The Sweet Sound of Guided Meditation

Last night I needed some comfort. Rather urgently.  It was the end of a rather drawn-out and trying day, and I felt my irateness rising, slumped at the computer answering e-mails and taking care of back-logged business, noting that the day's "To Accomplish" list looked woefully unchecked. 


I'm in the midst of maintaining a 185 weight loss.  The process began in January of 2009. On the surface, it seemed like everything fell seamlessly into place:   I found DDPYOGA and began doing it; I listened to the advice of Dallas Page and Terri Lange and stopped eating gluten and cow dairy, and among other milestones that year, I was spurred by my steady weight change and decided to train for and complete Avon's walking marathon for breast cancer research.  


The steady shrinking of my hipline garnered a lot of oooh and aahhs from those around me and I'm not going to pretend I wasn't ecstatic because of it. But there were emotional demons to conquor before the poundage faded away. All along, even when I was 300 pounds + for so many years, I've made sure to pay careful attention to the part of me that is incorporeal.  Sure it's a fact that the body needs care, but I've come to realize that the outer is only a reflection of the inner afterall, so what good does it do to focus solely on calories-in and sit-ups?  I've been down that road before, twice to the tune of two 100-pound weight losses and subsequent regains. Not interested.


So last night, as I felt the breezey undercurrents of emotional turmoil gaining velocity, I knew the breeze could easily churn into funnel clouds if I didn't acknowledge them with a time out.  Four years ago, the time-out would have consisted of me beelining into the kitchen for the most easily accessible fistfull of simple carbs.  I no longer attempt to solve problems this way.  


Instead, I decided that some soothing of my Spirit was in order.  I employ a variety of remedies for this ranging from getting down on the floor and stretching to candlelight and incense, flipping on some relaxation music, or one of my favorites:  reaching for the headphones and turning on a guided meditation.  There's nothing like a gentle, calming voice to guide me back into the gale-free zone of serenity again.  Shelley Cummins is one of my favorite purveyors of the guided meditation.  She's a spiritual teacher and yogini I've studied with for years, and Shelley conducts workshops around the world. Since I can't always get to where she is, I thank God for her MP3 downloads. Last night I took refuge in her Tonglen Breathing Meditation, a transformational breathing practice meaning "to send and to receive."


Shelley's meditation downloads, books, and yoga DVD's are available on Amazon ( www.amazon.com/Divine-Breath/dp/B001BLKNVI/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1338931403&sr=8-3 )


As I drifted off to sleep last night to the strains of the meditation, with seagulls and ocean waves interspersed with Shelley's gentle directives, I was truly at peace. How good it felt to listen to what my body and soul really wanted and give it to them.  To me, that's the essence of real nourishment.




For more information on Shelley Cummins, visit  www.jaisriyogis.com  

A Recent Gluten and Dairy-Free* Lunch

OK everyone,  I have just one question to ask:  Do I look like I'm suffering?

Chef Bill recently surprised me with this creation:  a pan-seared burger with Montreal spice and melted goat gouda, served on sauted spinach and onions, and topped with an over-easy fried egg sprinkled with Paprika.  Every millimeter of it was mouthwatering.  The point I hope you've already connected with is, clean eating can be FABULOUS!  It's all in how you play it.

Many of you know about my yolk fetish (Bill definitely does), so it was with great pleasure that I dove into this succulent concoction. When possible I food combine (eat protein and carbs at separate times). In general when it comes to burgers, I can do without a bun, it's the cheese that's non-negotiable. Besides this was so off the carts in flavor and texture, I was too busy to notice.  One look a the photos and I hope it's clear that it's totally possible to clean and decadent!

Bon Appetit!

* By Dairy-Free, I'm referring to cow dairy

Greens and Beans

Vegetables and I are still a work in progress. It's true I've dropped 185 pounds via DDPYOGA and clean eating, but I've yet to develop a burning passion for eating my veggies as regularly as my nutritionist (and DDP and Terri Lange) say I should.  Often, I modify their obtrusive texture by transforming them into velvety purees or comforting soups. Case in point:  the succulent soup recipe below that my significant other (a trained chef) made me last night for dinner. He adapted it from the cookbook that Albany, N.Y.'s incomparable Cafe Capriccio published 20 years ago. It's a simple, easy recipe that I love for both its flavor and ability to deliver a nutritional punch of fiber, greens, and in this case, protein (I made it the main course by topping it with two eggs poached in chicken broth).  It was a glorious meal, not just because it tasted so good, but because I evaded the dubious task of having to down a big bowls of cold greens. Instead, I sat down to a nice, piping hot bowl of THIS! Greens and Beans 4 large cloves garlic chopped 1 1 pound can cannelini beans 1 large bag spinach or one head kale 5 strips bacon cooked and chopped (not crisp) 6 cups chicken stock (we used Swanson's low-sodium) 3 twists fresh pepper dash sea salt 2 Tbs. Olive Oil 1 Tbs. bacon grease In a large wok or Dutch oven, blanch garlic and olive oil and cook until just softened over medium heat. Add greens and wilt. Add beans, chopped bacon, and stock, and simmer for 20 minutes. Serve.  Optional: sprinkle with Peccorino cheese (a sheep milk cheese similar to parmesan); or top with two eggs poached in chicken broth.

