In the pilot episode of Firefly (one of my favorite series of all time), Shepherd Book pays for his passage on the spaceship Serenity by sharing some produce he’d grown. Among his offerings were strawberries, although we as viewers don’t know this until we see Kaylee, the engineer, in the kitchen. We first see her handling a small box as if it’s the most precious item in the world. When she opens it and pulls out a large, luscious, perfectly ripe strawberry, her expression is childlike in its wonder and delight. And when she takes a bite - ! She is transported into bliss, and we know she will savor each morsel of that delectable berry.
This image returned to me recently as I experienced my own strawberry delight. I started the morning by going berry picking with a friend, each of us picking close to ten pounds. I then spent quite a while cleaning and husking many of them for freezing, but also eating quite a few. The imperfect ones were my primary sustenance, not wanting to put something bad into the mix for storage, but a few perfect ones joined them, making my belly gurgle with contentment, my fingers and arms pinkish from the juice.
And so I thought about how we value food. For Kaylee, on a space ship, anything fresh was a welcome relief from canned or dehydrated or frozen foods. But for those of us land-bound, in a society where we’re so divorced from the origins of our food, how much do we value it? Do we truly understand how important it is to us? It’s easy enough to go to the supermarket and buy frozen strawberries any time of year, but if you do that, do you truly understanding everything that goes into the production of that food? How much do you appreciate it, when it’s always available and you have no direct connection?
I think about this a lot in general, but strawberries strike me particularly because for a long time I couldn’t eat them. When I was very little, I got hives if I ate them, and for years I avoided them assiduously because I didn’t know what my reaction would be. I don’t even remember quite when I discovered that strawberries were no longer forbidden fruit, but whenever it was, I was instantly smitten.
I probably most appreciated them first in things like strawberry-rhubarb pie, or fresh strawberry jam on homemade bread. And I would be lying if I said I didn’t still like those forms of the fruit. Like Kaylee, though, I’ve come to appreciate the individual berries as well. Part of it is taste – although blueberries still edge out as my favorite berry, it’s hard to beat the sweet, juicy burst of flavor from a strawberry, warmed by the sun, its texture firm but yielding, the slight crunch of the seeds.
But part of it is also from knowing first-hand what it’s like to pick and prepare them. I’ve still never grown them, but somehow they seem even better knowing that I took the time to seek out each berry, turning over leaves, spending an hour in the hot sun, and then another two hours sorting them.
We can’t all learn to appreciate food by being on a spaceship, or by harvesting it ourselves. But I am trying to make more of an effort to imagine what goes into my food before I eat it, in the hopes that I, too, will be able to savor each bite of all my food as much as Kaylee did her strawberry.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Short Sleeves
It was warm enough the other day that I wore a short-sleeved top to work. During one interminable conference call, I stretched my arms over my head – and for the first time in a long while I actually looked closely at them. It might have been that the scars were particularly shiny under the fluorescent lights, or that I just recently stumbled across the journal entry from 2005 when I first entertained the notion of cosmetic surgery. For whatever reason, since my brain was not immediately necessary for my call, I took a moment to admire my arms and reflect on the fact that I could go for months without noticing them.
The smoothness is what I most appreciate. My arms will never be small, but I doubt they would have been even had I never been heavy. Of course, my weight gain inflated them all out of proportion, and in those days, I went out of my way, even to the point of discomfort from heat, to avoid short sleeves. I didn’t want to expose anyone, including myself, to that unsightly display.
Even after I lost weight, I was frustrated by and self-conscious about my arms. I remember once at the gym, where I was wearing short sleeves, that a woman asked me, “Did you used to weigh a lot more than you do now?”
I was startled. “Yes, actually.”
She smiled at my surprise. “You know how I know? Because of this.” She lightly touched the flesh pooling around my elbow, skin loose and wrinkled and baggy. “Otherwise I’d never guess.”
I tried so hard to get rid of that evidence, on my arms, legs, and stomach, but to no avail. I finally decided in 2006 to at least have a consultation for cosmetic surgery, and I told the doctor what I’d tried to do to slim and tone.
Looking at my problem areas, she shook her head. “That’s loose skin. No matter how much you exercise, that will never go away.”
I was a bit surprised at my elation. Shouldn’t I be depressed at hearing that? But I quickly realized that my relief stemmed from knowing I hadn’t done anything wrong; it was simply that my body was a bit too stretched. It helped me decide that I didn’t want my weight history revealed so clearly by short sleeves, so I had arm lifts done. (I didn’t feel the need for leg lifts, which could have damaged nerves and wouldn’t result in what I wanted anyway, or a tummy tuck, since that was an area that would almost never be visible anyway.)
