Color matters.

Texture is vital.

I can only do new and strange part of the time. I crave what my brain and belly define as “southern cooking.” I have found I can sometimes trick both.

I love to watch Paula Dean. I don’t dare cook like that, but I love that kind of food! I use to say that there was no food that couldn’t be made to taste better by being topped with butter, cheese, bacon or chocolate. I still watch Paula and she still inspires me to cook and to eat. The other night, I wanted such a southern meal.

I cooked a big bag of turnip greens, the kind you find in the produce department already washed, cut and bagged.

I also cooked a bag of frozen speckled butter beans.

While they simmered, I sliced a sweet potato and a medium-sized turnip.

I placed them on a cookie sheet with salt and pepper and a slight misting of canola oil (if you don’t have an oil mister- they are wonderful!)

I let them roast in a 400 oven for about 30 minutes.

I sliced the saved stems of broccoli, the part I use to throw away and added this to the cookie sheet during the last 5 minutes of roasting, again with the salt, pepper and hint of oil.

These tulips sat on the counter.

This is the trimmings from the vegetables.

Notice how nicely the colors match? No planning, just bonus beauty.

This is our fancy fare, served on our finest paper plates.

The turnip greens lacked the bacon or ham I might have cooked them with before. So did the butter beans. The sweet potato wasn’t drowned in butter. The turnip, well it wouldn’t have been there before unless I had cut it up and cooked it with the greens. This version of a southern feast had no measurable added fat and only 219 calories.

A whole cup of cooked turnip greens only has 20 calories! I can eat turnip greens all day!

A half cup of butter beans has 100 calories and a half sweet potato only 52. The whole turnip has only 36 and the brocoli a mere 10.

Of course this isn’t about counting calories, though losing weight is a nice bonus. This one meal has 14g of fiber and more vitamins than one can count. I use an Ap called “MyFinessPal” on my phone. It lets me keep track of what we eat and counts the calories, fat, protein and fiber, and gives us the percentages of “daily requirements” of a few vitamins. By eating this one simple meal, I had far exceeded the “daily requirements” of both vitamin A and vitamin C. In fact, half a sweet potato alone provides 437% of the USDA requirements of vitamin A! That seemed crazy to me at first. It seemed every meal of real food meant we had far exceeded those guidelines. Perhaps those “daily requirements” aren’t based on real food or real nutrition.

I tried cooking for our animal children as well. Our daughter came over and we baked dog treats. It was our third attempt. This time was easier than ever.

Pumpkin, Pea and Sweet Potato Dog Biscuits

1 large baked sweet potato

1 bag frozen peas

2 cans pumpkin

2 eggs

about 6 cups whole wheat flour, just enough to make the mush of the vegetables dough.

We rolled them out, baked them for about 15 minutes and presto! Pumpkin/Pea and Sweet Potato Dog Cookies! A lot of dog cookies!

Of course with no preservatives, they don’t keep long, so I freeze them in a freezer bag and pull out a handful every few days. They agree with Sam’s sensitive tummy, too. 

Now, if I figure out how to make Paula’s Lemon Cake…

Now, I want to write about food. It has become my hobby and only by allowing it to be a hobby have I been able to adhere to any measure to a plant based diet.

Our first efforts were lame and we limped along, learning as we went. You see, I only thought I knew anything about food or nutrition, much less cooking. We’ve started and slipped, cheated and started again. With each beginning, our efforts were more informed by trial and error.

I watch cooking shows for inspiration. I look online for recipes and pour over books on vegetarian and vegan cooking. Alas, there is not much. Even the most committed vegan is often liberal with the olive oil. So many of the low fat and “healthy” recipes I find are laden with butter, cheese, oil or all three.

Many of the recipes that meet the rigid guidelines I try to follow, are bland at best, mostly just too weird and often awful tasting. I have had some success however. Some meals have come together and as works of art on our plates, dancing a happy dance in our mouths.

I started keeping a food journal, just so I could remember what I’d cooked we liked and what I’d cooked we didn’t. The short term memory challenges apply to the kitchen, of course. I certainly haven’t kept the journal because anyone I knew wanted the recipes. While friends and family might be proud of our efforts, they have no desire to join us.

Maybe, though, there is someone like me who would love to know of someone elses efforts to cook without meat or dairy or any added fat. I love to see pictures of what a dish is supposed to look like.

I’ll do that here.

Of course, the chance that this blog will become strictly a plant based eating recipe site is slim. I am long winded, at least at the keyboard.

