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Bye Bye Birdie

11/27/2014

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“My sister invited us for Thanksgiving” my husband Brian said, grinning like he’d won the lottery. “The whole weekend, and my cousins’ families too. The kids are going to have a blast!”

     The possibility that I would have a blast, however, was questionable. We’d been going up to his sister Wendy’s house for Thanksgiving ever since my twins were born. This would be my eighth year as designated cook for the extended weekend. And like a designated driver, it was not for my love of the activity that I volunteered; it was simply a desire to avoid disaster that had me take control.

     As I contemplated our first Thanksgiving meal at Wendy’s house, I was a bit concerned that while my family indulged in a five-star food extravaganza, my husband’s family could conceivably be consuming a meal inspired by a Swanson frozen dinner entrée. Envisioning a canned assortment of diced starches named Vegetable Medley, I picked up a knife.

     Should I turn it on myself, or wield it against some butternut squash?

     These were my options.

     Fortunately, my survival instinct kicked in and we feasted like kings in a formal dining room overlooking the ocean. My brother-in-law dutifully toasted his wife, thanking her for the lovely meal and for hosting the affair. I shoved a few forkfuls in my mouth and then rose to clear the dishes, wrap up the food, and drop into a coma some time around 11:00 pm.

     “It was just fantastic to be all together like this. I think this should be a new family tradition!” Wendy had said after our first Thanksgiving.

     And so it was. Each year, like the year before, we would travel up to Massachusetts where I would plant myself in the kitchen for so long I grew roots.

     But this year would be different.

     This Thanksgiving would be Wendy’s last. Diagnosed with stomach cancer and in the final stages of this terminal disease, she would not live to see another bountiful table surrounded by her family. I wanted to prepare this meal to give thanks for the fantastic tradition she had begun. And so, I loaded up the minivan with my husband, the kids, some groceries, and the spirit of gratitude for which this holiday is named. 

     Thanksgiving morning as I was preparing a bowl of hot cereal for my kids, my sister-in-law bustled into the kitchen. “I’ve already put the turkey in so all we need to do are some side dishes. Here’s what I thought we’d make,” she said as she pulled out a half dozen pages torn from The New York Times and Gourmet Magazine. There were a whole lot of directions. And I don’t really do directions. Still, I always looked forward to cooking together. “I thought you could get them started and I’ll be back to help after my swim,” she said in her easy, breezy style.

      Help?

     She gave me a little squeeze on the shoulder and departed, leaving me alone with a pile of culinary ambition, my menacing eight-year-old twin boys, and their five-year-old raised-by-wolves sister, who were just now loading oatmeal missiles onto their spoons.  Then, as though someone had yelled “And action!” The Cousins began filing into the kitchen, dodging the now air-bound whole grains as they asked what was for breakfast. Apparently, my standing closest to the counter made me It. And once you’re tagged, you’re It, touch black, no penny tax, no going back. We all know the rules. I dutifully responded to their requests, spinning out buttered bagels like a pitching machine. But for a minute there, I got the spirit of gratitude knocked out of me.

     After breakfast, I cleared the plates left behind by the morning rush and returned to the recipe pages I had been given. This here was some fancy food with names I can’t pronounce phonetically and ingredients that I’m not even sure are really food like say, violet petals. And then there were those pesky directions involving techniques that were somewhat beyond the scope of my incredibly masterful Mix It Up and Flip It Over.

    The thing about Technical Food is that it requires Technical Devices, which technically, we didn’t have. Basics like a sharp knife, a carrot scraper, or a can opener were nowhere to be found, let alone electrically powered gadgets like a mixer or food processor. A meal prepared in this kitchen was made in the spirit of Girl Scouts on an overnight cookout, stopping just short of rubbing two sticks together to make a fire.

     I searched through the recipe pages for something limited to a mere twelve steps and recited the Serenity Prayer:

     God, grant me the serenity to skip the things I cannot make, the courage to choose the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

     I rifled through the recipes and paused at Chocolate Meringue Cream Pie. Just like me to start my technical binge with dessert.

     Step 1. Melt chocolate in a double boiler.

     I filled a saucepan with water and covered it with a handle-less frying pan.

     Step 2. Wisk in cream and sugar.

     I forked it.

     Step 3. Separate eggs for meringue.

     It now occurred to me that whipping up a meringue by hand would be an activity of Olympic proportions. I had not trained for this event. I trembled; a fork in my throbbing hand as I assaulted a bowl of foamy egg whites.

