ring of hell especially mentioned by Dante for just such a sin. This Pilgrim is making progress, and I wasn't an English major for nothing.

He once was lost, but now he is found. That is today, not tomorrow.

Well, Jack was lost, to me at least, and now he's found, and that shows you that lost and found can have many meanings. My daughter posed the most provocative question : Do you need him to be found, or does he need to be found? Is being lost about him or about you?

It is true that it more about me than about him. Sometimes I get this panicky urge to reclaim some part of my past, a place or a person that I fear is lost to me forever. I have no more family of my own heritage.  I didn't claim them when I could, and now they are claimable no more.  That's at least part of the reason why, I think, I keep rattling around in the houses and bones of my past.

But back to Jack. Part of his disappearance was very mundane. His move to a new address caused enormous perplexity with the telephone company(does he have AT&T, too? I curse them daily)Part of the disappearance was a dreadful and largely undiagnosed illness that may best be described as a broken heart, but landed him back in the hospital with a newly manifested seizure disorder, just as he recovered his ability to walk.

Part of the reason was what a friend of mine once called "going to earth." That is what the fox does when pursued by the hounds. That is what she did, a 1950's beauty( a decade older than I was)and debutant who  appeared on the cover of Life Magazine, exemplifying the "Audrey Hepburn look,"with a spread inside the magazine showing her jaw- droppingly elegant Atlanta debut. There was a 50's style paparratzi response which drove her to a little run-down cottage on St. Simon's Island (that was in the days when there actually were little run-down cottages there)where she worked in her garden, never wore make-up,and no one ever thought of her as rich, or social or beautiful. Going to earth. Literally.

And Jack triggered the" hunter and hunted" in people, too.  Wealthy from his own genius before 25, owner of a magnificent, almost mythical house, cars in the garage that included a Maserati, and other equally absurd icons of glamor, and handsome, it goes without saying, he was the object of gossip and then some. An ocean-going sailing yacht and a beautiful wife just upped the ante.

It sounds like I am making this up, doesn't it? I assure you, I am not. This, in fact, is the tamer, more believable version of the facts.

So, it was rumored that Jack was divorced, had an unhappy marriage, and those turned out to be just rumors. I am sure that anyone that creative and driven was not necessarily the easiest person to be married to, but people who really knew him, whom I encountered in my search, say that they were happy, and that when his wife died, he truly fell apart. One day he could not stand up. Not paralyzed, he just couldn't walk, or drive or live as he had.

And so we talked, and arranged to meet in October with a mutual friend, our partner in "crime" when  we were ridiculously young. I am hoping for the best. Not for me but for Jack.

Did I mention I am thinking I am going vegan? I'll let you know how that is working out next time.

Pumping Iron, Lentils, and a Search for The Lost.

Well, I take it all back. I have sort of snickered at the idea of having a personal trainer. Never again. I thought all I wanted to do was walk on the gym treadmill when the weather was bad.  I have seen the light. I started on my arms and upper body, machines, a soupcon of free weights, and today I was able to increase the resistance and/or reps. by 40 %. I already have more energy. With time (I am doing this three times a week,) I think my rheumatoid arthritis will inhibit my knees and ankles less and less, and who knows where I can go from there? It really is a science, using breathing, body placement, and weights to gain strength and tone, and incidentally lose pounds, and I should have known it all along. Just like fewer Twinkies do not a diet make, doing more exercising the wrong way does not make a good exercise plan.

Now, to the legume recipe I mentioned previously. I started adding more legumes to my diet when I found I didn't actually have to spend time cooking them.  Kroger's began carrying a  Good Life Food product named Melissa's Lentils in the produce section. They are steamed and vacuum packed and ugly as sin. Snip the sealed 8+oz. package and dump the lumpy greenish-brownish-blackish unappetizing heap into a skillet, into which you have already put a little olive oil. So much the better if the olive oil is the kind with herbs that you use for dipping.

Add plenty of finely minced garlic (the kind that comes packed in oil in the produce department is fine) and heat on medium. You will need to break up the lentil mound and stir it around a bit. Add almost anything that strikes your fancy. Chopped sweet red and yellow peppers will improve its looks a lot. Chopped kale is good. (When isn't it?) So are chopped onions. Low sodium soy sauce is a good addition in small amounts, because lentils need some salt. If not soy, grind in a little sea salt. Andouille sausage, the vegetarian kind, is delicious. I have also used small chunks of previously cooked chicken which turns this side dish into a healthy main course.

If you spend more than five minutes on this you are trying way too hard.  And if you can't find the steamed legumes, buy a bag of the dried ones (more work but cheaper)in the aisle with the rice and pasta and follow package directions, leaving out most of the salt and all of the bacon that most packages suggest.

And now, put your best vibes into the universe so that I might find a dear, lost friend. Jack (not his name, of course)was a friend so much on the same mental plane that we almost thought as one person.  Often I repeated things to him that had happened in his past that he had never mentioned to me.  We used to joke that we didn't need a phone, and it was true. We went our separate ways when I was about thirty and went to law school, and he married a young woman who had idolized him since she was a teenager.

Years passed with only a couple of contacts, and then nothing. About a year ago, I heard that his beautiful wife had died, that it had been an unhappy marriage, and, that with her death, he became unable to walk. He was in a wheelchair for a time, but with therapy had started a slow comeback.

Finally, early this summer, I reached him on the last phone number I had for him, and we talked for a long time. I told him I would be back in town (our home town)in the fall, and I wanted to get together for lunch.  Now after unanswered emails, phone calls to a line with a filled mailbox, and every source I can think of, nothing.  I am haunted by what he said when I told him the autumn date I was hoping we could get together: "That's such a long time. For me, at least."

Vibes have worked  before.

A One Muu-Muu Girl in a Two Muu-Muu World

I have just come back from a week of visiting some of my husband's family in the Palm Beach area.
That t.v. show thinks it captures desperation, isolation and bizarre behavior "Under the Dome"? Oh, Stephen King, you know not what of you write, you poor innocent.