So, that is my new plan. At least for now. Lee and I will try once more to stick to it.

We usually slide first by way of cheese. I had no idea that was my real weakness. I always thought it was chocolate. There is no cheese in the house. The frig is packed with produce. Jars are full of bean and grains. I have a fabulous set of cookware that doesn’t require any oil.

I hope this time is the last time we have to start over eating this way. I hope I can stay away from the cheese!

Even in our spits and starts, our efforts have not been in vain. A stress test a month ago was “normal.” I was able to walk all over Atlanta’s beautiful Piedmont Park a few months ago at the Pride Festival. The wheelchair gathers dust in the basement. I haven’t been in the hospital in almost a year. I am certainly much better. I give all the credit to this way of eating. Even our failings are better than what we use to eat.

If no one reads this, that’s okay. But I hope you do.

Here’s a feel good video,

James Morrison- super sweet

I’ll meet you in the kitchen soon.

Image via Wikipedia

So, two weeks ago I made a promise to myself to be more kind when speaking of or talking about my body. I’m happy to say that for the most part, I’ve stuck to that. Accepting what is is a powerful thing. After years of preaching of the virtues of denial, “loving what is,” as Byron Katie would say has far more benefit that I’d thought.

Around that same time, I had another revelation, or validation I could say. I need to vent about it, so bear with me.  Hit the delete key. Do which ever works best for you. If you stick around and read it, thanks as always for being my witness.

Right after the bypass surgery, I noticed things were different. Of course my body was different. Subtle symptoms were now replaced by glaring deficiencies and disability. Emergency surgery to save my life gave me none of that relief and improvement some seem to experience. It wasn’t just my body that was changed though. My mind was changed as well.  My short-term memory was toast. Things seemed foggy. Speaking sometimes was like wading through soup. I remember telling the surgeon about it at that first post op visit. He brushed it off saying it was anesthesia. His nurse said it would pass.

I told my then cardiologist. He said the same thing at first, then just ignored it when I brought it up each time I saw him. He ignored about everything I said, that’s why I went almost three months with two of those grafts having failed almost immediately. That would explain the lack of improvement. That’s a another story though…

So, I went online myself and researched. My sense of smell was almost gone. The memory thing got worse, instead of better. The speaking got worse. I would be unable to find words. I didn’t sleep. Crowds were overwhelming. I didn’t read anymore. I was different in a million ways. Much I attributed to the trauma of it all. I wasn’t quite right though and knew it. I read about “pump-head,” the cognitive decline that often happens to people after being on the heart lung, or bypass machine during open heart surgery. The only problem with that theory, my surgery was one of the first at Emory Crawford Long done, “off pump,” meaning they hadn’t stopped my heart when they did it. Then I read how they had thought the “-” was caused by stopping the heart and cooling the blood and it went away after a year or so, yet those done “off-pump” seemed to have the same percentage, perhaps even more, of cognitive decline.

After about a year, I stopped keeping up with the research. I just sort of accepted it as something Lisa and I knew, but no one else. If my girls noticed, they didn’t let on. It was frustrating though. I would be talking to the girls and realize I couldn’t remember the conversation of two days before they were referring to. Or, I wouldn’t recall whole events, days even. It seemed memories entered my brain like ping-pong balls, bouncing around but often never landing anywhere. Usually, with clues, I could recall at least part of past events. Others seemed whole and intact. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to it, some simply landed and others didn’t, except that overwhelm (and it didn’t take much) and fatigue made it worse.

I avoided crowds and groups of people, people in general I didn’t feel super safe and comfortable with (that left about half a dozen or so) because I found I really wouldn’t be able to talk. I could listen and follow fine, but when I went to speak, I would seem to lose my way, things in my mind would slow down like slow motion, like that thick soup. Or, I’d realize they were speaking of something I should, but could not remember causing a wave of panic to cover me. After being a public speaker the past few years, that was quite a major change.

I also didn’t have much interest in much of what folks said…they were so serious and acted as if they had a thousand years to live, to do and fret and seek and search. I found most of life funny and wanted to laugh and finally not take life so damn seriously. They didn’t seem to have any interest in what I tried to say either. I was trying to heal from a broken heart and had experienced some sort of deeply traumatic but profoundly clarifying event. I needed to talk about it.  I also had the desire to milk this remaining physical experience for all it was worth. They were still trying to figure out spiritual things and have out-of-body experiences. They were still waiting for “then” when they’d be happy or whole or enlightened or complete. They still sought out their inner child and hoped to follow their big plan, their life’s great purpose. They still dreamed of changing the world. I was no longer dreaming. I felt I’d been rudely and roughly awakened. We just weren’t on the same page anymore. And I couldn’t seem to say any of it.