     Faster, faster, I must produce speed, wind, centrifugal force. Meringue these eggs. Do it for Wendy!

     My biceps bulged as I flexed and rotated my wrist at top speed for nearly thirty minutes, at which point I became concerned that my right forearm would become disproportionately large. I attempted to switch into left gear to even out my limbs but this proved to be a bad decision as the barely frothy egg whites leapt from the bowl and slid in a mucousy trail from the counter to the floor.

     No meringue for you today. I thought of Wendy. No meringue, ever.

     As promised, the Girl Scout leader returned from her swim just in time to see me scooping up the egg whites. I apologized for my inability to be a human Cuisinart and poured the remains into the drain, watching the disaster slip down the dark tunnel along with my heart. Wendy gestured a Don’t-Worry-About-It wave and opened the oven to check on the 27-pound turkey.

     “Oh no.” she said.

     I want to say emphatically that “Oh no” is not what you want to hear when you are looking at a 27-pound Thanksgiving Day turkey scheduled for decimation by twenty five hungry relatives at 4:00 pm. “Oh no” should not be an option.

     No “oh no’s.”

     But she said it again and I came up beside her have a look at what appeared to be a featherless, beheaded, and possibly still living bird in a STONE COLD OVEN.

     “You forgot to turn it on?” I asked hopefully.

     “It’s ON she replied, but it’s not ON.”

     Oh no.

     So the Girl Scouts were now up to the Rubbing Two Sticks Together part of the cookout. There was no getting that oven started. It was old and tired and just not in the mood for turkey, I guess. But Wendy was no quitter and she had an idea. A scary little delusionally optimistic idea. I wanted to run but then I remembered my non-resentful, spirit of gratitude and dug in my heels.

     “We can put it in the microwave,” she said confidently. 

     I looked at the big foul fowl, out and about since sunrise, and then glanced over at the small microwave oven.

     Oh no.

     Wendy hoisted the turkey out of the oven and up toward the microwave. The turkey, in all its slippery, pimply glory scoffed at the small opening, but Wendy did not falter. She simply removed the bird from the roasting pan and jammed it in the way one might overstuff a suitcase. Her breasts (the bird’s) were pressed against the ceiling, thighs and wings against the door as Wendy shouldered it closed. Illuminated and mashed up against the microwave window like a convict in an armored bus, the turkey appeared to be pleading to get out. Wendy set the cook cycle for three hours; a number selected not because this would be an adequate cooking time but because that’s when dinner was supposed to be.      

     Well, now that we have that settled…

     When the timer rang three hours later, I opened the door with sadistic curiosity. “Wendy,” I said, “There’s no juice in here. It’s not cooked. No juice is no good.”

     “No, I’m sure it’s fine”, she said. “Look, see how it’s brown on the outside?”

     I was going to point out that it wasn’t brown but actually black and blue from our earlier altercation, but I didn’t have the heart to quash her optimism. Instead, we let the bird rest and cool for thirty minutes and then she began the carving ritual.

     “Oh no, no, no”, she mumbled.

     I think maybe I heard a cackle of some sort but perhaps that was just me trying to suppress a gag reflex as I witnessed an autopsy right on the kitchen counter. I am quite certain that a wild turkey run over by a car and left to bake in the sun in the dead of winter would be more thoroughly cooked than this unfortunate platter of road kill.

     It hurt my heart in this deeply remorseful I-Can-Never-Fix-This kind of way. My offering on this final and most precious Thanksgiving was to be nothing more than some beaten up bird pleading; can’t you see I’m not ready yet? Which is just precisely how I was feeling.

     Then there was a thumping, pounding beat in my brain (was that my heart?) and Donna Summer’s voice (which I cannot explain).

“Someone left the cake out in the rain.
I don’t think that I can take it, 'cause it took so long to bake it,
And I’ll never have that recipe again…
Oh, nooooooooooooo!”

     I was beginning to get a little absorbed in what lyrics came next, something about a yellow cotton dress, I think, when a scary situation whipped my brain back into the kitchen.

     My brother-in-law was kneeling in front of the disabled oven; his head plunged deep inside like that old woman in Hansel and Gretel just before she gets shoved in. There was some muttering inside the chamber and then extracting himself, he announced that the oven was back in service again. It was a little late now, what with the tepid turkey just festering on the counter, but at least now we could have more than salad for dinner. Maybe a multitude of sides could fill in the gaping hole in the center of the table normally reserved for completely dead birds.