For starters, no vegetables, no fruits. Ever. One relative who went to the grocery store to supply us, knowing that my husband and I ate oddly, came back having "bought out the store," in his words.
A box of sliced mushrooms and a bag of shredded iceburg lettuce. That follows a family rule of always having the one least qualified do the job. Who always picks the restaurant, and here I have to interject that they eat out every single night...so...  The restaurant picker?  Steak and potatoes man. Always,  Except, wait.  Sometimes Italian, as long as there is plenty of breading and sauce. And then back to steak and potatoes.

And I am sorry to sound ungrateful, because I was able to eat well on someone else's dime. Scallops a couple of times, salmon once, and my horde of fruit and veggies from the local Publix which I visited within minutes of hitting the house. The good news, I lost weight. I didn't have to pay for a comfy room. Like the rest of the house, our room was apparently magically transported from Connecticut, their residence many, many years ago, with all the furnishings completely unable to be touched by anything that might be damp, sandy or beach related.  Not quite as dramatic as the former house which had pale marble floors that spotted if so much as a single drop of water hit them, where I ran behind two little kids, in from the beach, leaving God forbid wet footprints on the floor. The beach was literally right outside the door.  And the sofa was suede. Suede for God's sake!

So, I took, along with a lot of eating-out type clothing, a single muu-muu. A muu-muu sweats up fast and has to be removed and laundered immediately before it touches a piece of furniture, which limits comfy, sit around type clothing. A muu-muu is never worn outside of the house, except when I wore mine to the beach and on a hike through the nature preserve next door, home to many enormous spiders ("You should see them in another month. That's when they are really big.") so one muu-muu would have seemed enough, but next time, two. The other two female members of this ensemble, wore skirts to dinner and at all other hours of the day, and in one, perhaps both instances, nylons.  I have always been the only female among all the family extensions, to wear slacks, for anything, ever. The late patriarch did not approve of women wearing slacks, but because he so deeply disapproved of me for so many reasons, adding slacks did not seem as if it would matter. Now his portrait just gazes  down from the wall disapprovingly.

And yet these are really nice people. I like them as I tastelessly criticize them, and forgive them for not noticing that I have lost sixty pounds since I saw them last. And as for my venting in this blog, I promise to come back with a wonderful recipe for lentils. I made it tonight, and it was better than anything I had in any restaurant that had the words "steak house" in its name.

Now That My Husband Has Shown Me How The Iron Works, I Am Feeling Empowered

Why is it, no matter where I am going, no matter how far in advance I have known about the trip, I am always packing right down to the moment of departure?  Why did I decide to wear a shirt on the plane that requires ironing? Well, I know the answer to that one, at least.  It's because that shirt  happens to look good on me, and I want to make an entrance, more or less.  I vowed I would get down to the next weight "decade" before this trip to my mother-in-law's, then lamented because I was sure I couldn't make that goal, then I did make it, minus a couple more pounds to boot, so I very unwisely ate a  wonderful Greek dinner from Nic's in Marietta tonight and am praying that I don't regret it tomorrow in oh so many ways.

So now I have lost 60 some pounds, and I have to get serious.  I met with a personal trainer this morning who works at the gym I belong to, and I have seen the future. It is filled with gray and red machines that look as if they are just waiting around for a casting call for a new sci-fi movie being filmed in Atlanta. Actually, it was a good experience.  Chris (the trainer) did not talk down to me which is a major plus for him, since so many people think it is perfectly OK to talk to anyone over 65 with gray hair as if they are about to enter kindergarten.  None of "young lady" crap, which makes me furious.  Oh, let's call attention to the obvious, why don't we. And I call them on it too. They shouldn't think I find it charming when what I find it is condescending and trite. I do not mince words, which I would do if I were charming. 

 After this week out of town, I will put my newfound info on how to tone my biceps and triceps, to use with regular trips to the gym.  The flesh of my upper arms, while no longer really fat, look like the folded wings of a bat. I didn't foresee tank tops in my future, but this is a bit more hideous than I had expected.

Back to "charming." My friend Kay, she of the face lift, said to me at breakfast the other day, "Yuh know, (she's from Jersey)neither of us are charming. Or is it 'is charming.' I can never get that straight." She was having breakfast, as I said. It is her favorite meal, and it happened to be in the middle of the day. Lox, bagels cream cheese, scrambled eggs loaded with cheese and fried potatoes in huge chunks. I should mention she was putting the lox (raw smoked salmon, for you uninitiated out there) and cream cheese (a schmear) on a cinnamon raisin bagel. Maybe I should repeat that: a cinnamon raisin bagel, for God's sake. And drinking coffee with seven packets of sweetener and cut with half a cup of milk. Who needs to make up characters for a book?

Now that my husband has shown me how the iron works, I am feeling empowered. I would iron more things if I didn't have to get up so early to make the plane.

My weight finally fell below the old,(as in really, really old) fibbed weight on my driver's license, and I was feeling smug.

In case you were wondering, Wally's back home, and his family is much relieved. His "mom" had cried so long and hard that she had broken blood vessels in her eyes, He - lucky for him-  lived in a close knit neighborhood, and one of his neighbors spotted his picture on the flyers my daughter had posted and called his owners. His name was Tobey (not as good as Wally, in my opinion) and he had zipped out of a hastily closed gate that didn't latch. He took with him, on his return, two luxurious dog beds, one he had occupied while visiting, and one for his "sister," a couple of chicken toys and a bag of tennis balls.

 He had charm to spare and was hard to part with, but it was the right thing to take him home, especially to an obviously loving family. If his home had not been kind, I think Wally would have mysteriously disappeared. I am definitely not above that.

It was an odd weekend, food wise.  Saturday started off unusually early, and I was starving when we stopped for breakfast at a biscuit joint favored by my family. Somewhere between the banjo band and the picnic table in the gravel parking lot, I ate a heavenly, freshly made, buttermilk biscuit topped by an egg, further topped by runny, gooey cheese.  I didn't order the cheese, but hey, that's how it came and that's how I ate it. Sunday night brought my husband's grilled burgers and baked beans, and just let me say that he is the best burger maker in the Western hemisphere, at least the Southern part of the Northern part of that hemisphere.