I’m really dragging this out, I know, making it into a book. Forgive me, or hit “delete.” When I went to the doctor a couple of weeks ago (the second time) for the joint pain and inability to sleep, my GP, she started asking Lisa to describe my sleeping. Lisa was telling her how I am never still, that even when I go to sleep, I don’t stop moving. That led to my telling her of the loss of my sense of smell, the memory loss and other cognitive challenges. She listened and asked questions. Finally she started telling us how being on that heart lung machine can cause brain damage. I told her again my surgery was done off-pump.

Then she said,

“There is no way they can graft those arteries without introducing air into the blood stream. Bubbles of air, acting just like blood clots go to the brain. They know this will happen. They just hope the brain damage is small enough it isn’t noticed.”

Lack of smell- a part of the brain where an air embolism went.
Memory loss- a part of the brain where an air bubble went and wreaked havoc
Speaking trouble- ditto
As for the sleeping, she said part of the brain tells the body to be still when we sleep, or else we’d move with our dreams. Air bubble there, too.
And certainly big enough to notice.

Maybe I should be devastated, but instead, I am so relieved. For two years, I’ve known something was wrong. I’ve known damage was done. It was so infuriating that they all just brushed it off like I was imagining it. I suppose they didn’t expect me to live long enough for it to matter. Maybe they were afraid I’d sue them. Instead, I know I’m on bonus time. I don’t want to spend a precious second pretending things aren’t what they are, that I am not what I am and how I am. It’s dangerous, too to pretend that way. I absolutely would not remember if I’d taken my meds at least every other day. They weren’t doing me any favors ignoring it.

Oh, here’s a funny piece of the heart surgery story. I was “stuck” on the ventilator for a while after surgery. I was in ICU and they let Lisa and the girls in every two hours for a little while. I don’t remember them being there. I do remember waking up and wondering how I could be alive and feel so badly, how I could hurt so completely. Anyway, Lisa sings beautifully and I love for her to sing to me. They said she would try to sing sweet church songs or love songs to me during those visits and I would shake my head and wrinkle my brow. The only songs I wouldn’t protest to were the songs from the old TV show “Hee Haw,” like “Gloom, Despair and Agony On me” and, “Where Oh Where Are You Tonight?”

For whatever reason or cause, I have met another me. While the old me isn’t gone, I have been whittled down and fine tuned to someone far more simple than I was before. It feels as if the world doesn’t know how to respond to someone who for whatever reason has stepped off the moving sidewalk; who isn’t planning and dreaming and plotting and seeking. I didn’t and the world doesn’t place any value on just being. I haven’t known quite how to respond to myself either. I’m not seeking profound answers or trying to make a big difference. I know I can’t juggle so I don’t try anymore. I don’t strive for riches or that dream house or trip. I don’t need recognition or approval from more than my immediate beloved family, the ones who are still around.

The song Lisa tried most to sing was ,”The Greatest Thing,” and it begins, “The greatest thing in all my life is loving you.”

I guess I do still need a witness, or else I would not write. While I cannot speak as before, I must still have much to say. I appreciate it when someone listens. I’m quite okay if they don’t. I am acutely aware of how fortunate I am. For lack of a better work, I will call it blessed. The greatest dream of my life, the original dream, the main dream, was a loving spouse and children. I have that and then some. Lisa and my girls, my grandchildren are my dream come true. I love what is. The greatest thing in all my life is loving them. The greatest thing in life.

Right here. Right now. Ah

Mustn’t end on too serious a note, so watch this…

To the right, is a picture of me taken within the past couple of months. My hair grew back. My body grew, too.

I have always been very vain. My mother was as well. She was always very beautiful, well dressed and elegant. As a child, she dressed me prefectly. Mom made a lot of my dresses and made matching dresses for my baby dolls and Barbies. As an adult, I resisted the fashion interest, preferring jeans and tee shirts. My first career in nursing allowed me to first wear a uniform and was a place where little choice or individual expression was allowed and, non was expected. When the nursing field moved to wearing scrubs, my fashion sense, or lack thereof found even greater comfort.