Feeling...Means Keeping It Off

How am I keeping 185 unwanted pounds off of me?  Hint:  Clean Eating and DDPYOGA are key, but they're only two-thirds of the equation. Here's the truth the corrupt and clueless diet industry doesn't want you to know.  The last thing they want is for a food addict to make a full recovery.

Masala Farm: An Inspired Life

A book-signing for Suvir Saran’s “Masala Farm: Stories and Recipes from an Uncommon Life in the Country” will take place from 4 to 8 p.m. Friday, Dec. 16, at Gardenworks, 1055 Route 30, in Salem, N.Y. For more information, call (518) 854-3250. For more information on Suvir Saran, visit www.suvir.com .

I always tell people there’s no one answer to how I got rid of 185 pounds (and the emotional baggage that’s a package deal). Pardon the pun, but it’s simply too big an issue to point neatly in a singular direction of a pat answer. The ‘How Did You Do It’ queries come both in-person and via e-mail. Usually I can tell when someone really wants to hear what I have to say or if they’re hoping to be sent packing with a quickie prescription of diminished calories and a drill sergeant’s rotation of sit-ups and squats.

I can only give them the truth: The solution is a glittering mosaic. From a distance it may look like a single object, but step towards the canvas for a closer look and you’ll see a composition of little pieces made of different colors, shapes, and textures. All are intrinsic in their importance because when a piece of the mosaic is missing, it’s not the same picture.

Yes, I exercise on a regular basis. Yes, I eat considerably less than I did three years ago. But there’s so much more to the living-in-balance equation. Somewhere along the journey, I knew it would be crucial to make peace with food. With my intense love of it, my well-documented misuse of it, and my sometimes unmitigated fear of it. I’d been heading in the direction of a more harmonious relationship with food for years. And then one day, out of the blue, came an invitation of sorts, to hop on board the peace train. It was May of 2008 when I visited Suvir Saran and Charlie Burd at their gorgeous farm, tucked into the far reaches of Washington County, N.Y., not far from the Vermont border.

I was there to interview Suvir for a newspaper feature on his career as a celebrity chef, cookbook author, lecturer, and owner of the Michelin-awarded Devi restaurant in Manhattan. Despite the sundrenched spring weather, I was attired in my uniform du jour: black spandex leggings and a billowy black top. Even the shoes and sunglasses were of the noir persuasion. Truly, I was shrouded in every sense of the word. But at a size 26, I had very few wardrobe options.

Suvir and Charlie, May 2008...and me in the background taking notes in my usual Johnny Cash ensemble...


Suvir ushered me into the kitchen to a stool at the granite counter overlooking his industrial-sized Viking stove. The stove is his favorite place in the 232-year old farm house because it’s where he loves holding court, whether entertaining out of town guests for the weekend, friends from farmhouses down the road, or in this case, a journalist. I knew I was in for an interview unlike any other when Suvir opened his refrigerator and pulled out a glass bowl filled with goose eggs.

“Do you like eggs?” he asked, smiling as I stared in wonder at what looked like a pile of mini-white footballs.

“They’re my favorite food in the world,” I murmured, sensing with anticipation that he had some serious plans for the eggs.

“Good,” he said quietly, lighting the flame under a cast iron skillet and drizzling it with olive oil.

There were four people to cook for (a photographer had accompanied me) but the enormousness of each egg meant frying only one at a time, which frazzled him not a bit. I can still see Suvir at the Viking, standing protectively over the emerging masterpiece, adorning it with a bit of sea salt and fresh pepper. The culmination came with a chunk of Parmigiano Reggiano cheese pushed back and forth across a grater until the sunny-side-up egg looked like a snow-capped volcano.

                                                                Suvir and "The Girls"



As Suvir went on to prepare the next goose egg, Charlie brewed foamy cups of espresso and stirred a pot of Sambhaar (a spicy vegetable and lentil stew) simmering on an adjacent burner while both talked about their most recent visit to Southeast Asia.

      Suvir Saran's Sambhaar, a delightfully spicy vegetable-lentil stew from his "American Masala" cookbook



Then Suvir handed me a copy of his first cookbook, “Indian Home Cooking,” to look over and I found myself staring at a page near the beginning where he states the following philosophy: “When a guest comes into your house, God comes with him…we treat all our guests as if they were God because we believe God is in all of us.”

Suvir didn’t just stop with perfectly prepared goose eggs that day (with the warm liquid yolks oozing over the toasted bread like glorified, pearlescent lava). He pulled glass storage bowls from the refrigerator to reveal a tomato chutney salsa and a pale green coconut-mint chutney. Then he fired up an iron wok and began ladling a batter made of rice and chick pea flour to make Dosas, a savory pancake used for dipping. (Everything Suvir cooked that day, except the goose eggs, were from recipes in his excellent “American Masala” cookbook).