I was feeling rather smug, because for the first time in my memory, my weight on the bathroom scale matched the weight on my driver's license. And that was a pretty old  license, since they let you endlessly renew, using the same data.

Of course they tell you to update your info, but who does that? I haven't had to show my driver's license in twenty years, except when I bought beer at the ball park, and really, who takes that seriously? So, my weight dipped below that number, probably a little white lie originally, but only for a precious moment, because this morning it was a pound above. So I hoofed it through my neighborhood with renewed vigor, and I intend to have the pound erased by my Wednesday weigh-in day. 

Unfortunately, tomorrow night is dinner with an out of town (do Hong Kong and London qualify as out-of-town in the true sense?) colleague of my husband's. As are many in his TV related business, she is preternaturally thin and blond and we are going to a semi-chic spot frequented by other thin blondes, male and female.  The good part! The menu includes "small plates," which I thought meant tapas, where you order several small plates of food that add up to a dinner, but I think in this case, they may just have really small china, aimed at a trendy, thin clientele who want to stay that way and aren't in to leftovers.

I'll let you know, if you're interested, or even if you aren't.

He nonchalantly scratched his left ear...and strolled over to pee on the hydrangeas. "Mom, meet Wally."

He had ridden shot gun all the way cross town, his long legs folded into the coupe's little seat, and when he awkwardly stepped out onto the gravel driveway, he stumbled. He scratched his left ear nonchalantly with his long hind foot and strolled over to pee on the hydrangeas that lined the driveway as if to say, "I didn't really stumble.  I meant to do that all along."

"Mom, meet Wally," my daughter said.  A half an hour earlier, she called on her cell to tell me that she was bring a "temporary guest" home whom she had found running on a busy road in the heat, obviously in need of assistance.

"Wally?" I asked. "Is that his name?"

"Probably not. No tags, of course. I went by the vet to see if he was chipped. No luck. But doesn't he look like a Wally?"

When she called  and told me she was headed home with a friend in tow, Where's Waldo immediately popped into my mind, red striped shirt and all. Wally was wearing a collar with red striped tape wound around it.

"I kinda thought he was a Waldo," I said, "but Wally's good." I come from a long line of animal whisperers, and more than once have rescued a nameless, tagless dog whose owners have claimed it and called it by the same name I had assigned to it, or something very close. And not run of the mill dog names like Fido or Spot, either, but Margaret, or one time,  Larry.

"I'll advertise for his owner tomorrow. It's too late today," my daughter said. Wally sat. He climbed the front steps, went straight into the den and lay before the fireplace. He politely ate the food he was offered, although he was obviously hungry, drank water like  he was dying of thirst, and took a nap. Later, he picked up a Croc garden clog and when offered a chicken dog toy, made an effort to stuff the chicken into the shoe, presenting the shoe and chicken gift package to my husband when he came to check on the visitor.

We have a long history in my family of having sad, lost canine visitors become permanent residents when they were unclaimed, and inevitably they turned into treasures we could not imagine life without. Wally looks a lot like Greta, snatched off a dangerous road in a snowstorm. Wet, starved, freezing and unable to walk, that leggy black dog was wrapped in blankets and carried into our warm kitchen to breathe her last. A couple of years later, a very elderly Greta did indeed breathe her last, but not until she had gained enough life and breath to dance like a circus stiltwalker when she saw one of us come down the steps in the morning.

So tomorrow we will see if the signs with Wally's photo yield any results, but anyone who calls will face some stern questioning. Wally will not go to anyone who can't identify his odd little markings, his distinctive collar and other attributes.  He may have dropped in on us at a woefully inconvenient time, but he didn't plan it that way. And the blessings of fate are seldom conveniently timed to fit into our plans.

The Butcher of Church Street Has My Number

I've mentioned before that my friend Kay has been urging me to visit her plastic surgeon. First of all, if you can get the words "my," "plastic," and "surgeon"into the same sentence, you have way too much time and money on your hands and need to find a better hobby than yourself. Nevertheless when I was visiting my dermatologist The Butcher of Church Street today, I looked in a hand mirror to check out what he and his comely assistant were doing to my neck, and I thought of Kay.

"Butcher, honey, can you do anything about these lines?" I asked, pointing to the parentheses on either side of my mouth. "Something non-invasive?" The Butcher sprang to life, and as if by magic whipped out a needle befitting a horse vet. His eyes popped out even more than usual, and he said "You would be perfect for a little filler," and he produced some brochures showing women looking like Droopy Dawg in one photo,  transformed  into cravasse-free starlets in the follow up picture.

" 'Filler' " sounds a little, well, like landscaping," I said. "Dirt. Backfill." The Butcher chuckled and pursed his lips.

"Not at all,'  he chuckled. "It lasts a couple of years, no lumping or clumping, and the bruising goes away in forty-eight hours. Seventy-two at the most."

"Seventy-two, hmmm?" I could feel myself pondering. That's just what the landscaper said, minus the part about the bruising, and in the first hard rain, half the terracing washed right down into the street. Would this filler run down into my chin, making me look like Jay Leno's sister?

"Come in for a consult," he said. "I know you would love it." Snip snip,  he continued to cut off the tiny moles and skin tags that gave my neck that lizard-like glow.

"I'll be gone for a couple of weeks," I said.  Just like buying a house.  They say when you think about where you would put your furniture, you've as good as bought the place.

"Do it when you come back from your trip, you'll look 15, even 20 years younger for your reunion."

Ba-zinggg! We had discussed upcoming reunions earlier, his 40th and my 50th, and now he was playing me like a violin. It was like using insider trading to rack 'em up on the big board.

"I'll think about it," I said, sounding unconvinced.

"No charge for consults," he countered.

"You shouldn't write about this stuff," Kay said later. "Now, everybody will know."

"First of all, 'everybody' does not accurately describe my blog readership, and what do I have to hide? I don't care if people know."

"Not about you, about me, Dummy," Kay huffed.

"I never used your last name in my blog," I said. "Anyway, even your husband didn't notice your lift."