Only when I went into ministry did I finally find my fashion niche, discovering styles that worked. Just because I had no fashion interest before that though, certainly didn’t mean I wasn’t vain. I was always thin, in fact I never felt quite thin enough. I was always obsessed with my hair and though I might not have looked it, I was well aware of how the tee shirts and jeans looked on me. I was also incredibly critical of how I looked and never satisfied. Though this feeling is probably universal with women, I’m sure that my mother’s criticism added greatly to that feeling in me. It wasn’t just the criticism of me that had an impact. She was really quite kind considering how much fashion mattered to her and how little it mattered to me. Critiquing others though, was somewhat of a hobby for her. As the years went by, this became almost an obsession, though I don’t recall ever a time when she refrained from this hobby. She commented on everyone who walked by. Every body part was reported on from jiggling upper arms, to large bottoms, broad backs, heavy legs, belly fat, long necks, short necks, tan and pale. Nothing was off-limits and her critique never took time off.

I think I assumed everyone judged as she judged. I assumed those people judged me as she judged them. My solution to this was to judge me first. And I did, relentlessly. Mom also judged herself, too and I don’t remember her ever not criticizing her body size even though she was never overweight. As she aged, she developed a thickness around the middle but I doubt she ever wore larger than a size ten, probably an eight. She was beautiful every moment of her life and always looked far younger than she was. I look at pictures of her in her teens and twenties and she was very, very thin, as thin I use to be.

before

after

Now, two years after becoming ill, I weigh twenty pounds more than I did when I got sick and thirty pounds more than I weighed most of my adult life. I haven’t found my fashion niche either, the style that looks good on my larger frame. I cringe when I look in the mirror and see the double chin and round face. Instead of feeling gratitude for the bonus time of living, I spend a great deal of time wallowing in my muddy vanity. I long to wear the fitted cloths, to be able to walk in heels and slip on the size 2 jeans. I recoil at my wrinkled neck and miss the bones of my shoulders and knees. Not even my hands and feet are the same.

This illness has been brutal on my body. I am very lucky to still be alive. I’m lucky to still have my legs. I’m lucky to walk at all. I’m so blessed to be able to do more than I could a year ago. Yet, I don’t blame the surgery or disease or even the handful of medicines I take twice a day for the change in my appearance. As ridiculous as it sounds to say it and even more ridiculous it looks to write it, I blame myself and see my body as the proof of my failure.

This needs to stop. I watched my mother verbally berate strangers but also herself over every imaginary imperfection. At the end of her life, as cancer ravaged her body, she was thin again. She was as thin as she had been in her twenties. We didn’t talk of it, but I know she’d have gladly traded her skinniness for one more day of health. I am only five pounds overweight according to those charts, yet I feel as if I am two hundred pounds overweight. The truth is though, I am allowing a vicious cycle to continue. Both my daughters are very thin. One is at the low-end of a normal weight and the other is underweight. They are both profoundly beautiful. I know they judge their bodies harshly. My mother taught me well, as I have taught them. To think my beautiful and precious daughters spend even a moment looking in the mirror with a critical eye is heart breaking.

I can’t undo it all, but I can begin, starting today, to focus more on health and less on weight. I can’t re-raise my daughters, but they can watch me be okay with my new body. They can watch my eating be motivated by a desire to live instead of a desire to look a certain way. They can watch me be kind to myself and hopefully never again hear me criticize my shape or form.

before

The have my genes. They need to be eating wisely. They need to be eating though, and finding that natural weight they would be if health was their goal and taking care of themselves their motivation.

I look at these before and after pictures. In the after pictures, I look larger. I look much older. I look less sure of myself, too. Yet, those before pictures were illusion. I looked younger, more vibrant, thinner and healthier when in truth, I was a ticking time bomb. The confidence was pretense. I lived through a physical and figurative breaking of my heart. The new me is far more real. It’s time I accepted the real me.

Girls, if you happen to read this, I love you. Eat.

Image via Wikipedia

I have a beloved aunt who is more than a little concerned about our “fat-free” eating. While it is a relief to try to convince her we cheat more often than she believes we do, she is in fact under the same misconception most are and we were concerning going the fat-free route.

The more correct term is “No added fat.” For breakfast this morning, we had quinoa with a tsp of brown sugar. 1/4 cup of cooked quinoa has 3 gm of fat. I’m making lentil soup for dinner. Cooked lentils have over 13 grams of fat per cup. Our goal is to limit our added fat to 10 grams per day. Added means not on the list of bare vegetables, fruits, whole grains and legumes, excluding avocados, coconut and nuts. Any oil is added fat. Any dairy or egg is added. Any fish or meat of any kind is added fat.

