Well, Somtimes, Things go Right, and Sometimes They Gang...Agley.

And that explains why there was no Friday post, sort of. And thanks to that redoubtable Scotsman Bobby Burns.

Friday started with a pleasant walk, a neighbor who stopped to introduce herself ("Lived here long?"   "Fifteen years." )  It's amazing what and who you don't know when you don't have sidewalks and live far back from the street, isn't it?

Plans were to head out in the late afternoon to attend a friend's poetry reading and go on to dinner. Heading out meant an hour plus drive each way, but I've become accustomed to that. Then, my husband (and chauffeur for night time driving)was tied up at work.  Let's just say, CNN never sleeps and neither do its people. So after working on a special project from 4 a.m. until 1p.m. after a full nights work the night before that, he was diverted on the way home  by the news that our van had unceremoniously slowed to a creep in the middle of Cobb Parkway,(said van being driven by a child doing a good deed for us) all the while making screeching and moaning sounds as it did so.  Fortunately its agony was in close proximity to the repair department we generally use. Once home, with about two hours for my husband  to sleep before we had to head out, we had a short respite until there came a call from the same formerly and now presently  stranded child, now in his or her own car, who had locked his or her keys in his or her car (I promised I would keep them nameless.) An electric lock. Hard to break into. No AAA card handy (locked in the glove box)and no spare key, etc., a problem which Magic Daddy solved, but not before another hour passed. The time to sleep had expired, and with it any chance of poetry or dinner.

Now as you can see, I am not mentioned above as being a party to all the comings and goings. Just let me remind you of another quote: They also serve who only stand and wait. And search on Google and make calls.Those people do not blog.

So, Richard, do you see why I didn't attend your poetry reading?

So I will pick up again tomorrow, Monday, with a moving tribute to kale. It is thundering now and I  will  have a large Black Labradore in my lap soon, so I am signing off for the day.

Give That Woman Space....She May Be Hurtling Our Way

As I walked this morning, I noticed that cars approaching me on the opposite side of the street tended to slow more than necessary and sometimes even stopped until I had passed. Is this Southern courtesy? Fear that I will suddenly stagger and pitch myself beneath their tires? Awe struck amazement rendering the driver unable to operate large machinery? Or something akin to funeral procession manners, which might appear to be imminently necessary, with me red faced and sweating as I climb the final hill to my driveway.

I pondered that while I browsed at Target, looking for something else to wear that would be a little cooler than twill slacks and T shirt. I settled on a sleeveless top and knit pants that stopped a few inches short of being full length - not so short as to be alarming, but short enough to possibly have some cooling properties. Looking in the mirror at home, I realized that with a single outfit I had the potential to lower property values in my entire neighborhood. When did my arms start to flap? At one time, not so long ago, I was proud that they looked pretty good for a fat person.  Then, it was more the fat but firm approach, and now, just a lame impersonation of a turkey buzzard with wings extended above some tasty piece of carrion. And formerly fat people are very happy to tell me that the fat will continue to flap when my arms are positively skinny.  The flesh does not miraculously vanish. Of course there is surgery, but there is no chance of that.  No paring off this tallow with the surgeon's knife, even if my face-lift veteran friend is rooting for that solution.

So, today was weigh-in day. The Weight Watcher's web site was full of little pop-up stars and digital cheering because it says I have lost another five pounds. Not this week mind you, but from when I was five pounds heavier, I guess. I am still a little mystified with the WW system, mostly because I have not taken the time to carefully read all the  explanatory material. I guess that is where meetings with a group leader help.  She has read all that stuff and can parrot it right back to you, saving you from the info overload I always sense when I get deep into the rewards and points and who knows what else that circumscribe my days.

Tomorrow morning I vow to venture past the stop sign that has marked my turn- around point and go forth into the cul de sac. I am still omitting side streets, because those include hills, and I am not really into any hills that I don't have to deal with to actually get back into the air conditioning of my house. Once there, I collapse in front of the Today Show, iced tea in hand, and wipe off the sunblock.  Somehow, it seems as if that much sunblock will clog the plumbing if I don't get it off before the shower hits it.

 Actually, health issues aside, the sun can have almost any part of me except my neck. I have not slathered on a fortune in neck cream  every night for years to let the sun bake me to a piece of jerky. Thoughtless teenage years bathed in iodine infused baby oil to get that golden glow did not result in cancer, blotches, dryness, or almost anything else I should be suffering from, so I am not going to take it for granted now. Bring on anything the grocery store or cosmetic department has to offer, I'm your girl.