"The dog did. She barked at me for a whole day. It's beginning to need a re-do. Been almost five years."

If I had a lift like Kay's that cost as much as my last car, I would want to shine it up and take it for a spin around the block so everyone could admire it. The best that we do is go to IHop once a month so she can get the "Two,Two,Two,"or rather the "Dos, Dos, Dos," since she prefers the IHop on Buford Highway. And a five year life-span? No. Absolutely not.  How many trips to Europe would that be?

But filler? I'll have to think about it.

Is That a Fractal in Your Guacamole?

Why do I always think that a busy week will yield a calmer weekend, and I won't be struggling at the last minute on Sunday night to write my blog. This past week had three things I like best: visiting with my daughter, this time antiquing and eating, two other things I like a lot; opera and dinner with my husband; and attending my son's ice hockey game, followed by more eating.

I have tried to be disciplined about my eating, so as not to backslide, but as anyone knows, that's anything but easy. Most of the food was pub stuff, and even the salads were pretty hefty. The post hockey game meal was at a chain restaurant that sort of intrigues me. Chipotle's Mexican Grill.  No kitchy pseudo-Mexican decor. Wood, cement, stainless steel, and a pass-on-down the line kind of service.

And in a disposable bowl (it could have been edible, for all I know) the biggest heap of...things... that could loosely be associated with Mexican cuisine. Very loosely. Rice. Brown and white (?) Corn that looked a lot like canned corn to me. Red and black beans. A very liquid sour cream. Several interpretations of beef, some chicken, salsa, chopped lettuce, and the brightest green guacamole I have ever seen in my life. It looked like a St.Patrick's Day take on guacamole. Each ingredient was piled atop the one preceding it by a cheery young person wielding an ice cream scoop, until it was all topped with a mountain of guacamole.

I'm not saying it was bad.  First of all, it was cheap, and I was starving and numb with cold, having spent the previous two and half hours, or more, sitting in a freezing ice arena that apparently was relying on the air conditioning system to keep the ice from melting.

No, it wasn't bad. I read recently that chopped salads, such as Cobb salads, are all the rage now, and this was sort of a chopped salad take on ...something or other. It also wasn't Mexican. And I have to admit that there is probably a place for non-food like Chipotle serves.  I just wish that customers wouldn't go away thinking they had eaten Mexican food, that this is what Mexican food tastes like, and that the belly up to the trough approach is good enough for an ancient and wonderful cuisine we are popularizing right out of existence.

When I was thinking through this blog last night, my wakeful three a.m. brain  somehow connected what I had eaten with the Fibunacci sequence, that series of numbers that some physicists see has the hand of God in the universe, creating the whorls in the center of a sunflower, which are repeated in the pattern of galaxies and pine cones and endless other things, but tonight, I can't really see the hand of God in that bowl full of indistinguishable stuff. Now maybe Cobb salad and fractals  have a connection, but I won't let it keep me awake.

One Things Leads to Another

Today was  glorious, sunny and nearly cool, a day to be out doors, so of course the t.v. programming had to be at odds, broadcasting the only things I want to see during the day.  The morning started with the Tour de France, an amazing climb over the Pyrenees, and picked up at noon with a Jane Austen marathon on Ovation.  Oh agony!  Tues., the Tour heads to the Alps for more amazing athleticism and scenery, and I will have to be there, since it is only three weeks of the year. 

If you want to read some great writing, just go to page 7 of the New York Times Sunday Sports , 7/14/13 by James Dao on the Tour, byline Lyon:

           They are among the most dangerous 200 yards in sports, a rolling scrum of carbon fiber  

     machines carrying men wearing nothing nothing nothing but Lyrca at speeds greater than 

     forty miles an hour (me: they hit 60.) Shoulders bump, tempers flare, handlebars knock. When

    crashes occur, they are skin-tearing, bone crunching affairs."

What a gorgeous country. The little villages, with their creamy stone and twisting streets...  They bring back wonderful memories of "barging" with our children on the Yonne River and canals in Burgundy many summers ago. Their barges are river boats, nicely fitted with bedrooms and small but very adequate bathrooms, a galley kitchen, sitting area, and best of all, an open deck with a dining table and chairs, and bicycles. Hitting the land amounted to only pulling over to the shore, pounding in a stake and tying up with a rope and throwing down a wide plank - we literally walked the plank every time we wanted to visit land.

The children biked down beautiful tree lined lanes into villages to buy fruit, bread and yogurt for breakfast, and we visited markets along the way to find fresh vegetables and dinner.  No matter that the children did not speak French. Everywhere, they were treated with such generosity and kindness that they gained confidence in their language skills.

This was not the luxury barge that comes with a captain. We "drove" it, children included, at a grand five miles an hour maximum, and learned to navigate locks, usually with an attendant. Passing through locks was a requirement that kept me terrified after our son fell off the boat into the icy water, with tons of barge drifting toward him and the stone walls. In the rain. In the almost-dark. Drenching completely his only heavy, warm sweatsuit.  He brags about it to this day. Tie up time was 7 p.m., but the cloud filled skies and driving rain the first day or so made early evening feel like late night.

And then, in the morning, the sun came out and the fishermen returned to the river to provide a catch for the close by inns, snails crept over the paths to town (dinner, perhaps?) and the evenings were long and light filled. No electronics. Only us and the river and the beauty all around us.

Thanks for letting me reminisce. And an hors d'oeuvre I might suggest: Buy a head of endive lettuce, pull off the individual spear shaped leaves, wash and gently pat dry.  Make a couscous (plenty of quick cook or mixes in the store)and add raisins and small peanut halves, some finely chopped fresh tomato and parsley.  You may want to make the couscous a little wetter than you would ordinarily.  Pack it into the endive spears and refrigerate.  That's all there is to it, and it is wonderful.  A magazine on sale right now, the August volume of  Real Simple, has a  great selection of kebabs, miles away from the tired steak/onion/something or other kebabs that are usually part of the grilling vocabulary.

And Happy Bastille Day !