                            Heaven in a griddle: Suvir Saran's chick pea-flour-based Dosas



“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” he said, looking momentarily up from the sizzling Dosa “I’ve never made Dosas for a journalist before.” Somewhere in his core, he must have intuited a fellow food lover under the journalistic veneer. And perhaps at an unconscious level, he sensed I was trapped in a prison of a body and was searching for answers.

As Suvir will tell anyone who asks (and as a lecturer and consultant who travels the world on speaking engagements, he’s asked quite frequently), the answer to excess weight or any other health imbalance isn’t to enlist your inner drill sergeant of restriction. Don’t we all know by now that it always backfires? Why do we keep falling for it? Why did I keep falling for it all those years? Maybe because I thought it was the only answer, the singular way out of the tunnel.

Suvir maintains, as I ultimately realized, that food is a pleasure meant to be enjoyed. The eating experience is inherently nurturing if we allow it to be. Cliché as it may sound, food is glorious. And it can be both glorious and health-enhancing.

The goose egg was divinely creamy. The symphony of spices in the apricot-colored Sambhaar richocheted from my tongue to the back of my throat as I savored each spoonful. The crisp Dosa was the perfect vehicle to enjoy the thick chutneys, and both versions were fragrant and hypnotic.

If only every meal could have such a ratio of peacefulness and pleasure.

The renowned food critic Gael Greene describes Suvir’s prowess in the kitchen as a cross between George Balanchine and Leonard Bernstein because of his instinct for finding the perfect tension between an efficient flow of food and conversation and a relaxed, enjoyable pace. She has been known to go on for pages about Suvir’s cooking: “I’ve found myself seduced by his Indian riffs on American classics; the richer-than-Bill Gates mac and cheese, his remarkable corn bread, the classic American cakes he perfected, like his dense lemon cake, and upside-down pineapple,” Greene writes in her blog, www.insatiable-critic.com .

That day, we talked at length about the importance of the farm-to-table movement, the evils of the nation’s corporate ways that fills supermarket shelves with dirt-cheap cans of processed food floating in excess food coloring and sodium. But I gathered the most information simply by observing Suvir and Charlie’s ways in the kitchen, the relaxed and modulated pace of meal preparation, and the rapt attention they gave to me as a guest in their home as we sat around our plates and talked. No trance-inducing news footage from a television or even background music from a stereo to interfere with genuinely connecting.

I listened as Suvir explained his views on home kitchens being sacred territory and the central nerve center of the home.
“In the Indian home, the kitchen is where we create magical tastes that have the power to heal the mind, body, and soul. All cultures that are a happy people meet in the kitchen,” he said, scooping out a dollop of mint chutney with a Dosa. “I want to encourage people to go back to the kitchen and start nurturing. I want us to go back to a civilized culture, not one where we are isolated from one another. You are what you eat. And so my philosophy, and that of my parents and grandparents, is to cook, share, and eat with care and thought.”

Suvir had no way of knowing this at the time (though my 300-pound-plus frame may have given him an inkling),but my kitchen was quite the opposite environment. Over the years its main function had eroded into a pit stop to refuel for more potato chip and clam dip binges. Like Suvir and Charlie, I actually loved giving dinner parties and occasionally threw them, but as my eating to dull emotional pain escalated, so did a healthy perspective on food choices, quantity, and an overall sense of boundaries as to a time and a place for eating. For me it was anytime, anyplace, any reason. The original reasons for starting in the first place had long blurred out of focus…such clever grease that keeps the wheels of addiction spinning in perfect rhythm.

I left American Masala Farm that day with Suvir’s first two cookbooks, a cache of goose eggs, and an amazing sense of serenity that I parlayed into a mother’s day lunch on my apartment balcony later that week. I served the courses in the most leisurly fashion ever known to friends and family. The time spent together was a lot more than just a meal, it was an event that lasted for several hours before the last bite of dessert was gone. It would be nearly 9 months (interesting gestation period, no?) before the A-Ha! Moment came while watching Oprah in a potato chip-stupor, which set in motion an avalanche of change and ensuing weight transformation. But something had shifted in me during that encounter with Suvir and Charlie on their farm. It was real and profound and like a seed, took some time to manifest its fruit.

In a culture that desperately reveres instant gratification (especially where wanting to look a certain way is concerned) it’s important that I’m clear with people up front that my path to salvation wasn’t a speedy one. I don’t know if it ever can be.

It took years to put the mosaic together and frame it. Fervent journaling, group therapy, white-knuckle dieting, a few 12-step meetings thrown in for good measure, reading untold volumes of self-help books, an ongoing love affair with spirituality, and a beautiful, savory lesson at American Masala Farm on the transformational power of food all played a part. Up until May 2008, I’d always operated under the premise that food and isolation go hand in hand. Thanks to Suvir and Charlie,I realized it’s quite the opposite.

