Rain or Shine

When I was an adolescent, you would have had to beg, cajole, bribe, order, or trick me into exercising, at least for the most part. I sometimes went for voluntary walks, but that was about the extent of it. Anything else was far more than I wanted to attempt. Which is why I find days like today so fascinating.

To preface, my normal routine these days is to get up, eat breakfast, perform morning ablutions, pat the kitties, exercise, and then catch the bus to work. The exercise can take different forms, but I usually try to get in at least 40 minutes every morning, whether it be going for walks, or working out at home with hand weights and doing sit-ups, etc.

But then there are days like today, where I overslept and didn’t have time for all of that if I wanted to get to work in time for my 8 a.m. meeting. Normally what I do in these situations is walk to work, or at least walk part way, but this morning it was raining. While brushing my teeth, I considered my options. I could skip morning exercise altogether, or I could brave the rain and get in at least some of a walk. In the end, I decided to venture out into the weather. And sheltered within waterproof shoes, rain paints, water resistant jacket, hat, gloves, and umbrella, it wasn’t bad.

Even so, I only got 20 minutes in, which wasn’t long enough. Let me pause right there. I actually thought, “I haven’t exercised enough.” My self of 15 years ago would wonder what world she fell into to be having such thoughts, some surreal, impossible alternate reality. And yet, it’s true that the lack bothered me most of the day, as it bothers me on days that for some reason I’m not able to do any real exercise.

And this is not the first time I’ve ventured out in strange weather. I’ve been known to walk in temperatures down to single digits (depending on wind chill), or in snow, although snow tempts me more to get out cross country skiing. I do draw the line at sleet/freezing rain/dangerous wind chills/mornings when there’s black ice everywhere, but otherwise, I’m often game.

Today, though, I wasn’t quite sure where I’d get any other chance to exercise. My work schedule was hectic enough that I didn’t have any opportunity during lunch, and I had a bunch of other things (like blogging) that I wanted to do in the evening. Then, a little before the end of the day, my tired brain came up with a brilliant solution – I’d walk home. In the rain.

This was actually perfect. I was feeling a little off, a common occurrence on days when my sleep is messed up, and I knew the exercise would help me feel better. Pause again. Exercise would make me feel better. It wouldn’t make me homicidal or suicidal or feel like I was going to collapse with a heart attack or just in a fit of weeping. It would actually be positive.

And it was kind of fun, in a way, dodging the miniature lakes (I didn’t want to test my shoes in water quite that deep), seeing the raindrops clinging to the budding trees, lulled by the patter of rain on my umbrella.

That’s not to say, though, that when I stopped at Rosemont Market and my co-worker offered me a ride the rest of the way that I turned him down. I might have had it been sunny and warm, but with the rain and wind picking up and a piece of my umbrella having just broken, I accepted gladly. I may be obsessed, but I’m not overtly masochistic. At least, not yet. Give me another 10 years, and who knows.

Food and Grief

I’ve been thinking some about food and grief, and how the two are interrelated. One reason was because I recently read Love and Death by Forrest Church, when he wrote about a discussion he had with a couple whose infant daughter had died (p. 31). “’I know one thing,’ the mother added in a bright, clear voice. ‘Now, when someone I know loses a loved one, I’ll be there with a casserole and all the time in the world.’”

That, in turn, reminded me of Kate Braestrup’s Here If You Need Me, and her description of the aftermath of her husband’s death (pp. 53-54).

“A few minutes later, the door bell rang again. This time, I answered it. It was my neighbor, an elderly woman I had exchanged no more than a dozen words with in the ten years I’d lived in Thomaston. She had pot holders on her hands, which held a pan of brownies still hot from the oven, and tears were rolling down her cheeks. ‘I just heard,’ she said.

“That pan of brownies was, it later turned, the leading edge of a tsunami of food that came to my children and me, a way that did not recede for many months after Drew’s death. I didn’t know that my family and I would be fed three meals a day for weeks and weeks…. All I knew was that my neighbor was standing on the front stoop with her brownies and her tears….”