Why Losing Weight Is Not Like George Clooney

I decided to divide this blog into two parts because as I wrote it in my mind, it grew longer and longer until even I didn't want to read that much of my writing at one sitting

This has been a busy week (I count weeks from weigh in to weigh in, or Wednesday to Wednesday.)  I was fearing the worst, since I had that Margarita and strawberry shortcake on my son's birthday, and I am still expecting the other calories to drop when I get on the scale in the mornings. There was enough sugar in those strawberries and that shortcake to give a moose a diabetic coma, and I did attempt portion control, but you know how that is. And the Margarita was small, but the guacamole and chips that went with it weren't really all that small, even though they were heavenly, so I expected to pay.

If I am going to pay, it's down the road, I guess, because I have lost two more pounds and those two pounds crossed me over the great divide between just barely having lost half my intended weight and being on the path to having it all behind me, so to speak.  Of course it will never be over. This much weight, and at my age, writes my story for me.  Every day and every day....

A friend of my approximate age lamented her failure to lose as much as she had hoped after she did everything Weight Watchers asked of her.  In fact, a couple of times she gained. That's the hard sad truth of losing when you are dealing with something as complicated as the human body, complicated still further by age. Weight loss is not a descending line on a graph, although that's what the W.W. graph indicates.  It is more like the spiral used to explain learning.

 And it is learned. The body is learning how to use fewer calories, how to process exercise, how, in fact, to think differently. Would you be upset with yourself if you took up a new language, had to master grammar, vocabulary and syntax, and then couldn't immediately write  the story you want to tell?  I want to tell her she is writing her new story, in a new language, and it demands all of her skills,  so she can be proud even if she hasn't lost as quickly and easily as when she was twenty-five.  Who among us can do anything as quickly and easily as we did at twenty-five? And if we thought about it, we probably wouldn't want to, either.  Well, maybe we would, but that would make for a boring life.

We'd have to hang around with George Clooney and the other Peter Pans of the world, which would definitely be fun at first, but, as a legion of lovelies can attest, even that gets old, just like George.

The South of France - It's Yours, and You Can Have Your Strawberry Shortcake, Too

I haven't shared any holiday recipes with you because, other than Thanksgiving, I'm not really into holiday cooking all that much. For the Fourth, I believe in corn on the cob and lots of strawberry shortcake (below) and that is about it.  Corn on the cob should have an unhealthy amount of butter and salt.  

There is only one way to make shortcake:  You follow the recipe on the back of the Bisquick box, which makes a good, unsweet, warm on the inside and slightly brown on the outside, short bread-like cake after about 12 minutes baking time. It should be baked in a round cake pan and sliced ( Count on four servings per pan, after seconds. It's that good.)while still warm.  Put a piece of shortbread in an individual  bowl and pour on an absurd amount of  chilled fresh strawberries and their juice that you have mashed (potato masher works best)in a big bowl (you'll need several quarts of strawberries) with white sugar, until you have undone all the merits of the fresh fresh fruit.  Do not dilute with ice cream, whipped cream, or anything else. Sink into a stupor and watch the fireworks from an Adirondack chair in your back yard. If there is any shortcake and strawberries left over, it's great for breakfast, very cold. Then you can return to your diet. It's a great country.

We aren't having strawberry shortcake on the Fourth this year. We are waiting for two days and having it, instead of a cake, for our son's birthday two days later, when our family will be together. Our son is not into cakes. Growing up, he wanted tiramisou(which I may have misspelled here,) which is pretty easy to make, but this year, we are back to shortcake.

Tomorrow, many people from around here will run in the Peachtree Road Race. We used to turn out to cheer, and it was fun, but this year I have a truly hedonistic pleasure to start the day. I am a huge fan, a glutton for, The Tour de France, as it is televised (daily for 3 fabulous weeks) on NBC Sports, which is something like Comcast Channel 45 and 845 in Hi-def, which is what Hi-def was made for. 

 I am not a fan of cycling. The rules are complex and beyond my knowledge, it is a sport much abused in the name of money, and frankly, I don't care who wins or how. What I care about is the t.v. cameras poking into the fields of hay being harvested by teams of horses, the village cheese fairs, and then in a swoop, up above the intricately tiled rooftops of a sixteenth century chateau by helicopter, then down again into fields of lavender and sunflowers, and once again up and over a fourteenth century basilica as the peleton of two hundred flying, colorful riders snakes past on a winding road.

  Through several mountain ranges, along seasides, and through villages and cities, it's a dream of motion and color. Tomorrow, it begins the day in the countryside of Vincent Van Gogh, Aix-en-Provence. The first three days (it began last Saturday) covered the mountains and coasts of  Corsica. As always, it will end in Paris, this time (the 100th race) as the lights come on at twilight on the Eiffle Tower.

 I hope you join me. 

Aspirational Pants, Fairy Tale Mushrooms and Old Dogs

Something I've noticed about extreme weight loss: it occupies you mentally and physically 24/7. In this way, it's a lot like pregnancy. You may not be actively doing anything at a given moment, but your state of being is totally engrossed in The Thing That is Going On. It has also made me forgetful, just like the pregnancy stupidity that comes over every pregnant woman at one point or another, where you find yourself saying, "I said what?" and "When exactly did I say I wanted the bedroom painted purple?" The latter said, of course when you come home and find that your husband has painted the bedroom for you as an anniversary surprise, and you hate purple.  Really, really hate it. Although apparently not on the day he was actually listening to you for once and decided to act on your wishes. But I digress.

Anyway, the past week, when I haven't blogged, I have waited for repair people (another thing that also can totally absorb you, just like pregnancy) and lost weight. So the two pairs of aspirational pants I ordered because they were on sale and I would eventually hit that size, now fit, two weeks after I received them, which is much sooner than I expected.  Sooner, not in terms of their arrival, but

of my weight redistribution. 

And redistribution is what it is, because five pounds less would not have gotten me into those pants, much less into them and then sitting down, two weeks ago. The first things to visibly reduce when I began this trek, were my hands and feet, followed by my neck.