And it gets even better: The experience I had at their farm has been distilled into Suvir’s latest book, “Masala Farm: Stories and Recipes from an Uncommon Life in the Country.” It’s a cookbook/memoir of simple, pleasure-filled living that Suvir and Charlie wrote together. It showcases dozens of their favorite recipes and recipes from their circle of friends, including Glens Falls caterer Sally Longo, who spent weeks at the farm helping with recipe prep and photo shoots. I’ve been perusing the recipes and photos and it all looks divine. As someone who eats gluten-free, I’ll be making a beeline for the Farmhouse Crispy-Creamy Potatoes, Chai Cider, Chunky Eggplant Dip, Asparagus and Green Pea Risotto, and the Almost-Flourless Caramel-Lacquered Chocolate Peanut Torte.

And I’ll absolutely be marking the occasion with a dinner party. Do I have any takers?

A consummate giver:  I'm over the moon because Suvir just gifted me with a pair of padukas from his family's home in India.  I cherish them and use them everyday. 

Hope Springs Eternal

It's official:  Spring has arrived, and more importantly, there is ALWAYS Hope:

Rising and Living

Two friends and the e-mails they sent last week inspire this entry.  My friend Joan (also an amazing photographer www.forwardvisionphotography.com) was digging through her archives and sent over this Mardi Gras photo which sent me back to 2003 when I was waist-deep (at least) in denial. And not just over my size…that was only the beginning.  I put lots of energy into looking anywhere but in the direction of my present reality.  Specifically, I didn’t want to look at or deal with in any way two things in my life which really needed immediate attention:  a career that centered around a stressful, negative, and emotionally debilitating work environment, and a 15 year relationship that had dragged on for about 14 years too long.

My conscious mind was glib about the whole thing, playing its usual smoke and mirror tricks that I could go on living the way I was, life wasn’t all that bad, I wasn’t all that unhappy.  But on a gut level I knew I was fooling myself. Not surprisingly, I often told my gut to shut the f*#@k up back then.  And wow did I pay a price. Not just in pounds, but in sadness, frustration, and a large part of my life spent being nearly lifeless.

I may appear cheerful in this photo but it was my smile, not the green rhinestone mask that was the real disguise. Looking back, this position of passivity, of being overwhelmed by my personal life, was a big part of why I gave up and accepted that I’d be 300 pounds + for the rest of my life.  I would need food to dull the pain.  If the pain wasn’t going anywhere, then neither was the food. And I made sure I had elaborate supplies of it at all times, just in case the anesthesia started to suddenly wear off.  It wasn’t the perfect plan, but it was the only plan I had for dealing with life and all its complexities.

And then Life (as it often, and mercifully does) pulled the rug out from underneath my carefully self-constructed comfort zone.  The job got more and more toxic, which turned out to be manna from heaven in the long run because I finally gathered the courage to permanently evacuate and never look back.  That was seven years ago and it was truly a turning point in my belief system, a declaration of what I did and didn’t deserve.

Now about the other half of that equation…I knew when I left the job at Misery Central I still had one more major stone to heave off of my chest, but I chose to marinate in denial for another five years, thinking that if I just looked the other way, I could get away with it. Life once again met me more than halfway, shifting the tectonic plates of my complacency and catapulting me into a face-to-face position with a mirror I could no longer look away from.  And the realization:  I was half alive at best, bound by the lies I was living.

The day after Joan sent me the photo of the ghost of Mardi Gras past, an e-mail from my friend Neal (an amazing writer) arrived that contained a reference to Lazarus being raised from the dead (John 11:44), and walking out of the tomb bound in grave clothes…even his eyes were wrapped in cloth. Neal and Joan had know way of knowing how amazingly their e-mails related to one another…but someone did.

In celebration of my own rising out of the grave that was once my habitat, I took some fresh Mardi Gras photos this year.  The physical changes are the most obvious, but I’m different in so many ways that will never be tangible, but I feel them.  In every moment of every day, I feel them.

Not Your Average "Before" Photograph

This Is Not Your Average ‘Before’ Photograph
Or
Get Up And Dance – No Matter Who’s Watching!

Note:  This blog reads better with the following Cheryl Lynn groove playing

Many of you have seen this now-infamous ‘before’ shot of me at a 1996 wedding. It’s pretty clear from the angle and the billowing dress that I weigh in excess of 300 pounds.  Because of that inescapable fact and other less obvious reasons, the spark of my life force is unmistakably muted in this photograph. Carrying that amount of excess baggage in the physical sense siphoned an enormous amount of energy from me.   And then there was the impetus for the physical baggage in the first place:  I had stopped paying attention to who I really am, what I really want, how I really want to live. 

Quite simply:  I believed Happiness was out of my reach.  And since it was meant for others and not me, I ate to dull the emptiness and dissatisfaction.  But it still thundered within me. That’s the thing about addiction; it doesn’t really take care of the problem. But eating was the only tool I had at the time, and as you can see, I went with it.

On the surface, this photograph of me looking lifeless at age 30 in a prototypical Mother of The Bride dress seems like the cautionary tale that most ‘before’ photographs are. 