Last night we had scallops and asparagus for dinner. Scallops, the way we prepared them with no fat added, have 1/2 gram of fat each. I had three. The asparagus was roasted with no fat added. It’s fat content alone is .16 gram per stalk. We also had a little chocolate and a few baked Doritos. They were, by the way, a huge disappointment. We kept expecting each one to be a “real” Doritos, when in fact, each one was more disappointing than the one before. The chocolate and Doritos would contain lots of “added fat,” as most processed foods do.

We are both curious about how much fat we are consuming if we stick to the plan, so my plan is to keep at least a one week diary of all we eat and calculate the no added fat, fat content along with any fat we do add. Lee is curious about our percentage of calories from fat. A woman I admire very much from the Inspire world posted some videos about the negative effects of statins. She often posts such warnings and I can’t say I disagree. I’m simply too terrified to heed them. I  admit being confused by the conflicting reports concerning cholesterol and heart disease. I have felt better though and to me, that is the best indicator and the most convincing study.

So, I suppose this keeping track of the fat I eat that is “not added,” allows me to make some sense of it all in my own mind. Whether that makes sense to anyone else, we’ll see. It may turn out to be like solving a math problem but being unable to “show my work” or explain how I came up with the answer.

Stay tuned, then for a numbers game,

Oh, I had to look up how to calculate fat calories and percentage of calories from fat.

Multiply each fat gram by 9

Divide that number by the total calories of the serving of food

Multiply that by 100.

Example,

Quinoa has 170 calories, 3 grams of fat, so

3X9=27

divide 27 by 170= 0.15882352941

multiply that by 100, so

0.15882352941  x 100 = 15.882352941, or 16% rounded off

Today so far,

1/4 cup cooked quinoa= 170 calories, 3 gm fat, 16% of calories from fat

1 tsp brown sugar= 11 calories, o fat, 0% calories from fat

Total thus far today= 181 calories, 3 gm fat, 15% calories from fat

cool, huh?

Yet, every meal was not off the chart. Many times we ate as before and admitted often how relieved we both felt and how less than well we often felt after our gluttonous moments. One of the best was dinner with friends at a funky little restaurant we’d passed hundreds of times and never noticed. We had scallop po-boys that tasted like nothing I’d ever eaten before. We ate gifts of homemade cookies and gave each other our favorite chocolates. New Year’s Eve, I feared for a moment I had finally pushed the envelope too far. We had gathered with a few friends for dinner. They had prepared Lobster Bisque, using cream so heavy that she said it poured from the bottle in clumps of butter goodness. A strange feeling washed over me and I felt a tad dizzy about halfway through the bowl. It passed and I swore I’d cool it on the fat. I did for a good 12 hours, until I began cooking our New Year’s Day meal.

Today though, I feel quite complete in our cheating. I feel ready to resume our healthier lifestyle. I’m eager for vegetables, fruits, beans and grains. I want to lose again the two pounds I gained back over the course of these few weeks.  I’m ready to stay the course, be a rock, excerpt my will power to resist temptation. The gorging on fat grams is over. I am strong and turn the other cheek to every dish or spoon or forkful that isn’t good for my arteries…except maybe for the leftovers in the frig.

Happy New Year!

and a little bit of peace on earth!

Image via Wikipedia

The letter/poem below went out today, “The last day for USPS delivery of on time Christmas cards.”

Over the years, I’ve made great fun of those Christmas letters people send. Some always seem like a brag fest or a whine-a-thon. But actually, I always enjoyed getting and reading them, especially from those I don’t really talk to through the year but care about nonetheless. I love to hear what is going on in their lives. Now, with my Energy Chip supply, my spiritual crisis, health and societal rebellion, I have enjoyed the letters I’ve received even more. It’s not that I want or need to rekindle past relationships. Goodness knows this has taught me not to spread myself flat as a flitter. One can only truly nurture a few close relationships no matter what their circumstance. Those who think they can are probably as delusional as I was.

Anyway, I had the thought, a rhyming thought, as that’s how my thoughts seem to come, that I should write my first ever Christmas letter and do so in sing songing rhyme. As our lives are wonderful though far from brag worthy, I could poke a bit of fun at those who make their year sound like something out of a Hallmark movie at best, or a sob story out of a Guideposts magazine at worst. What came out though was more the traditional Christmas letter than I ever intended and with that, a far greater understanding of all those letters I received in the past.