 My mother's theory was that it did not matter which product you used, but how determined and faithful you were in its application. I like to think she was right. Now that I think of it, her theory applies to pretty much everything, doesn't it?

Really, Stevie Nicks and I have nothing in common.

I am starting this past my bedtime, one imposed by my dogs who, at the appointed hour, jump up and go through an elaborate doggy pantomime of dragging themselves in exhaustion to bed. Since I am the lone person in the house four out of seven nights, they are very comforting. I doubt that they would be vicious protectors in a pinch, but they put on a good vocal act when they hear a raccoon on the porch.

Tomorrow will be the first day since I started my morning walks that I will not be able to burst from my driveway, walking stick in hand, to greet the day. I have my writers' group tomorrow at 10, and since I have to leave home at 8:30 for the hour plus drive, building in extra time to get coffee and maybe  tilt the seat back for a fifteen minute rest at some point, there is no walking time. As it gets hotter day by day, I know that afternoon walks will be out of the question, soon if not already.

I have found myself in the interesting position lately, of having nothing to wear.  I mean that quite literally. As I creep closer to the "fifty pounds lost" mark, I find I can't really fake it with anything I own. The idea seems so attractive. Lose weight, buy a new wardrobe. It doesn't quite work that way.  For one thing, a new wardrobe from the skin out costs a lot of money. I want to be slender, not broke. Also, since I am nowhere near my final weight loss goal, these clothes shall also be too large soon, and will have to be shucked for a smaller size. That has sort of a "good news/bad news" quality. My new jeans, which I liked quite a lot and  spent too much on were too big two weeks after I bought them. Now I have one pair of khakis which I can actually wear out of the house, and their days are numbered.

I have resurrected several broomstick skirts from what my daughter calls my "Stevie Nicks period."
Although when Stevie Nicks was slithering about the stage in her cobwebby black gowns,with her long blonde tendrils sliding over her shoulders, my cohorts and I were wearing Villager shirtwaists and Capezio flats, my daughter refers more to my middle aged discovery of the forgiving nature of those long skirts. I have not been a skirt person for most of my adult life, tending to awkwardly step on trailing hems and cause general bodily harm to myself and others, but here goes nothin.'

Buddhist Monks and Gandolph Walking Sticks

Today marked the beginning of my exercise attack on fat, to go along with Weight Watchers. I have not added exercise before because lugging a lot of extra pounds is brutally hard on the knees and back. With forty of those pounds gone, or as I like to think of it, the equivalent of a large bag of dog chow, it was time to start.  Also, it was a gorgeous morning, with a cool breeze, the scent of honeysuckles, and the sky a blazing blue. I walked in my quiet little neighborhood, in an area that is relatively flat, and for a short distance, although it took 45 minutes.

After about 5 minutes, I was joined by a neighbor, a Thai Buddhist monk, who with several fellow monks has lived here for 20 years. We met early on after my family moved to the neighborhood, when he came to my door in a panic looking for someone who could handle a problem with the phone company.  He could not speak enough English to be understood by his "customer service representative" or, in fact by me, and it was only after I found that he and I could communicate fairly well with a combination of French and pantomime was I able to resolve his telephone problem.  He has been forever grateful, and we have had pleasant exchanges over the years.  Every day, rain or shine, he breezes past my house, smiling and waving if I am outside. He maintains a brisk pace, so today he kindly slowed down to my pitiful speed to chat for a while and then sped off on his routine. What a lovely, happy spirited man.

So anyway, slathered with sunblock and wearing a floppy white cotton sun hat and carrying my hiking staff to steady myself, I poked along and looked at my neighbors' beautiful flower and vegetable gardens, until I reached a stop sign, took it to heart, turned around, and headed for home.

I should elaborate on my staff, because elaborate is exactly what it is. Made by a Georgia folk artist who doesn't have so much as his own website, I picked it up in Newnan a few weeks ago.  His staffs could be said to be themed. The top is crowned with a picture encased in  a clear plastic, trimmed with glitter and  bead work, then the rest of the staff is ornamented with large "jewels," more bead work and  trim.  And the picture up top?  I chose a picture of St. Francis, but one was capped with the face of Sarah Palin, another with the Budweiser logo, and others with the American flag.
He's nothing if not eclectic, but with his finger on the pulse of the people, so to speak. 