But this snapshot in time is far more than a warning.  It’s a tribute to the possibility of conquering odds. Swimming upstream against the majority is where my transformation really began.  Not in January 2009, when I began the process of releasing weight.

This upstream voyage was a crucial part of my learning on the path I walked of pain, so-called failures, and even Joy.

Believe it or not, there was Joy involved for me at the wedding reception of my friend Bill Richmond and his wife, Tracy. I may not have loved where I was physically, but I was in the middle of a very important life lesson and without it, I wouldn’t be writing this blog entry today at half my size.

I was speeding full-throttle into the unknown territory of Loving myself no mater what the scale said. Anyone who’s ever spent even a little time in the United States knows what a radical and courageous and outrageous move this was on my part.  Look at me.  By every standard measured against me by the society I was raised in, I should have been at home with the blinds down in a fetal position.

Believe me, for a long time, I bought into the delusion that people of size aren’t quite fully human.  There was no major moment of epiphany…just gradual increments of awakening to the Truth.  And when I began to see and more importantly, feel the Truth about the unchangeable nature of my worth, it became easier and easier to question the messages from outside ‘authorities.’

I began getting more and more comfortable with something:  A flicker of hope at my core that would not die. Lit from a mysterious source, an unknown place, it remained intact, even after all the years spent trying to kill it.  It emanated this clear message: ‘I Deserve.’ 

I was far from being in a state of happiness and balance, but I was on my way.  That’s the magic message I want to give you today.  Start right where you are.  I did.

What this photograph doesn’t reveal is the rest of what unfolded in that ballroom of the Saratoga Springs Holiday Inn: The DJ let one of my favorite and most life-affirming disco songs of all time rip.

It’s pulsating bass called me as I sat there, safely anchored in my chair. It called me again as I hesitated. I didn’t love how I looked.  I was way bigger than anyone in the room.  How would me up there on the dance floor look? What would they think? And then I realized that getting out there and being in those few moments of joy while this amazing song played mattered more than the doubts. So I did it. In front of everyone. 

I didn’t wait for the magic moment of looking a certain way. My transformation had already taken root and it got a major growth spurt that day on the dance floor as I took my place under the glitter ball, arms open wide to whatever lay ahead.


Just for you, I’ve included a long version of the song, hopefully you have it playing loud.  And now you still have time to get up and dance. No matter who’s watching.


 

Photograph: 

Joan Lentini

www.forwardvisionphotography.com

Hungry For Protection

Hungry For Protection

Or...

Vulnerability Is Power

Inverse as it sounds, it’s true. Vulnerability is Power.

File this blog under the category of underlying reasons addictive behaviors spiral out of control, because it is feelings of vulnerability that have sent me there more often than anything else.

Vulnerability is not something I’m comfortable with.  I’ve always considered it a weakness to be avoided.  Actually, more accurately, I’ve spent much of my Energy hiding the reality that part of the human condition includes sometimes being in a state of unprotected openness.

I’m realizing with more and more clarity that running from this open-hearted way of being has done me no favors.

As Brene Brown says in the above lecture, vulnerability is probably the most feared and misunderstood of all emotional states in the spectrum of human experience.  There tends to be deep shame associated with feeling it.  But when I give vulnerability its rightful place at the table, I suddenly allow myself to experience life more fully, more whole-heartedly as Brown says, because it’s actually not possible to fully experience Joy, Creativity, Love, and Belonging without owning up to at least a flash or two of vulnerability.

Of all the above benefits that come from admitting vulnerability, the one that most grabbed at my core was Belonging. Having spent most of my life as an outcast, I convinced myself that I didn’t care about Belonging. Didn’t care if people accepted me or approved of me. I thought I came up with the perfect answer: act as if I don’t need others, avoid trust and emotional intimacy, and I’ve given myself the gift of instant protection.

Not letting my vulnerability see the light of day was all about keeping the perceived predators at bay. I was truly hungry for protection.  Hungry to be kept from being hurt.  If I can’t control the outcome of something that really matters to me, why bother?  But I’m beginning to accept that living life fully and with my entire heart in the picture means taking risks.

So what’s my safety net now that I’ve agreed to drop the illusion of being protected? In some ways, admitting that there never really is a safety net is about as good as it gets in terms of protection.  There’s also a growing knowing that I’m going to be OK no matter what Life has ahead for me, no matter what obstacle courses of experiential wonders Divine Design has laid out, unbeknownst to me.  Ups, downs, and those unexciting plateau’s are unavoidable parts of it.  I’d love to be able to wave a wand over my fears and have them disappear, but nobody ever really grows in fairy tales…ever notice that?

Those of you who read HFTT regularly know I’ve been very open about why I had the wall of weight around me for so many years.  One of the main reasons was keeping men at a safe distance (and trust me, it works like nothing else). Only deep down, that’s not what I really wanted.  Evolution and emotional onion layers being peeled away revealed something unmovable at my center:  a desire to Love and be Loved. Even after decades of telling myself it doesn’t matter, there it was, still living and breathing, after all that time in lockdown. 