Life is hysterical and a tragedy. In my own quest to stop seeking, the hilarity is more obvious than ever and what I have found most are undeniable feelings that cover the spectrum of the human condition. 2010 contained both my greatest joy and deepest grief thus far.

We went to Trader Joe’s the other day to do some grocery shopping. It was a bitter cold day, not getting above freezing and windy. When we got to the car, dear Lee sent me to the warmth of the inside while she loaded our purchases. Then, she went to return the shopping cart, grabbing another cart left in the parking lot on her way. As the inside of the store was as close as the cart parking spot (thanks to our handy-dandy handicap placard), she headed back into the store with both carts. An employee of the store, a woman about my own age was heading out of the store. She was all bundled up on her way to retrieve all the carts in the cart parking spot and all those discarded and left all over the parking lot by cold and hurried shoppers. She stopped in front of Lisa and said, “Thank you. You are an outstanding human.”

What my letter doesn’t say and I’d never quite found the words to say before, is that that statement sums up my new spiritual beliefs, or lack thereof. No longer do I look for God. No longer do I try to figure things out I have no way of knowing for sure while in this precious though flimsy physical form. No longer do I dare say I know something for sure about God or prayer or after life or purpose…any knowing I have ever had has been extremely personal, gleaned intuitively at its most concrete level. Instead, I now enjoy being human and sadly, realize that as humans go, I’ve not been a particularly great one. I’ve been better than some, worse than others.

I’ve spent this time since my heart broke (both figuratively and literally) realizing that it takes real effort to be a decent human to myself and a handful of others. So, I wrote the letter not to rekindle friendships I don’t have the energy to do justice to, but to share this battered but furiously loving heart with the few I thought would want to know for loving reasons. I wrote it mainly for myself though.  As all the writing I do, I wrote it down to take it out and look at it. Maybe that’s what Christmas or Holiday letters are, a way to take the year out and look at it and make some sort of Hallmark moment of the piece of time we’ve spent being whatever human we were, interacting with our chosen humans.

You are one of those chosen humans in my life. Clearly you represent my need to connect and have meaning. You are the friends I want but no longer have the energy to nurture. You are the family who is not offended if I forget what we talked about yesterday, your birthday or anniversary. You have no expectations of me and are not crushed if I don’t return your call or invite you to dinner. By the same token, I am not devastated if I don’t hear from you, assuming some slight on my part has destroyed our relationship.

Though our friendship may lack the depth of those I experience face to face, it is very real and I am very grateful. For that reason, I have added you to my “Christmas Card List.” If you happen to find yourself getting the hard copy as well, I apologize for the redundancy and am doubly grateful you care so much as to read my ramblings.

With no further ado,

Greetings from Whoville!

We’ve not been ones for long Christmas letters and we gave up cards long ago,

but none the less, we’ll do our best and through 2010 we will go

We didn’t get promoted, I’m now disabled and quite unemployed

and I found what I thought so important I now no longer enjoyed

After searching near and looking far, poor Lisa found a job

but we didn’t earn an award or accolade to please a humble snob

I lost my mother and we both had to let go much of the life we had worked for

We looked at the closed window and bravely walked through a tiny and small open door

leading us to a new kind of good on which we could settle and ponder

like the little house by the lake that we found; we packed up and moved over yonder

Holly and Daniel moved into a house that I can’t help wish wasn’t so far,

but so cute and perfect it was, and for real, just twenty minutes by car

Despite a big twister and that came roaring through, it’s kept them both warm and cozy

They make it their own, calling it home, coming together just rosy

Hannah and Derek, Jacob and Zack keep growing and bursting at seams

with toys and dogs, cats, fish, turtles and snails, sugarplum babies and dreams

skateboards and video games, Ipod-ing, too, Facebook keeping in time

locks and key cards, jeep parts and laughter, they live a Dr. Seuss/Doolittle rhyme

Mitchell and Bethany had baby Brady and we drove up to meet the new Rushing

He coo’d and we ahh’d and we had a great time, smiling out loud without hushing

The only thing wrong with this new nephew of ours, the distance apart that we live

We would really like to watch him grow up, hugs and kisses we would like to give

Odin is far and visits are few, time spent together is rare,

like Albany, Florida, even Copperhill, no matter how far we still care

and wish we could visit and meander around, lolli-gag and mosey over

the hills and the roads and the rivers like a retired and rich couple rover

We talk on the phone with Marie/Mom and Dad/Fred and sometimes talk to brother

Eric Todd up in the windy town, he gives us one food tip or other

Speaking of brothers, Rodney is near and stops by to eat or to chat

He bought an old Lincoln and drives around town, looking all “bad” and “phat”

As for our health, we seem to be sailing right through the storms with pure ease

with a fat deprived diet and half our income in meds, drug companies surely we please

We are blissfully dull and boring you see and we find that we like it this way

We’ve had enough drama and busy to fill twenty lifetimes, what more can I say?