     I turned to show Wendy a nice recipe I’d found for grilled vegetables with balsamic vinaigrette. To my horror, she had slid the brutalized victim onto a stretcher/baking pan and was shoving it into the now hot oven. Even the bacteria dancing around in pools of blood were pleading for mercy.

     “I don’t think you can do that,” I said as politely as I could, trying not to let my revulsion leak. “I mean, because it’s been basically sitting out since about 7 am, with a couple hours of radiation and at least an hour of relaxation here on the counter and…”

     I got the Wendy Wave. “It’ll be fine” she reassured me.  

     I forced my head to move in an up and down nod. “Oh…”

     No.

     The turkey had endured our relentless attempts to make a meal out of it, and still, if we’d called a veterinarian, I’ll bet it could have had its gobble rehabilitated. At this point, we were running out of time and preparations took on a decathlon quality.  Somewhere around side dish number six, I hit The Wall, my legs cramping up and my back in spasm. But still I forged on, mincing onions with a butter knife, shaking up a batch of whipped cream in a plastic container. On occasion, a well-meaning cousin would come in to compliment me on how good everything looked or offer to lend a hand but before I could lunge forward and grab them, they would suddenly be called out of the room with an emergency like I-Don’t-Feel-Like-Doing-That or Excuse-Me-But-I-Have-To-Go-Relax-Now.

     Nine hours after the starting gun, I limped across the finish line, my kids still in their oatmeal-hardened pajamas practicing karate chops on each other. The turkey was still screaming as I pulled it from the oven, stuffed it in the trash, and hailed The Cousins in for dinner.

     Thanksgiving without a turkey is hard to swallow. It’s unnatural. It’s tragic. I looked at the table, a sea of side dishes and salads, and I felt queasy. There was no focal point. Just a gaping emptiness where the turkey should have been. But that poor bird was

gone now, ravaged beyond recognition, and there was nothing I could do to fix this disaster.

     Wendy had a different take on the situation. “Oh, look at this table! Everything looks so amazing, just spectacular!” She said it like she’d won the lottery. She smiled as she looked around at the family gathered at the table. Then she leaned over to me and whispered, “It’ll be fine without the turkey. We have so much here. It’ll be fantastic.”

     Three months later Wendy was lying in a hospice bed in her bedroom. Brian and I had gone up to see her knowing that it was time to say goodbye. Family and friends surrounded her, praying and crying and wishing as she lay there, ravaged by cancer. We had tried so hard to turn this disaster around. There were studies and books and specialists and inspirational stories. We shared our photographs, our insights, and our hearts. We propped her up, and fluffed the pillows, and smoothed the covers, and combed her hair. We brought the rabbi, the guru, the Evangelical home care attendants, and the gospel choir. We offered macrobiotic meals, chemotherapy, morphine, and a Thanksgiving feast. We tried and we tried and we tried and we didn’t give up, no matter how ill equipped we were or how bad it looked, but we couldn’t fix this disaster. In the end, we stood by weary and heartbroken as she strained to keep her eyes open, begging for each breath as if to say, can’t you see I’m not ready yet?

     Which is just precisely how we were all feeling.

     We have continued our Thanksgiving tradition every year since Wendy’s passing.    Even as I fill my plate, my heart feels a little empty.  But as I look around the table, I feel the air shift as her memory surrounds me.  “It’ll be fine” she whispers, reminding me that even when disaster strikes and our best and most heartfelt efforts have been in vain, our traditions will guide us back to the bounty of being a family. And when we gather together what we still have left, we can make it like winning the lottery.

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Carnivore

11/10/2014

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For so many of my clients, weight loss is their primary goal. Exercise certainly plays a big role in helping to shed unwanted body fat, build muscle, improve flexibility and balance, and often provides an outlet for stress. But no training regimen is complete without giving serious consideration to the foods you are consuming. I am not trained as a dietician or nutritionist so I cannot offer you a professional opinion on diet, but I am often asked what I eat, how much I eat, and if I cheat. At this point, my eating habits don't really feel like a "diet" so much as fuel choices that work for me. But it wasn't always that way. Here's how it all started...


To the naïve optimists, vindictive sadists and genetically gifted specimens that suggested that I would Bounce Right Back after hauling around an eight-pound human being inside a space that normally accommodated maybe a salad and a half a cup of tuna: Kiss my fat ass.