As Brown points out, emotions can’t be numbed selectively.  When I douse out vulnerability, anxiety, and fear, the Joy, Excitement, and Happiness get washed away with it.  So what’s the worst that can happen?  I don’t get Loved in return?  The outcome differs from my expectations?  That has to be survivable. 

Who knows, if I stick with this new game plan, feeling vulnerable may one day feel natural…perhaps even powerful.  Thank God.  Because I’m discovering I like the feeling of Belonging. 

Wide Open...At Long Last

It Is Possible

...or as I also like to say...
never, EVER, EVER
give up on yourself:

Everyone Should Be This Lucky

On the right hand column on this blog, you’ll notice three categories. I decided to break the contents of my ongoing journey down into three major aspects of the human experience…and to underscore that paying attention to only one usually results in imbalance.

The question I’m asked most frequently regarding dropping 170 pounds is ‘what do you eat?’ Sometimes people demand to know my food intake to the letter in hopes that the weight will melt off, and so will the problems. I’ve been at this a long time and have learned the solution is a multifaceted one: food choices, physical exertion, feeling the feelings, finding things other than French fries to center me and make me feel calm.

There’s no one answer and it’s truly a mosaic, and one of the most important jeweled elements of it are relationships. Specifically, choosing healthy ones. This has been a work in progress for 20+ years. Getting good at it has progressed in tandem with my rising self esteem.

Having a life in balance means having relationships that are affirming and nurturing. As author and motivational Marc Mero is fond of saying:  'Friends are like elevators...they either take you up or take you down"

I make it a point to surround myself with people who are respectful, supportive, honest, and who genuinely wish me well. I may not live in the country’s most affluent zip code, but where my personal (and business...they count just as much) relationships are concerned, I’m one Wealthy Woman.

Case in point: my friend Sally Longo. She has a heart of solid gold and also happens to be a caterer with formidable culinary skills. A major score for me is being invited to one of her parties, or just a simple girlfriends dinner. Sally knows I eat gluten-free and although I’m fine with bringing g-free options along for the ride when I'm invited to dinner, she doesn’t give it a second thought to create a sumptuous, g-free meal fit for a pair of food-loving Queens. Now how great a friend is that?

The dinner below that Sally created one winter evening had me fanning myself in delight. Every ingredient was sublime…from the crispy planks of bacon in the spinach salad and the velvety mashed rutabaga, to the meatloaf that oozed steaming rivulets of tamarind glaze (chef Suvir Saran’s gorgeous recipe http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/030734150X/smallfarms-20 ).

Sally is also a cookbook author and her fantastic collection of recipes from her 20 years as a caterer can be found at http://www.amazon.com/Aunt-Sallys-Adirondack-Kitchen-Cookbook/dp/1604028645 .


So here’s to beautifully set tables, food made with Love, and the thoughtfulness of friends!

One of Sally's salad's...fully loaded

Chef and cookbook author Suvir Saran's famous Tamarind-Glazed Meatloaf

www.suvir.com

How creative is this?  Mashed rutabega - surprisingly delicious and slightly sweet

Dessert was g-free cake. At first it was frosting-free, then Sally had a lightbulb moment and returned from her basement warehouse with a giant jar of Nutella. It was the perfect, creamy touch.

The artist and her masterpieces...including the table setting

Sally and I sharing a laugh at a catered book signing with Kim Sunee, author of the best-selling memoir, "Trail of Crumbs." (www.kimsunee.com )

The Joys of Honey

Hmmmm...I don't know whether to Thank or Spank the fellow who turned me on to the pleasures of Truffle Honey this week. Its taste is both electric and indescribable. If you have a weak neck, be careful, because it will be snapping back in ecstasy...guaranteed.

I think there's no end to the ways Truffle Honey can be enjoyed, but it's definitely not gonna be wasted in a cup of tea. This morning's breakfast:  Sheep's Milk Ricotta, two corn crackers, and a couple of heaping spoons of the most wondrous nectar I've ever tasted. 

Truly, it's a complete part of a Sensual Breakfast.
Remind me to let the FDA know...

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Getting Ready for The Ultimate Risk

The unconscious mind never fails to amaze me with the breadth of its power. Its moves are far more rapid than a ninja's and its precision infinitely sharper than any laser. And I know, even without awareness, that its powerful stealth drives me. So I’m writing this more as an open letter to that vast, unseen, and ferociously powerful part of my being that drives the bus.

Unconscious, when you read this letter, perhaps we can make a little peace. Like the truce we’ve happily settled into where food is concerned. After years of negotiating, we no longer drug ourselves with it. Because of our collaboration, I’ve drop kicked lots of emotional baggage out of my life and the ensuing 170 pounds that went with it.