There’s always a sad tear lurking nearby for the should haves and could haves and such

a memory here and a want to be there, we long for their love and their touch

but our hearts are full and bursting in fact with the family and friends we can hold

and trust that the love that we gave was enough and enough of the story was told

We wake up each morning to the love of our lives and know that our love is a blessing

I love Lee more than even before, and since all of this I’m confessing

I know she loves me and life somehow gets better and better and better

than we can begin to describe or tell you about in this one little holiday letter

If you get this letter this year in the mail, just know that we love and adore you

and wish you good things like joy and good health, love, peace and happiness, too

and if you’ve wondered if we are around and ask yourself, “Why don’t they call?”

as mom use to say, “Of all that I’ve lost, I miss my mind most of all.”

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Love, Lisa and Allison

Deck the Potty

Deck the bowels with bowls of quinoa

Fa la la la la la la la la

You can keep your bowels clean, YA!

Fa la la la la la la la la

To every potty you will venture

Fa la la la la la la la la

Pooping now is an adventure

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We gained this knowledge from our brother

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He knows bowels like no other

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He can keep you fit and healthy

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Even if you’re poor, not wealthy

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We now eat beans and tofurkey

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Cause it keeps our bowels perky

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We enjoy our Quinoa living

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It’s the gift that keeps on giving

Fa la la la la la la la la

I’m not quite sure on what to blame my absence from the blogosphere world except the Holidays. Thanksgiving was wonderful and though we have yet to really adhere with strict conviction to a fat-free diet again, we have both continued to lose weight and keep our daily fat intake below 10gms. Lee’s weight loss remains more rapid, but mine does trudge along. I’m up to a whopping 9# weight loss over the past two months, still pretty much double the loss from the gain of the previous year plus a few months.

For the most part, we have changed the way we eat. Veering off the plan a few times each week is a conscious choice with little regret. Well, the day we decided to eat a steak was regrettable. We went to Longhorn for lunch. We both ordered the small lunch sirloin. We both ordered our steaks “medium,” expecting a pink center. Instead, it was “rare.” Instead of sending them back, we attempted to eat them. Maybe this was a subconscious desire to not eat the steak. Neither of us got even halfway through. It was greasy, gross and well…regrettable. It did, however, completely cure our craving for a steak.

I am feeling the length and effects of Winter and longing for other fresh vegetables. We went to the DeKalb Farmer’s market, the largest around and did find delicious corn. I have no idea where they grow corn this time of year. It was a treat though. Yesterday, we went to Trader’s Joe’s, always a fun excursion. I would much prefer to live at the beach, somewhere where the weather is always warm and a fresh tomato can be grown on the front porch year round.

On a less jovial note, we have decided to look for an adoptive family for Rudi. Tears are always close and I swear he said “Mama” the other day. No dog on the planet is sweeter. His classes at the local pet super store have proved how smart he is. We walk in the door and he transforms into Super Dog. We walk out the door, any door, anywhere outside and he transforms into Super Nose. The smelling ability of the Basset Hound is second only to the Bloodhound and even his trainer says this is really beyond his control. The problem is, it is unsafe.

If we had a fenced yard and I didn’t have to take him out on a leash, perhaps it would be different. If we didn’t live with deer, raccoons, fox, squirrels, geese and every bird known to the Eastern United States as our yard mates, things might be different. Add to the mix, Plavix and Aspirin and even Coumadin for Lee and it’s a risky situation. He is just too strong. Too many times there have been near tumbles down the concrete front steps as he drags me towards the scent trail of some animal who has recently been in our yard.

I shine a flashlight around the yard before going out after dark, but still find us just feet from a few deer at least once a week. Holding back a 70# hound dog when three lovely deer stand twenty feet away, frozen in their tracks is no small feat. Once Rudi gets over the initial thrill, he is generally terrified of them and takes off for the front door, but that, too is dangerous. Had he a red nose, he could surely pull Santa’s sleigh with no help needed by Blitzen and the rest of the gang.