I looked suspiciously like Gandolph as I plugged along, but I am just sorry that I am probably not brave enough to take my staff out in public beyond my neighborhood. I sense it would like a good trip further afield, but would my family be seen with me? They are a little suspicious of me sometimes as it is.

To those thoughtful souls who have offered comments on my blog, I want you to know you are read and appreciated, and I will respond soon.  Time has been at such a premium lately that finding time to blog three times a week is about all I can do. You aren't being ignored! Have a good Memorial Day weekend, and to my friends at the Decatur Book Festival, I am thinking of you and wishing you cooling breezes and good sales.

Twenty-nine ounces less of me

Official weigh-in day, and I've lost a bit less than two pounds this week. I weigh myself every day, but in the future I will note only my "official" weigh-in date weight. Otherwise, just too much information.

Two friends, two wonderful women, are making some transitions of other kinds. Diana Black, artist, writer, organizer of so many good works and accomplished at  many things, is no longer going to send us her wonderful Wednesday missives after four and a half years. Although she will be missed in that capacity, she will continue to be involved in so many  projects.

And brilliant pastel artist Margaret Dyer, after a sad, tumultuous couple of years, has come to rest in a warm, embracing place where she can begin to create again. So whether we see her arts in spots in Georgia, nationally, or in France or Ireland, she is vibrantly back with us, and we will all be richer for it.

And I am just methodically carving off my ill gotten gains, and thinking about the scale tomorrow.

That brings me to asparagus. I grew up on five gorgeous acres in central Illinois, with pasture, a creek, an old apple orchards, rows of Concord grapes,  pear, plum, cherry and apricot trees, strawberries and black and red raspberries. A large patch of land was devoted to asparagus, and one of my early memories is picking the tender green and violet stalks along side my great-aunt, her hair bundled up in a kerchief.

In our home, asparagus was prepared this way: chopped into small pieces, cooked in boiling water at length until the chunks were uniformly stringy, then covered in a sauce of butter, milk, flour and cheddar cheese, and cooked some more. My grandfather would fish out a few poor little green chunks before the cheese obliterated them for good, but that aberration was disparaged. I didn't taste plain steamed, or God forbid uncooked, asparagus until I was an adult. Never even thought of it.

I recalled the asparagus episodes of my youth when I moved to Atlanta and was introduced to green beans, not suitable to eat until they were boiled in fatty water and mashed with a fork.  My hostess, considered an excellent  cook, observed my daughter's plate, containing an untouched serving of grayish greens and declared that she apparently didn't like vegetables. My daughter was a vegetarian. Just a few years ago at the GAYA Awards for distinguished writing by Georgians, the lady sitting next to me at dinner pronounced her green beans unfit to eat because they crunched. The rest of the table agreed. 

I am not putting down  Georgians or Southerners or my family. Cooking vegetables into library paste is not a southern prediliction. I suspect it has country roots, North or South. Now a large part of the population all over the country recognizes the superior nutritional value, not to mention taste, of uncooked or slightly cooked vegetables. So, if you still prefer your vegetables mashed and redolent of pork, give unsauced and perhaps just steamed veggies a try. Your body will thank you.

I'm not a big Monday person

This Monday morning, the scale was up two pounds since last Friday, and I didn't do anything to earn it, which is really disappointing.  I should have at least had beer and brats to add two pounds. What I have learned is this:  The scale seems to go up and down for no good reason, eventually stabilizes, and then goes back to going down, also often with no apparent reason, so I just need to get a grip and continue doing what I have been doing for the past four months and not beat myself up about it. Losing weight is such a metaphor for life.

Last Friday was carry out night, as has every Friday that we have been home for the last 28 years. Creatures of habit.  In the early days, with little ones, it was Chinese because they loved Chinese takeout. Chopsticks and the whole thing.  Now we may have an adult child with us or it may be just my husband and I, and carryout may be Greek, Indian, Korean, Mexican, Thai....We eat everything, with some of the dishes vegetarian and some not. One thing the world cuisines do well is vegetarian food. So last Friday was a mix of Indian dishes, some with meat and some not, all wonderful.  The challenge was to keep the portions small, save lots for left overs. And Sunday was the usual, too   -  soup, salad, good rosemary bread and dipping oil. And portion control.