And for myself, when my aunt died by her own hand, some folks I only knew a little from church brought me cookies, because one of them had been in a similar situation.

It made me wonder, why do we have this impulse to feed one another when we’re in the throe of grief, particularly since such extreme emotions can make some of us lose our appetite? Is it just that it’s the only useful thing we can think of? Then I came across an old journal entry that offered another possibility.

On September 11, 2005 I wrote: “I want to write a little about food and Good Grief [by Lolly Winston, about a woman who becomes a widow at the age of 36 and turned to food as an outlet]. [It made] me consider… whether some of my changed relationship to food might have something to do with grief and wanting to assert life…. I’ve discovered these days that I really like to cook and bake, not only for myself but to feed other people…. Is this me wanting to remind myself that I’m alive, and wanting to share it with others?”

I still don’t know if that is any part of the reason for my enjoyment in cooking and baking and feeding others, but I like to think it might be, that this is one way for me to reconnect, to remind myself of the joys I still have, and to find even more delight in sharing them for however long I have breath.

Back in the Kitchen

Maybe it’s not quite as catchy as “back in the saddle”, but it’s what I felt like yesterday when I realized I didn’t have any food and needed to go grocery shopping and do some cooking. But this was far from a bad thing – I was positively relishing it.

It was so lovely to be able to walk to Rosemont Market and survey all the fresh produce. The trick was not to buy everything in sight, although I was tempted. Still, while I can eat a lot, even I can’t eat that much without it going bad, so with great self-control I limited myself (mostly) to what was on my list.

And then, the joy of coming home and actually cooking something for myself! It made me think about people who don’t cook, who always eat out or eat pre-packaged meals, and I simply cannot comprehend it. Many people comment about the amount of time it takes to prepare food, although I actually found that eating out meals takes longer. I suppose that’s why people go for fast food.

For me, though, the time it takes to make is part of the enjoyment of the process. Preparing food, singing along with my iPod, reaching instinctively for all my implements without having to think about it, hearing the crisp crunch of vegetables, seeing the rainbow of colors – red, yellow, green, a whole rainbow – the sizzle of the pan, the mingling aromas wafting up to tempt me.

And so, back in the kitchen, I am enamored yet again with food, with the infinite possibilities, with the taste and texture and sheer beauty of it. Much as I enjoyed trying Indian fare, this is what I most love, the process from start to finish. Perhaps that simply means I now need to start cooking some Indian food.

Food in India

The whole food experience in India has been quite fascinating, and a reminder to me of how much food is part of a cultural experience. At the Gandhi Ashram, I saw how Gandhi proposed that people should only eat for sustenance, not for enjoyment or any other reason, but I’ve never been able to manage that. I suppose it would be easier if I could, but then my time here wouldn’t be so enjoyable.

For instance, I wouldn’t have bothered to try some of the special sweets yesterday that were prepared in honor of the Holi holiday, the Festival of Colors. One was a coconut ball that wasn’t as sweet as I thought it would be but was very good (I’m not sure what else it was made with), and another was a milk-based dish with rice and sugar. I didn’t have a lot of it, but it would have been a shame to be so strict as to not try a little. After all, who knows if I’ll ever be here again, and even if I am, the odds of it being around that holiday are extraordinarily slim.

That’s also why I’ve been enjoying trying various Indian cuisines. I didn’t realize until I came here just how different the foods were across regions/states. Here in Ahmedabad, which is in the Gujarat state, the food is unlike anything I’d get in the states because it’s not in Southern India. It seems that all Indian restaurants at home are based on south Indian cooking, which is rice-based. The foods here are more lentil and bread based, without much in the way of curries and no sign of vindaloo. Of course, even the south Indian food that I’ve tried here isn’t quite what I’d expect, but it still tastes good. Thankfully I can handle some spice, since what they consider spicy and what Mainers consider spicy are vastly different.