Our dear boy needs a home with a fence and another young and large dog to play with, maybe an adolescent child or two to chase after and wrestle with. He also needs a loving lap on which to lay his massive head and a few hearts who will love him as readily as he loves. He will always hold mine.

Most days I feel great. I tend to overdo…ignoring the warning and ding ding ding that signals I’ve had and done enough. I pay for this ignorance by having to recover the next day, but recovery doesn’t mean going to bed as it use to. It just means staying home and doing little. The energy chips I have, I’ve spent shopping, wrapping and working diligently to stretch our precious and few Christmas bucks. The house is a nasty mess and the laundry piles high. Lee has gotten over her phobia of me going down the basement stairs, but I haven’t quite fallen back into the laundry routine. I found out she was calling around getting prices from maid services as a Christmas gift for me. Of course, we can’t afford it, but it was a beautifully sweet and lovely thought. I would have loved it, too! as ridiculous as it would seem to be home and still have someone come in and clean. I have to admit though, I can clean a little or cook a little or go a little or do a little laundry. I still can’t do them all. Like it or not and even though I am sooooooo much better, I can’t do what I would love to do.

I have no complaints though. Seldom does a day go by when I’m not reminded that I am so much better. The wheelchair hasn’t been out of the sun room in weeks. I have used one at the store from time to time, but only after walking around some other store first.

I have a few online friends, women I met through Inspire. Were I still philosophical, I might try to figure out how I became friends with these particular women out of all the women on Inspire. Instead, I’m grateful for them and hoping they all are enjoying the Christmas season. I know they are all appreciating each day, each breath, each new memory. This is not one of those well read blogs. There are only a handful of you who subscribe. That for some reason you have chosen to enter my life in this bizarrely private and public way fills me with both awe and gratitude. Thank you for caring in some way about my journey. I imagine it is not unlike your own.

I hope to write again before Christmas, but should I not, Merry Christmas to you all.

May your hearts overflow with love and should you have an “event,” for heaven’s sake, stay away from the light!

“See” you next year!

Love and more love, life and more life, joy and more joy,

Allie

Image via Wikipedia

Those twice baked potato stuffed things were a disaster. Lee, insisted they were delicious, but love will cause one to lie on occasion. I though they were hideous. Sustenance and nothing more.

I cheated a tad today and made us a little shrimp stir fry. It wasn’t fried of course, but sautéed in vegetable broth, but delicious still served over whole wheat pasta.

Tomorrow kicks off the Thanksgiving cooking. I bought a pound of butter, and will no doubt use every ounce in the cooking. I’ll be baking the turkey, making the cornbread dressing, the gravy and a big pot of pole beans. There will be a stick of butter in the cornbread, a stick used to cook the onions and celery in for the dressing and a stick on the turkey. That leaves a stick for the table.

We’ve decided our best plan of action is not avoidance, but strict portion control. A bite of this and a bite of that will hopefully keep us from filling up on the forbidden fruits while allowing us to feel as if we are able to participate fully in the feast of the year.There are a half-dozen other dishes coming plus at least two desserts.

Our big cheating moment so far this week has been cookies. My grandson was selling cookie dough (for a ridiculous amount of money!) as a school fund-raiser. I find those things horribly unfair, but what’s a granny to do? Anyway, I’d ordered this pack of cookie dough, a chocolate chip, pecan, coconut wonder that came as 24 ready to bake cookies. The kids delivered them yesterday. I thought of freezing them and saving them to bake when the grands visited but knew too that we were both very likely to take them out and bake them in a moment of weakness.

Weak moments seem to follow us around like shadows. Lee suggested I go ahead and bake them and then take them to work. That would get them used but out of the house. That was a great plan, but of course we had to try one. Each one had a whopping 9gm of fat! We were able to limit our cheating to one cookie each, but I was alarmingly aware that in the past, I might very well have eaten five or six of them at one time!

Lee did take most of them to work today, but there are four sitting in a zip-lock bag on the counter. So far, so good. I haven’t touched one yet, today. We all know the hour of temptation has not come yet, though. I was both relieved and devastated to find that they had not all left the house. They sit side by side with the fat-free oatmeal apple, cran-raisin cookies that seem to be lasting forever. Nothing about a fat-free cookie makes me want to eat five or six at a time. The umph just isn’t there.

If I don’t return to the cyber world until after Thanksgiving, Happy Thanksgiving to you all. I am thankful for you, my witnesses.

I am very thankful to be here. I really thought last year was my last. That occurred to me earlier today. Every day feels like a bonus prize.