But like most complex situations in life, I find myself wielding the weight of a mighty sword with two distinct edges. What do I mean? The good news: I have my life back. The bad news: I have my life back. And now that the realm of food addiction is relatively smooth sailing, I feel the next challenge approaching in the distance…and one I’ve made every effort to avoid these past two decades: men. Actually that’s not entirely true. I didn’t avoid men completely; I did time in a 20-year relationship. What I really avoided was Love. Somewhere in that vast unseen mystery that is 90 percent of my mind, I equate it with pain.

I’ve only been in Love once in my life. There were lots of mini-infatuations along the way…and then, one deep and dizzying, hurling-through-a-distant-galaxy kind of Love where ticking watches and calendar time cease to exist.

Years before he and I met, a tea leaf reader predicted our liaison and its potentcy, reciting his first initial, describing his physical appearance, and announcing the time of year we would meet. She even saw that he’d be wearing a flowing wool muffler around his neck…all this from a clump of wet tea leaves. But sure enough, it came to pass one bitter cold night on a college campus in February.

I don’t have time or energy for the full script, but it was exhilarating, intense, and consumed every part of me. We both dove in full throttle. And I would have done pretty much anything he asked of me, including move to his country, learn his language, and adopt his religion. Only he never asked. Our liaison was also short, less than a year. And he ended it suddenly, with no real explanation. A few months later he transferred to a school on the west coast. To say I was devastated doesn’t come close.

Truly, I put all my eggs in a single basket with him…and he dropped it. And you can imagine what happened with the eggs. A real, ‘all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put me back together again’ scenario. So I died. Went about killing the sexy identity I crafted via Weight Watchers and daily aerobics. I also offed the ivy-league student on the rise, and the traveling adventurer. I ate whatever I wanted with enough frequency that the weight came back and I didn’t have to feel a damn thing. I dropped out of the shiny, prestigious school, and moved back to the town where I grew up and never left.

Since I didn’t like being hurt, the unconscious swung dutifully into action. Did I mention that it operates in the most literal of senses? For example, Attractive=Incoming Men= Pain. The new operating instructions from below deck came loud and clear: Comforting Food=Numbed Feelings+Walls of Fat to Keep Men Away=Safety.

22 years after losing at Love, I rose out of the ashes in a way I never thought I would. There was the repetition of the glorious transformation of another triple-digit weight drop and all the ooohs and aaahs that come with it. No false modesty here, I Love being complimented. But it’s in perspective now and definitely not my daily bread. There were the joys of a shrinking waistline and burgeoning wardrobe…in a rainbow of colors I hadn’t worn since childhood. And eventually, men started looking again. That alone took some adjusting to. I knew I'd better get OK with it or risk another downslide.  And since I really do like dressing in color, I've decided downsliding is not an option this time.

I realize there may come a time when a guy decides to do more than look. Everyone’s asking me if the D-word has started and if not when??? The truth is I don’t know when…I’ve got mixed feelings because I’ve never been adept at it, never did it in high school. It’s always struck me as a forced and painfully hollow ritual. I suppose I’ll know when something feels right. I’m in no hurry. I’ve learned from watching others try and skip the post-break-up grieving process by frantically seeking out a warm body and making huge messes in the interim. Then again, I didn’t work this hard to end up living a monastic existence either. The funny thing is, I’m learning that I don’t need the weight to keep men away. Perhaps the unconscious still senses danger and is emitting a silent but shrill ‘Get the F*ck Away From Me’ vibe I’m not even aware of….sneaky little unconscious….let’s agree to work on that, OK?

That Feeling of Fullness

Fullness doesn't begin to describe the way I felt after ritually stuffing myself with something profoundly caloric, like Italian bread soaked in butter, salad mixing bowls filled with macaroni and cheese, and those super sized spreads where all I had to do was remain cloaked in the privacy of my car, reach my arm a little to the left, grab the paper bag and speed away in a cloud of dust.  Quickly I wanted to forget the emptiness of my life...or sometimes the stress...or sometimes the desperation of the cycle of it all.

People ask me now if I had health problems from being 300 pounds + for 20 years.  I didn't.  Guess coming from healthy stock has its advantages. There was no knee or back pain, or even high blood pressure (much to the dismay of those who were waiting to pounce with their "you've got to think about your health" speeches.)  What I did have were the shackles of fat which kept me away from a lot of life...which also kept the emptiness intact. Because when I was in the cycle, it unavoidably thwarted the life force that naturally longs to course through all of us.  This meant innocuous but important things like relationships were compromised.  Why?  Because I was too knocked out to really connect with people.  I thought I was giving it the old college try, but looking back, much of my time was spent either digesting a binge or planning the next one. Doesn't leave a lot of room for building relationships with others.

So when I recently visited one of my dearest friends on the planet, I was pretty amazed at the contrast - between the time spent with her last weekend vs. my visit three years ago. I've known Aunt Connie since before I could walk or talk.  She was my mom's roommate at Lycoming College and they thankfully never lost touch.  Aunt Connie and I are both Libra to the core, seeking out beauty and pleasure and harmony with a passionate determination.  She has always had an innate sense of how to balance pleasure-seeking while I required a few decades of fine tuning. Aunt Connie's Heart is wide, pulsating, and ever-generous.  Her passion lights up a room like a joyous lightening bolt.  It used to exhaust me, now I delight in it.  And she has this way of making guests feel like royalty.  Little touches like new bottles of shampoo in the bathroom, lavender sachets on the turned down bed, and an elegant spread she assembles within minutes of my arrival as she describes the dance-yoga-pilates class she took yesterday followed by Aunt Connie's review of her latest favorite restaurant, Zero Otto Nove (which she drives me to later to prove her point).