I have to say I make good salads. They are designed for weight loss, and certainly not the only kind to eat. Again, this formula is just what I have worked out over these months. Take your biggest mixing bowl and fill it about 1/3 to 1/2 full with lettuce, such as Boston , Romain - in fact just about anything but iceberg, which is without any nutritional value.  Fill the bowl to the top with baby spinach, kale (strip the ruffly part off the stems,) endive, if you like it, and broccoli slaw. If you don't have a food processer to shred broccoli, you can be forgiven for buying it in bagged salad form. Add edamame (green soybeans,) sliced green beans, a few small chunks of ripe avacado, snow peas and a few sliced mini sweet peppers. You can also toss in a hand full of slivered almonds, sunflower and/or pumpkin seeds (as long as they aren't seasoned or salted), for texture.

That is a super easy salad that will fill you up, give you your veggie quota and can be a full meal. For salad dressing, olive oil (real olive oil) and balsamic vinegar is OK, or just about anything in small amounts that will get you to eat your greens

This is definitely not a cooking blog.  I just jot down what has worked for me.  I am not crediting all my "health food" for improving my eyes, but my eye appointment this a.m. showed that signs of cataracts (they run in my family) have disappeared and my macarative degeneration appears to have reversed its self. Interesting.

Flowers for me?

This morning I weighed exactly 40 pounds less than when I started 4 months and 3 weeks ago. I celebrated not with food (celebrating with food is a WW no-no,) but with a beautiful pot of summer flowers for the front of the house.

I know I am losing faster than is recommended, and WW reminds me of this on my computer page every now and then. Yes, I recognize that fast weight loss can have bad consequences, but I doubt the consequences are worse than carrying another person's weight  in fat around with you every day. And WW mentions the problem of addiction to losing, which I assume creates a tribe of anorexic senior citizens, stalking around like zombies. I frankly think is pretty unlikely. Have they ever seen the sixty-five plus crowd swarm the midnight buffet on a cruise? And I am 69, so which is more likely to kill me: fat around my heart or knobby knees? I rest my case.

That brings me to subject of lunch. Think of it as soup or salad. They don't have to go together. In fact, I usually reserve the huge salad option until dinner and have just soup. If you can, make your own soup.  And you can, because it is so easy and tastes so much better. And if you read a Campbell's label, you'll gasp and never touch the stuff again.  There are good grocery store soups, such as Amy's, Trader Joe's, Harry's, some of the new Kroger deli fresh soups (sometimes) and so on, so read the labels. Also, if you are cooking impaired, read a few vegetable soup recipes on line. Get a crock pot, if you must. Soup (and when I say soup, I am usually referring to something that is made from a few or a lot of fresh vegetables) is filling but low cal, comforting, and it reduces your desire for a bigger meal.

If you think you are going to expire from soup alone, make your self a half sandwich with one slice of seeded rye, and two ounces of thin sliced rare, very lean, roast beef, with a little mustard.  This satisfies the carnivorous urge, feels like real food, and fills you up.  Don't buy pre-packaged deli style roast beef or turkey, etc. unless you know what you are putting into your mouth and are willing to settle. Preservatives, galore. You can get the same meat minus quite a bit of the bad stuff at the grocery store meat department. And do not ever, ever, give a child a Lunchable.  My pet peeve. Read the label. That, to me, is the definition of poison.

You will not make it to  dinner time on a bowl of soup, if that is what you choose. Even a really big bowl. In the late afternoon, have an apple.  I think an apple is far more filling and satisfying than celery and carrots. Hold the apple in your hand and eat it. Gala apples are wonderful for this. Make it a process.You can add a small piece of good quality cheese. Preferably hard cheese, like Dubliner, my favorite, or hard cheddar, but keep it to an ounce or two. "Good quality" is the key.  No "processed cheese food." Brie, for the days you want to walk on the wild side. Yes, it has cream. There has yet to be a recorded "death by brie," so you probably aren't in any danger.

I promised you chocolate. There are many of us who think it is a sin to go through the day without chocolate. Buy a bar of Ghiradelli Bakers' Chocolate. It is not as dark or as bitter as some baking chocolate, but dark enough, 60% cacao or thereabouts, to give you some of the benefits of dark chocolate, satisfy your chocolate urge with just one or two tiny squares, and drive away the thoughts of most other deserts, most of the time at least. It really is amazing.

Monday, Green stuff! Dinner! Carry-out!