It’s also interesting that they tend to serve something sweet as part of the regular meal, not as something at the end, so you can eat it whenever you like. Kind of a nice idea. And this particular state is dry! It never occurred to me to that other countries would have dry states, and in fact this is the only one in India. Apparently you can get a special permit to consume alcohol in public places, but otherwise you have to remain in your home for that. It actually works very well for me, given that I don’t drink, and it makes the streets quite safe – well, as safe as they can be, considering Indian driving habits, and the prevalence of cows, dogs, goats, camels, donkeys, etc. wandering the streets.

I’ve also learned that some people have a tradition that women should only eat certain foods after giving birth, to make sure they produce good milk and to help lose weight. This includes not having any salt, which my friend Jois’s wife isn’t very excited about. She keeps reminding herself that it’s only for 3 months and it’s for the health of their son, but I’m guessing she’s getting pretty bored with it.

Jois himself is unusual because he eats eggs, whereas most vegetarians in India don’t, although they will eat cheese and drink milk. Many Indians are vegetarian in some way or other, since the Hindu beliefs promote treating life as sacred. Some eat fish, or like Jois have eggs, but others are even more extreme. Depending on what religious sect they belong to, they won’t eat anything that’s a root vegetable or plant. For at least some, the idea is that by pulling a plant from the ground, you’re hurting various bacteria and who knows what else as part of that process.

All these new things about food and their cultures, and still I have four days to go. I look forward to seeing what else I might discover and learn.

Going to the Gym

Yesterday I was typing up some old journal entries and came across the below one on my thoughts about going to the gym, and it amused me enough that I thought I'd share it.

May 16, 2005

I had my fitness re-evaluation today, and it reminded me of something I’ve been thinking about for a while, which is how very strange the concept of going to a gym is. We pay money to deliberately stretch and tear our muscles, trying to cultivate pain, and for what goal? To look better. Of course [that’s not always the reason, or all of it], although [it’s often] a large part. Some of us do go in order to be stronger, to ward of other problems, and some go to recuperate from injuries.

But it just strikes me as increasingly strange that so many jobs these days are so sedentary, and consume so much of our time, that we have to resort to these artificial means to stay healthy. It would seem to make more sense to… try to create jobs that involve some form of physical activity, but that raises all sorts of other problems.

How alien this would all seem to a farmer, or anyone in previous centuries for whom manual labor was simply part of everyday life. What odd measures we must take, resorting to the use of machines that resemble nothing so much as torture devices, and may sometimes feel like them. And we’re willing to go, grunt and sweat and strain and disrobe and shower – all in the company of perfect strangers. Not everyone is, of course, but enough, and it becomes a strange, communal activity, this abuse of our bodies in the pursuit of artificially gained strength. Odd.

Food and Love

When I was younger, I often wished that my mom’s parents were the sort of grandparents who gave me cookies when I visited. I thought it might help me feel like they cared about me. Whatever their feelings were, giving me cookies was the last thing they would do, critical as they were of my weight.

Then there are holidays like Valentine’s Day. With chocolate abounding everywhere, as well as heart-shaped and red-colored foods and restaurant offerings for couples, I feel like I’m being bombarded with the idea that food and love are synonymous. Contrarily, those who are trying to lose weight are told to remember that food is not a substitute for love. But how are we to remember that, when so much reminds us that the two are inextricably entwined?

I was thinking about this particularly in relation to some commercials for Jif peanut butter. One shows a strapping young dad industriously hammering away at a treehouse for his daughter. She, seeing all his work, goes into the kitchen and solemnly makes a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for him (with Jif, of course). When she offers it up on a plate, he’s touched. “For me?” “It’s what you always make for me,” she points out. (Or words to that effect.) And then we’re reminded that “Choosy Moms (and Dads) choose Jif.” Another shows a young women at college receiving a care package from her mother, part of which includes a container of Jif peanut butter.

The implication, of course, is that these parents show their love through use of food, specifically Jif. There are also commercials for Cheerios that advocate the importance of eating whole grains to be “heart healthy”. The sub-text is that it’s not only the physical heart involved, but also the feelings of the heart. You wouldn’t give someone a box of Cheerios to eat for breakfast if you didn’t love them.