But I digress. After the birth of my daughter, I was determined to get back into shape. I had eaten well and exercised throughout my pregnancy, hopeful that I would quickly return to a shape I recognized as human. I was so committed to my comeback that I even took to running a few miles on my two-week post-due non-arrival date. Perhaps you have seen my video, Wombs of Steel? Eventually, when squatting out my daughter on the street no longer seemed viable, I conceded to have her evicted at knifepoint. Unfortunately, as far as I could see, the only bounce back was from a protruding pouch of external afterbirth hanging around my waist like a front-facing fanny pack. Horrified, I promptly joined a popular weight loss program and subjected myself to the humiliation of public weigh-ins --with my shoes on!

What?

Unfortunately, after two weeks of counting points and measuring portions, I watched my weight go up five pounds while bingeing on ten-calorie rice cakes and simultaneously, starving to death.

But then.

My mother passed along a hot diet tip.

Lest you question her expertise, I assure you, my mother is the undisputed champ in this arena, the unequivocal Diva of Diets. My mother’s meticulous measurement of meals has been as regular as a religious ritual. The woman can convert from grams to tablespoons to cups without a calculator and recite, on demand, the calorie, fat and sugar content of any edible substance. I have witnessed her testing the Cabbage Soup Diet, GM Diet, Grapefruit Diet, Deal-A-Meal, Weight Watchers, Nutrisystem, Slim Fast, Diet Center and Jenny Craig. I have seen her whip unruly cottage cheese curds into a dreamy, creamy confection faster than you can say “Eew”. My mama wiped her palate clean of red meat, white meat, and fish from the wrong side of the ocean. She’s shunned sugar, freed herself from fat, separated from seeds and divorced dairy.

My mother invented The Big Salad.

But nothing could ever prepare me for the day I saw The Queen of the Greens herself, dwarfed behind a two-pound mound of turkey breast without so much as a leafy garnish anywhere. I, who as a kid had been involuntarily converted to vegetarian on a “family vacation”/Gary Null health retreat, couldn’t believe my protein deprived eyes.

“What the…” I stammered as I prepared for Hell to freeze over.

“I’m on protein,” she said, “Dr. Atkins’s.” Then a draft from the air conditioning vent lifted her up and carried her now size two body over to a monstrous wheel of cheese on the counter.

“Atkin’s?” I repeated in a whisper, “Is that okay?”

She explained how she’d been to see the guru himself and was confident that the diet was healthy because she felt good. And Lord knows, she looked good.

“No limits on quantity and whenever you want!” she exclaimed like a kid who had just discovered a coin-free vending machine next to her bed. She then proceeded to fill me in on the details. “You just have to limit your vegetables and fruits”.

Right. Surrender salads, banish bananas.

I believe I blacked out for a minute, but when I came to she was saying something like  “…protein with butter, protein with mayo, protein with oil, protein with sour cream…”

Protein with Satan…

“The only things you can’t have are sugar and starch. “ It occurred to me that this eliminated everything I currently ate. “But it’s really not that hard. I’ve lost 15 pounds since like yesterday.”

This is the Devil’s work. And I will labor for the cause because I also want to be a size two.

A size six, even.

I was pretty excited about this radical change in my diet. And as with every other exciting plan I’ve ever had, I began with a little shopping, running out to the market to buy some foods I hadn’t eaten in thirty years and some I’d only dreamed about.

Check out my cart:

Mayonnaise
Heavy cream
Butter
Steak
Roasted chicken
Turkey breast
Muenster cheese
Mozzarella cheese
Eggs
Bacon
Sugar free Jell-O
Fried pork rinds

For me, buying fried pork rinds was more embarrassing than buying condoms, Tampax or thong underwear from a cute male cashier. Buying fried pork rinds signaled to the world that I was mentally unstable and that Child Protective Services should make a home visit ASAP. And bacon? Well, I actually turned the package over hoping that the Nosy Nancy behind me would think it was just a turkey substitute. Of course, what with the quart of heavy cream, pound of butter and bucket of Hellman’s Real Mayonnaise set amidst ten packages of sugar-free Jell-O, she likely concluded that I'd had a psychotic break from reality and that nitrates were the least of my problems.