 I have many cute pairs of shoes that flop off when I walk, and no rings that fit without danger of dropping off. I decided to buy myself a plain gold band as a substitute for my no longer fitting wedding band until I finally settle on a ring size that makes resizing worthwhile. Not that  think I am in any sort of immediate jeopardy from a drooling male population by not wearing a wedding ring, although one of my regular Publix checkers, the one with whom I usually discuss home remodeling and the ins and outs of sheet rock, did say "Lookin' good !" the other day. True,  he is nearly blind and half deaf, but I must admit I was flattered.

Walking twice a day and sweating through all of it has no doubt helped with the pounds lost. I joined a gym as a backup in the meantime, the same one I dropped out of long ago.  My intent was - still is -  to walk there mid - day as well as my neighborhood walks morning and evening, but honestly, who has the time? I can't give up neighborhood walks unless the weather gets truly terrible. The big antlered stag who comes to the edge of the neighbor's lawn in the evening and looks intently up and down the street before crossing into my woods, followed by a doe and two fawns, is worth any inclement weather on earth.  So is the startled and amazed looking chipmunk who popped up on the curb as I approached this morning and then dived into the ivy as I passed, or the somewhat incensed appearing toad, who hopped down the cottage driveway in front of me, to be joined by another, half as large (perhaps barely topping an inch) also dressed in leaf brown  camo. The mix of wildlife on my route is soul stirring.

And there are toadstools. Bright red, polka dotted, fairy tale toadstools, and lavender wildflowers, and, more cultivated, gardenia hedges and rose of sharon trees (who knew they grew that big?)My neighbor dog Molly, dragging her person behind her, thinks it is a race and does her best to stay ahead of me when we happen to take our evening walks at the same time. Molly wins every time, and I don't have to throw the race results, although Molly is an old dog, showing white around her big beagle-y ears. She isn't the only old dog in the race, I guess, but she doesn't know it, and that is indeed a very good thing.

 

Like So Many Things, I Meant to Do This Last Week

I have a great recipe for a low-cal, impressive looking and delicious dinner that is ready in a flash. it has several easy versions - you pick.

Before you start: you will need shrimp or sea scallops, or chicken. For the sea food, you can buy large bags of frozen shrimp or scallops at Wal-Mart, Costco and  at some grocery stores.  Take out five or six large scallops per person, and you will have to judge the shrimp according to the size.  Thaw scallops at the last minute if you need to by running cool water over them in a collander for five minutes or so. You can put the shrimp into boiling water to cook quickly,  as long as you don't over cook, and then remove shells once they have cooled.

Other things you will need: a light vegetable oil, or rice oil; kale (of course;) soy sauce or teriyake, small sweet peppers in various colors (bags of red, orange, yellow and purple can be found in the grocery store fresh veggie department;) teriyake or soy sauce; and quinoa. Let me explain quinoa. if you haven't been introduced.

Quinoa ( pronounced keen-wa) looks and acts a lot like a grain, especially rice.  It is actually a pseudocereal, related to spinach. It is rich in calcium and iron, and can be found in the grocery store rice aisle , either in the slow cooking form or the 90 second quick-cooking pouches.  The company that makes those is called Seeds of Change, and makes Quinoa and Brown Rice with garlic. You will cook one pouch for two or three servings, just before you layer the chicken or seafood mixture on top to serve.

A word about the teriyake or soy sauce.  These are highly salty and you don't want much, but either makes an excellent flavoring. As for the cooking oil, don't use enough that you need to blot the oil from your fish or seafood. And don't use a spray oil.  The scallops, especially have a very delicate flavor, and absorb other flavors, and you don't want them to taste like chemical propellant.  

For scallops:You will want to use a non-stick pan, ten inches or more, and preferably two inches deep. You can use a shallower saute pan if you must. Very lightly coat the pan with a little oil. Cut at least six small peppers into thin strips and begin to saute them in the oil, but be sure the skillet temperature is medium is set to medium to medium high. You can add water if anything seems to be sticking. 

Tear up pieces of kale into bite size pieces. Put in the scallopsin a single layer and add the kale. Lightly sprinkle soy sauce or teriyake. The scallops will need to cook only a couple of minutes on each side, just until they are lightly browned and the centers are opaque.The kale will be soft and the peppers will have started to brown.

For shrimp:  Toss the cleaned and shelled shrimp  in the pan with your kale and peppers for a few minutes to very lightly brown. Sprinkle a little teriyake or soy sauce over the mixture and stir.

For chicken: Cut raw chicken breasts into small chunks and toss them in a deep skillet in a little oil, with a sprinkling of teriyake or soy sauce. No breading, please. I always make lots more chicken than I need for that one meal because the chunks make it easy to serve the 3 ounce sized amounts that Weight Watchers specifies for a single portion.

Once your meat or fish and pepper mix is cooked, immediately spread it over the serving of quinoa on the plate and serve. For a salad, use your imagination. I would suggest  mandarin orange sections and spring onions (use some of the green tops) with bacon bits (just a few go a very long way.)

If you want a really great pan, I suggest the green enamel no stick skillet advertised on t.v. ads. I have had expensive French enamel cast iron kitchen ware, and this is better, and lots cheaper. I bought mine at Bed Bath and Beyond. They have great coupon discounts. I know it is non-stick, but the light coating of oil adds a little flavor and color.

Don't think of these dishes as suitable only for  company. And not only for grown-ups. Kids need to eat subtle sophisticated food, too, and they often need to have small amounts offered repeatedly before they will try it. Something like twenty times. No "eeeuw's." Just a "no, thank you" will do, but it stays on the plate until dinner is over. Don't even get me started on "plates" and the concept of "dinner."The chicken version is perfect for this. Nuggets, you know.

Summer Smoothies - Low in Calories, High In Nutrition and Kids Love 'Em

When you or your children want a summer drink, give' em kale!  I'm serious!  You can incorporate every nutritious fruit and veggie into smoothies,  and they can look and taste like a raspberry freeze or a banana/strawberry frosty.  All without sugar, artificial sweeteners or any other bad stuff.  In these examples I use a Magic Bullet because I love it, and it works wonderfully.   