Later the surgeon told me they’d removed almost 12 centimeters of excess skin from each arm. That’s around 4 ½ inches. Once I healed and the scars faded, I was so excited by the tautness of my skin, by my arm not drastically changing shape as I lifted and lowered it. Now it’s my norm, and I’ve become so accustomed to it that I forget what it was like before, that I once worried about wearing short sleeves. Admittedly, I still don’t like wearing shorts, and bathing suits can make me cringe if I think too much about it, but at least I can appreciate and still enjoy my newer arms.
Oh, and the doctor who did the surgery? She’s the same surgeon who performed my mom’s mastectomy and reconstruction, a connection I realized only after I decided on going with her. Small world.
The smoothness is what I most appreciate. My arms will never be small, but I doubt they would have been even had I never been heavy. Of course, my weight gain inflated them all out of proportion, and in those days, I went out of my way, even to the point of discomfort from heat, to avoid short sleeves. I didn’t want to expose anyone, including myself, to that unsightly display.
Even after I lost weight, I was frustrated by and self-conscious about my arms. I remember once at the gym, where I was wearing short sleeves, that a woman asked me, “Did you used to weigh a lot more than you do now?”
I was startled. “Yes, actually.”
She smiled at my surprise. “You know how I know? Because of this.” She lightly touched the flesh pooling around my elbow, skin loose and wrinkled and baggy. “Otherwise I’d never guess.”
I tried so hard to get rid of that evidence, on my arms, legs, and stomach, but to no avail. I finally decided in 2006 to at least have a consultation for cosmetic surgery, and I told the doctor what I’d tried to do to slim and tone.
Looking at my problem areas, she shook her head. “That’s loose skin. No matter how much you exercise, that will never go away.”
I was a bit surprised at my elation. Shouldn’t I be depressed at hearing that? But I quickly realized that my relief stemmed from knowing I hadn’t done anything wrong; it was simply that my body was a bit too stretched. It helped me decide that I didn’t want my weight history revealed so clearly by short sleeves, so I had arm lifts done. (I didn’t feel the need for leg lifts, which could have damaged nerves and wouldn’t result in what I wanted anyway, or a tummy tuck, since that was an area that would almost never be visible anyway.)
Later the surgeon told me they’d removed almost 12 centimeters of excess skin from each arm. That’s around 4 ½ inches. Once I healed and the scars faded, I was so excited by the tautness of my skin, by my arm not drastically changing shape as I lifted and lowered it. Now it’s my norm, and I’ve become so accustomed to it that I forget what it was like before, that I once worried about wearing short sleeves. Admittedly, I still don’t like wearing shorts, and bathing suits can make me cringe if I think too much about it, but at least I can appreciate and still enjoy my newer arms.
Oh, and the doctor who did the surgery? She’s the same surgeon who performed my mom’s mastectomy and reconstruction, a connection I realized only after I decided on going with her. Small world.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
"One Might Be Enough"
Last night I attended a graduation party for two of my cousins on my mom’s side. It was in the evening, so the primary foods supplied were desserts: vanilla ice cream with options of different syrups and crushed Oreo double-stuff cookies; vanilla cake with vanilla frosting; oatmeal raisin cookies; fruit pizza (not as weird as it sounds, basically a sugar cookie-like base, with a spreading of yogurt/cream and topped with cut-up fruit); brownies; and little skewers of fruit. But my grandmother, Mèmere, brought a vegetable tray with red and orange peppers, broccoli, cauliflower, cucumber and celery.
Most people immediately homed in on the desserts, and I did have a piece of the fruit pizza, and some of the fruit. But I also munched on the veggies, and while I was eating I told Mèmere about my thoughts on becoming a weight-loss coach.
“Now tell me,” she said, “from your highest weight, how much did you lose?”
I know I’ve answered this question before, but given the number of grandchildren she has, and how little she sees me, I can’t be surprised she doesn’t remember. “One hundred thirty-five pounds,” I answered, crunching away on the celery hearts.
She shook her head in amazement. “If you don’t mind, I want to ask you something personal.” I nodded encouragingly, unable to imagine what sort of question she would ask me in a fairly public gathering that would make me not want to answer. “I want to know if you remember one time when we went to Sebago Lake.” I shook my head, although I had a vague memory of a family gathering there one long-ago summer.