The one and only Dr. Connie Vance, presiding in her kitchen

Perfect heatwave repast, both chilled: sliced green apple and a flawless potato soup (no dairy) recipe from Judith Jones' excellent "Cooking for One"

All around me were the gifts the past 15 months of transformation (from the inside out...I didn't go on a diet this time, that's why it worked). It was swelteringly hot and humid.  I was a little uncomfortable but not irate and moaning. Three years ago, I was irate, moaning, and slumped on her couch fanning myself.

Three years ago, I would have packed some insurance in the form of potato chips or fast food and spent a significant part of my three-hour drive down I-87 eating.  Instead, I pop a few walnuts and chug herbal tea (my constant road companion). I arrive at 1:30 p.m. only slightly hungry (heatwaves sometimes do that to me). She served me the elegant spread above and I savored, no I delighted in it all, from the faint hint of garlic in the potato soup to the mint leaves and the fragrant taste they left in the iced tea.

We talk about life:  her book on mentoring that's just gone to the publisher, my latest travel writing assignment, the latest books she's reading (Aunt Connie usually has 3-4 in progress simultaneously). As usual, she has a verbal list of all the things she'd love us to experience during my visit...if only there were 48 hours in a day.  So we settle for a handful of them that starts with what we both believe to be the best Little Italy in the world - Arthur Avenue in the North Bronx.

It was Aunt Connie who took me on my maiden voyage there during the winter of 2001 and the experience changed me on a neurobiochemical level. Truly the next best thing to actually being in Italia:  there are signs written in Italian that announce the sale of hand-rolled pasta and fresh mozzarella, lyrical notes of spoken Italian ascend above the drone of English on the sidewalks and in cafes, and then there's the food.  I don't have room here to give it the full scope of justice it deserves. I'll just summarize by saying it's all good.

Espresso at Palombo Pastry Shop

I can't help the giddiness.  It happens every time I step onto the Terra Santa known as Arthur Avenue

Gilbert Teitel, Patriarch of Teitel Bros. Imports

http://www.teitelbros.com/

Reuniting with my hero after three interminable years.  He supplies the world with Don Luigi, the best extra virgin olive oil on the planet (I've been known to tote little glass bottles of it to restaurants)

http://www.teitelbros.com/store/shopdisplayproducts.asp?ID=3&Go.x=13&Go.y=17

Dining at Zero Otto Nove, Roberto Pacciulo's charming trattoria named for the area code of his native Salerno

http://www.roberto089.com/

Arugula salad with Peccorino

Meatballs and polenta bathed in mind-blowingly good marinara

Broccoli Rabe - deep emerald, sturdy, and delicious

Eggplant Parm...Roberto-style

The appetizers were too appealing to narrow it down to two...

So we skipped entrees and stopped ourselves at four

No one says no to Roberto's Tiramisu

After dinner, we managed to squeeze in a wine-tasting in Pelham and a major Trader Joe's shopping spree in Scarsdale (that's actually the closet one to Lake George, so I stock up when I'm in Westchester County) before heading home to rest up for a 7 a.m. wake up call because...

A morning at Stone Barns awaited us...

But not before summoning the two non-neogtiables of my mornings: sunny side up eggs and espresso made a little less abrasive with cream. Even a quick breakfast is elegant at Aunt Connie's pied-à-terre.

http://www.stonebarnscenter.org/

It's at this Tarrytown paradise where we toured the greenhouses and fields (which always are in some magnificent stage of pre-harvest blossoming during summer months); took a food memoir writing workshop with the amazing Carol Durst, and later dined on corn soup, string bean salad, and just-picked cherries at the Blue Hill Cafe. Then we shopped the farmers market where I lavished Aunt Connie with blueberries, and she bought me a box of wildcrafted Roobios tea. We sat near some flowers and reminisced about the times she would visit me as when I was a kid growing up in Lake George. How even at age 8 I was fascinated with pink lipstick....and any other powdery smelling treasure I could pull from her quilted make up bag. It was Aunt Connie who taught me how to finely chop onions for the omelets she loved surprising my mother with. She also taught me my first few words in a foreign language (French) and whisked me around Paris on my unforgettable first visit. I guess you could say Aunt Connie has been a kaleidescope in human form...showing me uncountable wonders and ways to enjoy life - even just a drop more. The day was wearing on and she had to get home and grade college papers. I had to drive back to Lake George, my trunk packed with remnants of my travels through Arthur Avenue, Pelham, and Scarsdale. I left our time together feeling very full...and food was only a fraction of it.