1/2 cup blueberries, 3 or four cored strawberries, small handfull red raspberries, a couple of  kale leaves or several baby spinach leaves, and water.  That's all. No yogurt. You can add a sprinkle of flax seeds to increase the nutrition benefits. Layer the ingredients in the Magic Bullet mug.  I usually use the greens on top to press down the fruit, just because it is easier and less messy, and add a half teaspoon or so of seeds or nuts if allergies are not an issue, and a splash of tap water. With practice you will learn how thick or thin you want it. Screw the mug on top of the blade and onto the base, press down on the mug and in a few seconds you have a bright pink smoothie that can be refrigerated and that adults and kids will like, and more importantly, will drink and boost their immune systems .

If you have kids who would like a monster shake, use pineapple, banana, a few slices of a cored pear or apple, a few blueberries and some kale.  This will make a delicious green shake for those who find charm in green eggs in ham, or green beer and pancakes if they are somewhat older. 

You can use most any blender and any fruit combo that catches your fancy. Try watermelon, peaches and nectarines, peeled oranges or tangerines. Other greens? Try avocado, Swiss chard, mixed greens.  Avoid making a bigger batch than you plan to use in a short time, because if the drink sits, you lose vitamins.

I have purposely avoided adding yogurt for several reasons.  Much of it, even plain, low fat, has artificial sweeteners, it causes "belly bloat" in many adults, and any dairy can taste awful in just a little while in the summer heat. You certainly won't miss it, and the fruit, veggie nut and seed mix is the optimum anti-oxident energy combination.

One of these a day will be plenty, so although fresh fruits can be relatively expensive, nothing is more expensive than junk. The fat cells you or your kids make now will beg to be fed for the rest of your lives, even if you later lose weight. Did you know that if your optimum weight is 150 and you go up to 250, and later go back down to 150, you will never be able to consume as much food without adding pounds as the 150 pounder who has stayed there? You will metabolize calories differently forever once your body has carried and nourished those fat cells. Makes you think. I know I am pretty well consigned to a life of lettuce.

Whew!

The ounces that jumped on the other day bailed after about a day of heavy walking and sweating, so I feel cheerier. When that little bit of fat rejoined the party, I began walking twice a day, and while that may not have been enough to lose the weight, I think determination and intent are definitely worth something, and the early evenings have even been more beautiful than the mornings. 

The past two evenings, a lovely doe has delicately stepped out of the yard across the street, crossed, and then skipped up my daughter's driveway and into the back woods. A sight of something so beautiful and wild makes you hold your breath, her presence an honor in the pale twilight.

My daughter is in every way a critter whisperer, and I fully expect to see the doe paying her a call before heading into the woodsy night, but so far the most she has done is munch some ivy and gaze at my daughter as she watched from a window. Only a matter of time, I expect.

I've missed so much these years, remaining inside in the early evenings. A family of rabbits lives in a good sized stand of yuccas down the street and comes out to play in the grass when the sun is slanted low. My gardening neighbor is out tending his magically mixed crop of flowers and vegetables, pleased to report on the latest reading of the rain gauge, and the lady who has worked at my local Kroger's for twenty some years is walking her  elderly little dogs, one nearly blind but  thrilled to be petted and then sniff her way along the street.

The half year mark (coming in three days) of this fierce attack on my weight is making me assess my next six months very intently. Can I really lose fifty-five pounds in that time? I lost forty-five pounds in the first six, and some of that was easy, water weight. Really, I wanted to lose the remainder in four months, not six - reunion time - but I don't think that is realistic, now.  Maybe not realistic in six.

Harder exercise would help, but although exercise helps rheumatoid arthritis, that disease limits a lot . No floor exercises, for one thing. And no  impact. The yoga I did at one time would help, I suppose, but I can't find the balance or the nerve. Tai chi sounds like just the ticket, and maybe I can find someplace near where it is taught, but I don't think it does much for weight loss.

The twenty-four hour gym near me will probably get me as a member once more.  I was a drop-out long ago, because my weight was just too exhausting to haul on a treadmill, but now that I am walking outdoors, walking inside in some air conditioning in the middle of the day might be OK, as long as I don't abandon my little street morning and night. Exercising three times a day means I may have to cut out a few other things, but they probably aren't so important right now, any way. The gym is cheap and plain, my criterion for an OK gym, and nobody wears stylish exercise clothes, another important element. I am going to give it some thought.

Say It Ain't So

This morning, the scale paid me back for  my previous merriment by crossing my mystical weight line (referred to just a few days ago) in reverse and adding about a half pound for good measure. I know there is no immediate retribution for a meal the previous day, but I still blame the Mongolian Beef, even though I ate only about a tablespoon on just a little couscous. Maybe it was that little, tiny bit I sampled earlier to see if it  really did go with couscous, since I was purposely out of white rice. And maybe it was because I didn't make the  Mongolian Beef myself (why would I, when Kroger's deli does it so well?) and it was, well, shall I say, really sweet.

Now, today is Father's Day, and of course that means food. I chose a lunch that my husband would like and which I would never eat and which would require almost no work: a spread of deli selections, mustards, breads and some stuff to put on top, like lettuce, tomatoes and avacado.

My husband almost never eats sandwiches.  When he's home at lunchtime, he makes himself a big salad.  When he takes a meal to work (he works on Hong Kong time, so lunch is in the middle of the night) he takes a salad and an apple, or maybe just raw veggies.  So you can see what I have to work with, and also why he looks about fifteen years younger than I do. 

A rare roast beef on rye is a big deal, which makes cooking easy today.  Another thing that makes it easy is that we are eating this meal at The Cottage at Possum Ramble, which is not some chic little inn but the house next door, which my husband and daughter are remodeling. Our merriment, if you can call it that, will consist of admiring the potlights which he recently installed in the kitchen ceiling, and the fine drywall work by our daughter, when she repaired the kitchen ceiling after my husband put his foot through it, installing said potlights.

Then there is the new ceiling fan in the den, the previous one removed for looking like it belonged in a bordello. This fan is on a dimmer - no lights, but the fan speeds can be frequently and endlessly changed, to the installer's amusement.