She continued, “I was sitting next to you on the beach, and you were eating two hamburgers. You were already very heavy, and I said to you, ‘Erica, do you think maybe one might be enough?’ But you got a bit angry and just shook your head and said, ‘No, I’m here to enjoy myself, so I’m going to eat what I want.’”
“I don’t really remember,” I admitted, although it definitely sounded like something I might have said – and something she would have said.
“And then you and Jeremiah went off somewhere and had whole bags of cookies.” She smiled. “But here you are. Now you know that you really don’t have to eat that much, and you’re thinking of telling other people how to eat.”
That was when I got angry. “I want to help people if that’s what they want,” I clarified.
I don’t know if she actually heard me or not – her hearing isn’t the best of times, and other people came into the kitchen then. She just said, “That’s why I brought what I did, to make sure there are options.”
I debated pursuing the matter, but I decided it wasn’t worth it. Instead, on my way home, I considered why I was angry. Partly it was because her comment reminded me of a very difficult and unpleasant time in my life, when I certainly wouldn’t have been hovering over the vegetable tray. I might have been like one of my other cousins last night, who ate too many sweets and then ate something healthy to try to soothe my upset stomach, but even that would have been pushing it.
But it was more than that. It was the sense that she felt so vindicated, yet without acknowledging her role in why I turned to food for enjoyment at a family picnic. It certainly wasn’t fun for me to visit with my grandparents, who made me feel like I was a bad person because I weighed so much, as if I wasn’t worth anything until or unless I lost weight. The simple fact that she still tells me every time I visit how good I look continues to emphasize that, although we get along better in general now.
The other thing was the implication that I intend to tell other people what and how to eat, which is completely the opposite of what I want to do. My goal is simply to share my experience and what I’ve learned, and help people determine what works best for them. I am very willing to help people figure out eating methods and strategies, and exercise routines, etc., but I don’t ever want to be in a position of telling someone what or how much to eat.
Knowing that, I can let go of the anger. Instead, I’m left with a bit of sadness that in so many fundamental ways, I don’t think Mèmere will ever understand what I went through, and in some ways still go through. I just hope that I can help others get to the same place as me, even if it’s in a different way, and without making them feel defensive about what goes in their mouth. One might be enough, but that has to be their choice, as it has become mine.
Most people immediately homed in on the desserts, and I did have a piece of the fruit pizza, and some of the fruit. But I also munched on the veggies, and while I was eating I told Mèmere about my thoughts on becoming a weight-loss coach.
“Now tell me,” she said, “from your highest weight, how much did you lose?”
I know I’ve answered this question before, but given the number of grandchildren she has, and how little she sees me, I can’t be surprised she doesn’t remember. “One hundred thirty-five pounds,” I answered, crunching away on the celery hearts.
She shook her head in amazement. “If you don’t mind, I want to ask you something personal.” I nodded encouragingly, unable to imagine what sort of question she would ask me in a fairly public gathering that would make me not want to answer. “I want to know if you remember one time when we went to Sebago Lake.” I shook my head, although I had a vague memory of a family gathering there one long-ago summer.
She continued, “I was sitting next to you on the beach, and you were eating two hamburgers. You were already very heavy, and I said to you, ‘Erica, do you think maybe one might be enough?’ But you got a bit angry and just shook your head and said, ‘No, I’m here to enjoy myself, so I’m going to eat what I want.’”
“I don’t really remember,” I admitted, although it definitely sounded like something I might have said – and something she would have said.
“And then you and Jeremiah went off somewhere and had whole bags of cookies.” She smiled. “But here you are. Now you know that you really don’t have to eat that much, and you’re thinking of telling other people how to eat.”
That was when I got angry. “I want to help people if that’s what they want,” I clarified.
I don’t know if she actually heard me or not – her hearing isn’t the best of times, and other people came into the kitchen then. She just said, “That’s why I brought what I did, to make sure there are options.”
I debated pursuing the matter, but I decided it wasn’t worth it. Instead, on my way home, I considered why I was angry. Partly it was because her comment reminded me of a very difficult and unpleasant time in my life, when I certainly wouldn’t have been hovering over the vegetable tray. I might have been like one of my other cousins last night, who ate too many sweets and then ate something healthy to try to soothe my upset stomach, but even that would have been pushing it.