While these are clever advertising campaigns, I don’t think anyone can deny that part of the way we show someone we love them is the food we share. If it’s someone we don’t care about, we might just throw whatever together and call it good. But if it’s someone we love, or want to impress, we cook attentively, taking care with every detail, pouring love into the creation of the food in the hopes that it will come through.

The tragedy is that those who are overweight are often denied this. Many times I, at least, was uncomfortable sharing meals with people, whether loved or not, instead experiencing guilt and anxiety, wondering if their feelings would change or be disappointed by seeing what went into my mouth. Even if I could let myself enjoy the moment, later I agonized over it, berating myself for succumbing to the temptation of a shared meal, knowing it would mean added pounds and even more focus on my weight.

What I would love to see is a change in attitude. Not how we prepare food for or with those we care about – that, I believe, is intrinsic to being human. Rather, it would be wonderful to remove the stigma attached to eating for those who are overweight, so that they don’t feel that sense of loneliness or guilt, and can instead experience the deep joy of sharing something as necessary and delectable as food with those they love.

Food Habits

I sometimes forget, going about my normal routines, just how abnormal those routines truly are, primarily in relation to food. In the process of my losing weight and thinking more about it, I’ve become more and more focused on what I eat, not just from a caloric/nutritional perspective, but also from a societal/environmental/sustainable perspective. I’ve learned how to accommodate this quite well on my own, when I have access to my kitchen and known food sources. When I travel, though, I’m forced to realize just how difficult I make things for myself. It reminds me of Michael Pollan’s comment in In Defense of Food, that the question of what to eat for dinner has become exceedingly complicated.

One thing is that I’m picky in a moral/ethical way about the meat that I eat. I won’t eat commercially raised beef (thank Fast Food Nation for that one). When possible I also try to make sure that other meat or fish I eat has been sustainably raised, and not fed a nasty blend of antibiotics, hormones, corn, offal, and who knows what else. If in doubt, I tend to go vegetarian, but it can be difficult to find good vegetarian meals that aren’t full of cheese, cream, or milk, which I shouldn’t eat, or at least much of.

Additionally, I try to maintain a balance between carbohydrates, fats, and proteins, largely according to the Schwarzbein Diet. The funny thing is these days I try to make sure I have enough fat, as opposed to not having enough, providing, of course, that it’s the good type of fat. I also try to make sure that I have some fat whenever I have some carbs, since it’s easier to digest that way. But I don’t want to eat too many carbohydrates at once. When I do, I notice that I get sleepy a couple of hours later, and have a hard time focusing, whereas if I have just enough, I have consistent levels of energy. That’s probably also because I make sure to have enough protein – but that can be difficult to get without eating much meat or dairy.

On top of all that, I can only eat so much. These days I try to limit myself to about 1,200 calories per day, so around 400 calories/meal. It becomes a real high-wire act, trying to get enough of everything with that limited number of calories, and have it nicely balanced. Also, I can’t forget to mention getting in all my veggies, and for me, it does tend to be a lot.

Of course I don’t manage to do all of this when I’m traveling, although I do my best. I bring my own food for breakfast and snacks, I research restaurants ahead of time to find ones that focus on organic and locally/sustainably grown foods, I eat fish where possible (although having recently learned that farmed salmon are now being fed corn makes me wonder about that), and I exercise as much as I can to work off the excess calories I know I’ll be eating.

But it’s not easy, and I sometimes wonder if it’s worth it. It would be so much simpler to just eat whatever I wanted, when I wanted, and forget about the rest. Times that I do, though, I remember why it’s not a good plan. It makes me feel lousy. Physically, I feel over-full, my stomach complains at me, I don’t sleep well, and I struggle for days afterwards to get back on track. Morally, I know that if I only adhere to my principles when they’re easy, they don’t mean a thing.

The result is that I can’t bring myself to make it less challenging. My only consolation is knowing that other people are starting to think in similar ways, so that I can find restaurants that supply the types of foods I’m looking for, and some places are starting to publish their nutritional information. It’s still not easy, but it’s becoming slightly more so. I know we have a long way to go, but it gives me hope that in time it won’t be quite so difficult, and that it also means I’m not the only one thinking about these things.