I can't blame food eaten at the movies last night, because I didn't line up at the concession stand or take anything with me. Popcorn, even without the grease they put on it, is not a diet food, you know. No virtue even if you eat plain, air popped corn at home. It's pure starch, people! It turns to sugar as fast as your salivary glands get hold of it and start to break it down. You might as well eat a basket of nachos with fake cheese on top. Actually, the thought of that sounds pretty good. I went for my walk this morning without eating. I know you are supposed to always eat breakfast, but I am holding off for lunch, or something close to lunch, and am in no danger of blowing away just yet.

Sometimes milestones come in little bits

My daughter says it is nutty to be so concerned about ounces when it's the big picture that counts, and that is exactly what I would say to her. But when there is a forty year age difference, you grab for whatever you can get, and right now, ounces matter to me. I crossed a threshold this morning, measured in ounces, and it means the world to me. It is the matter of a beginning digit in a measurement of weight that is the difference between grim fact and the light at the end of the tunnel, and I am feeling celebratory.

 I also am feeling a large  black lab crawling into my lap because there is thunder in the distance, so the next paragraph will pick up after the storm has passed.

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All is well, the storm and fearsome threats have passed, and Ava once again has all fours on the floor.
Yesterday or so I brought up the subject of sweet potatoes. Or yams, whichever name you prefer.
I will begin by reminding you that I am not a nutritionist or dietician, not a chef, and I am writing about only what I have experienced and researched. Most of the details of calories counts, nutritional values and diet plans I leave to you to look up on your own. Google is a simple and wonderful thing.   This is just what I know from the results I have had. That said, just let me tell you that sweet potatoes are a wonderful thing.

No, not the orange lumpy stuff surrounded by marshmallows at Thanksgiving. If you like that, it is your business, and I won't interfere other than to say, "Please, tell me you aren't serious!" OK, so they remind you of home and Mom and warm and fuzzy things. You are a grown up. Move on.

Put a washed big, ugly sweet potato in the microwave after stabbing it four or five times with a sharp knife. (The s.p., not the microwave ) Set your microwave on the baked potato setting, and if you can't easily pierce the potato all the way through when the thing goes 'ding,' turn the s.p. over and  run  the baked potato setting once again for about two minutes. If you use a standard oven, cook it however you cook a large Idaho potato.

I use a large soup bowl and slice the s.p. in half lengthwise, putting the halves side by side. Mash the potato insides with a fork, just as you would a regular potato. Salsa makes a wonderful filling, as does plain yogurt, vegetarian chili, tzatziki (plain Greek yogurt with garlic and chopped cucumbers,) and tabouleh, (chopped parsley, lemon juice, mint, cucumber and sometimes tomato.) The last two foods can be bought at COSTCO, Whole Foods, or easily made from the many recipes on-line. They are low calorie, healthful staples that make wonderful sauces for meat, fish, and almost everything else.

The great thing about a sweet potato is that it is filling, nutritious, and not fattening. It is a good main course or a side dish, and you can even put chopped kale in it. What more could you ask for?

Kale By Request...

Monday was lost, I considered waiting until Wednesday to post again, but then that is always weigh-in day, which tends to dominate, and people have been so nice and downright enthusiastic about kale and asking for recipes and all, which made me think that Tues. was a good day for a kale salad recipe.

I am not really into following recipes, unless they are for a delicately balanced or very complex dish, and I always assume that no one else is much interested in plain recipes either, but I am finding this is not true.  I have had a lot of requests for things to do with kale, and I am about as unqualified in the chef department as you can get, except that I eat a lot of kale. I also serve many foods uncooked, without sauces or dressings, and don't usually include animal products, if I can avoid them, so that makes it pretty simple: pick it, wash it and eat it.

 I guess what people want is some combination suggestions, so I will start off with my favorite salad.  The amounts are up to you, so you will have to experiment. I usually skip salad dressing because I think green things taste just fine without it, so if you want dressing, I suggest you put your favorite in a small bowl and just dip your fork into it as you eat. Don't pour it on and toss it. Make your own dressing, such as walnut oil and balsamic vinegar or buy one. I don't think it needs to be a diet dressing, and God forbid not a spray- on dressing. Respect your taste buds, please.

If you want to buy your greens in a bag, its OK with me, although some of the better ones won't be found in plastic.

Basic greens, in descending order of volume: Kale,  Baby Spinach, Boston or Bib Lettuce, Romaine, and Endive
Kale and Romain have body, Spinach, Bib and Boston are soft, Endive is peppery and has texture.
Do not use Iceberg lettuce. Never ever. No food value and sad.

Embellishments: Broccoli slaw(Buy this in a bag because it is a pain to cut up, even with a food processor,) Green beans, cut up, Snow peas, Broccoli florets (the more broccoli you can work in, the better)Edamame (raw green soy beans - you may have to buy these frozen)Ripe avocado,  Red onion, finely chopped, and Slivered raw almonds.

What is excluded: Cheese, (although I love it,) and all dairy,  salt and seasonings, Baco-bits, crazins or raisins, croutons unless you make your own without fat or salt, canned and jarred ingredients such as hearts of palm. canned olives (olives preserved in pure olive oil are OK.) "toppings"  and ham bits or anything else that didn't grow out of the ground or on a tree. Tomatoes are fine. I just don't like them in salads because I think they upset the green flavor harmonies.

The Fruit controversy: Blue berries are an antioxident superfood, you should eat them as often as possible, and many people include them in salads. My household is divided between the "fruit in a veggie salad is an abomination" and the "huh?" factions. So eat them for breakfast. Think cereal with skim milk and blueberries, then skip the cereal and milk and eat  plain, fresh blueberries. Cereal and milk for breakfast are horrible for you. Even worse if you add a banana and think you are dieting. And I love bananas, so don't sic the banana lobby on me.

Put your salad ingredients in the biggest mixing bowl you have, and that's about it.  There are many nights I use that much salad for several people as an addition to other foods, and nights like tonight when I am the only one eating it, it's all I eat, and I eat it all.