But it was more than that. It was the sense that she felt so vindicated, yet without acknowledging her role in why I turned to food for enjoyment at a family picnic. It certainly wasn’t fun for me to visit with my grandparents, who made me feel like I was a bad person because I weighed so much, as if I wasn’t worth anything until or unless I lost weight. The simple fact that she still tells me every time I visit how good I look continues to emphasize that, although we get along better in general now.
The other thing was the implication that I intend to tell other people what and how to eat, which is completely the opposite of what I want to do. My goal is simply to share my experience and what I’ve learned, and help people determine what works best for them. I am very willing to help people figure out eating methods and strategies, and exercise routines, etc., but I don’t ever want to be in a position of telling someone what or how much to eat.
Knowing that, I can let go of the anger. Instead, I’m left with a bit of sadness that in so many fundamental ways, I don’t think Mèmere will ever understand what I went through, and in some ways still go through. I just hope that I can help others get to the same place as me, even if it’s in a different way, and without making them feel defensive about what goes in their mouth. One might be enough, but that has to be their choice, as it has become mine.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Am I Hungry?
I’ve been considering taking a course to be a facilitator for a program called “Am I Hungry?”, based on the book Eat What You Love, Love What You Eat by Michelle May. As a first step, I’ve been reading the book, and it’s reminded me of some of the things that I learned along my own weight-loss journey, as well as giving me some new things to think about.
What’s most interesting, though, is simply the central concept of the book – that we should eat only when we’re hungry. It sounds like such a simple thing, but most of us don’t do it. Or at least, most of us who struggle with weight don’t. As I wrote about initial months of weight loss:
“Part of my task, then, was to learn to work with my body, particularly in my approach to changing my eating habits. Some diets, for instance, advocate eating small amounts on a more regular basis, so that you’re never starving and never want to eat huge amounts of food. Others advocate to only eat when you’re hungry, but even those discourage you from getting to the point of being ravenous, because then you’ll eat anything and everything in sight.
“I suspect everyone has to find what works best for them. For me, I discovered the hard way that if I ate small amounts to stave off hunger, it actually seemed to increase the amount that I could eat, because I never felt really full, either. I therefore decided on the other approach, but in doing so, I had to start understanding when I was actually hungry as opposed to when I simply wanted to eat something, or I was tricked into thinking I was hungry.
“It didn’t seem like it should be that difficult, but somehow it was. In our society, we’re so often bombarded with images and tantalizing advertisements for food that it’s easy to misconstrue a desire for a particular food with actual hunger. If you smell popcorn, or chocolate, or see a bag of Doritos open on the counter, and your stomach rumbles and your mouth waters, surely you must be hungry, right? Not necessarily, unfortunately, as I started to realize.
“I also began to learn other things about my body and hunger. In what seemed the epitome of unfairness, if I overate, I sometimes had a false sense of hunger or an increased desire to eat. It took a long time to distinguish this from true hunger, and even now it can be hard to separate the two. It's as if, once I've over-indulged once, my body thinks that I'm suddenly free of the “famine” I’ve imposed on myself. This makes me want even more food, my body trying to store up for a starvation that won't come. But I learned that if I wait a little, distract myself with a glass of water or piece of hard candy or by chewing gum, and the feeling goes away, then it’s just my body playing insidious tricks on me. On the other hand, if it does not go away, or I literally can't stop thinking about food or calculating the amount of time left until my next scheduled meal, then I haven't eaten enough.
“I have also found hunger and sleepiness to masquerade for and impact each other. If I eat too much, or too close to bedtime, I don't sleep very well, restless with the energy of all those calories. Other times overeating can make me feel sleepy during the day (anyone who's experienced the afternoon after a full Thanksgiving meal will likely be familiar with this phenomenon). The tricky part is that sometimes if I haven't eaten enough, I also feel drowsy, my body shutting down to conserve energy.
“It's hard to distinguish between the two types of sleepiness at times, although these days I'm better at diagnosing the strange empty feeling inside if it's induced by lack of food. What confused me then, and still does, is that this doesn't feel like hunger. I don't hear any rumblings or growling, or feel a gnawing pit in my stomach as I do at other times when I feel like I'm starving, just this odd lethargy and inability to focus.
“And under-eating can also make me sleep poorly. I'd never understood the concept of a midnight snack before I started losing weight; I never consumed so few calories that this was a problem. It was absolutely bizarre, the first time I woke in the middle of the night with my stomach tight and painful, and I had to eat something before I could go back to sleep. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, it made my next day extremely difficult, because I was tired and then ate more, hoping that the calories or sugar would help me stay awake, since I don't do caffeine. Eating just enough is a very fine balance, and one that is a constant struggle.”
Even now, it’s sometimes a challenge, but what I do like about May’s approach is that she doesn’t say you can never eat certain foods, or eat when you’re not hungry, or overeat. Mostly she emphasizes that we just need to be mindful of it, and make it our choice. I’ll save my comments about the difficulty of making that choice for another entry – but the key thing is that I now can recognize when I’m hungry, and that has definitely been a key to my own weight-loss. And I suspect it would have been easier if I had read her book, or gone through her program, when I first began the whole process, instead of having to figure things out for myself. Ah, well. We live and learn.
What’s most interesting, though, is simply the central concept of the book – that we should eat only when we’re hungry. It sounds like such a simple thing, but most of us don’t do it. Or at least, most of us who struggle with weight don’t. As I wrote about initial months of weight loss:
“Part of my task, then, was to learn to work with my body, particularly in my approach to changing my eating habits. Some diets, for instance, advocate eating small amounts on a more regular basis, so that you’re never starving and never want to eat huge amounts of food. Others advocate to only eat when you’re hungry, but even those discourage you from getting to the point of being ravenous, because then you’ll eat anything and everything in sight.
“I suspect everyone has to find what works best for them. For me, I discovered the hard way that if I ate small amounts to stave off hunger, it actually seemed to increase the amount that I could eat, because I never felt really full, either. I therefore decided on the other approach, but in doing so, I had to start understanding when I was actually hungry as opposed to when I simply wanted to eat something, or I was tricked into thinking I was hungry.
“It didn’t seem like it should be that difficult, but somehow it was. In our society, we’re so often bombarded with images and tantalizing advertisements for food that it’s easy to misconstrue a desire for a particular food with actual hunger. If you smell popcorn, or chocolate, or see a bag of Doritos open on the counter, and your stomach rumbles and your mouth waters, surely you must be hungry, right? Not necessarily, unfortunately, as I started to realize.
“I also began to learn other things about my body and hunger. In what seemed the epitome of unfairness, if I overate, I sometimes had a false sense of hunger or an increased desire to eat. It took a long time to distinguish this from true hunger, and even now it can be hard to separate the two. It's as if, once I've over-indulged once, my body thinks that I'm suddenly free of the “famine” I’ve imposed on myself. This makes me want even more food, my body trying to store up for a starvation that won't come. But I learned that if I wait a little, distract myself with a glass of water or piece of hard candy or by chewing gum, and the feeling goes away, then it’s just my body playing insidious tricks on me. On the other hand, if it does not go away, or I literally can't stop thinking about food or calculating the amount of time left until my next scheduled meal, then I haven't eaten enough.
“I have also found hunger and sleepiness to masquerade for and impact each other. If I eat too much, or too close to bedtime, I don't sleep very well, restless with the energy of all those calories. Other times overeating can make me feel sleepy during the day (anyone who's experienced the afternoon after a full Thanksgiving meal will likely be familiar with this phenomenon). The tricky part is that sometimes if I haven't eaten enough, I also feel drowsy, my body shutting down to conserve energy.
“It's hard to distinguish between the two types of sleepiness at times, although these days I'm better at diagnosing the strange empty feeling inside if it's induced by lack of food. What confused me then, and still does, is that this doesn't feel like hunger. I don't hear any rumblings or growling, or feel a gnawing pit in my stomach as I do at other times when I feel like I'm starving, just this odd lethargy and inability to focus.
“And under-eating can also make me sleep poorly. I'd never understood the concept of a midnight snack before I started losing weight; I never consumed so few calories that this was a problem. It was absolutely bizarre, the first time I woke in the middle of the night with my stomach tight and painful, and I had to eat something before I could go back to sleep. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, it made my next day extremely difficult, because I was tired and then ate more, hoping that the calories or sugar would help me stay awake, since I don't do caffeine. Eating just enough is a very fine balance, and one that is a constant struggle.”
Even now, it’s sometimes a challenge, but what I do like about May’s approach is that she doesn’t say you can never eat certain foods, or eat when you’re not hungry, or overeat. Mostly she emphasizes that we just need to be mindful of it, and make it our choice. I’ll save my comments about the difficulty of making that choice for another entry – but the key thing is that I now can recognize when I’m hungry, and that has definitely been a key to my own weight-loss. And I suspect it would have been easier if I had read her book, or gone through her program, when I first began the whole process, instead of having to figure things out for myself. Ah, well. We live and learn.
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