I must tell you how quickly I gave up my long held dietary convictions when faced with the possibility of weight loss. Over the years you might have heard me uttering mantras such as, “I can’t eat red meat anymore. I can’t digest it” and “I’m not kosher, but I wouldn’t go so far as to eat bacon”. And yet, by the end of the first night, I had devoured two pounds of shrimp with melted butter, a bacon, egg and cheese omelet, a cheeseburger (no bun) and a skirt steak. Strangely enough, I had no more trouble devouring and digesting that juicy, rare side of beef than say, cannibal Jeffrey Dahmer.

And let me also say that the diet worked. In two weeks time, I had lost eight pounds, despite the constipation of my meat-impacted intestines (for which I mentally deducted an extra two pounds). For that kind of success, I would readily suffer grocery line humiliation and irregularity.

My “health-conscious” friends were appalled by my dietary habits. I could tell them that I was intolerant to wheat, nuts, dairy, humans and oxygen and they’d never blink, but mention Atkins and a high protein/low carb diet and they became irate enough to march on Washington. For a Tyrannosaurus Rex like me, this was problematic because I could not eat in public or shop before 11 pm without fear of being attacked by carniphobic militants from the Fat-Free Society. My transition to openly carnivorous was so emotionally and physically challenging that I decided to keep a journal.

Here are the entries from my first week:  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Day 4:
Today is the fourth day of the Sugar Hostage Crisis. I could not write on Day 1, 2 or 3 as not a single waking minute has passed in which I did not have some sort of sacrificed livestock in my hands or mouth. Having consumed everything on Old MacDonald’s farm in just the last 72 hours, I am not the least bit hungry. But the stress of heaving a whole bag of Swedish Fish into the trash without swiping even one has given me a wicked headache. I assume this must be how it is when you’re trying to get off crack. I want to go lie down and sleep until I’m thin.

My carbohydrate withdrawal has apparently made me delusional as I have taken to imagining a troop of little energy soldiers storming my fat reserves, feasting to their heart’s content. I am getting leaner and meaner by the second (Just ask anyone about the latter). I am peeing like a fountain –weeeee, see me pee out the fat! For added intrigue and entertainment, I routinely plunge a ketone indicator strip into my liquid fat urine and root for a winning color (purple). Today I have decided to go all out and Weigh In. One sec…4 pounds! Feast on, my little fat fighting friends. There’s more where that came from.

Day 5:
Having a bit of a Setback. To my horror, the scale is reporting that all of my lost weight has been found after just 24 hours. You can’t even report a person gone if it’s been less than 24 hours, much less a fat ass. I tried shifting my feet on the scale to get a more accurate (lower) reading, but unfortunately, the scale is sticking to its original evaluation. Defective piece of garbage. Oh, I want to speak to the manager. But then, I guess that would be me.

The brutal thing is, I really didn't cheat. I worked out. I stayed in the steam room an extra five minutes. And I did not have a single cookie from that heaping plate of pleasure that the Devil Incarnate brought to my house. Not even the crumbs that fell off the babka onto the table. I HAVE NOT HAD CHOCOLATE FOR 108—no, 109 HOURS, and this is my thanks? This is my reward? This is an outrage.

Day 6:
This is the day of reckoning. I have come to the conclusion that the return of my unwanted weight is just more crap than I can handle right now. And I do mean that literally. By my calculations, I have consumed an entire cow, a brick of cheese, a coupe of chickens and all their eggs, and all I’m dropping are rabbit pellets. A Serious Situation is developing and Serious Situations call for Serious Solutions. It’s Tea Time. 
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

This was no delicate English breakfast tea served up with scones. This was an ancient Chinese, all-natural remedy given to me by the Diet Diva herself, who will not be toyed with when it comes to weight loss. I'm not gonna lie; I was nervous. It was rumored that this stuff could thrash your colon around so violently that it ended up around your neck. But the whistle on the kettle was screaming and you know when, um, duty calls, you have to go.

I sat for a minute and waited for a reaction. Nothing.

I wrote for a while. Nothing.

I straightened up the house a little. Nothing.

I ate a half-pound of roast beef, a slice of Swiss cheese and a handful of fried pork rinds. Nothing.

I downed another bottle of water and then, well now, wait, maybe something. Hmm…a discernable murmur. Oh, a gurgling--no, more like a growling. And yes, yes, those are definitely the rumblings of gut wrenching cramps, nausea and atomic gas pains.  Now that’s Something.

After the eruption, well, you know just what I did. Four pounds! And as with every other exciting plan I ever had that worked, I went out shopping for my new slender self, thus ending another day in the life of this thinning, carb-free carnivore. Bring on Day 7!

**Note: I continued on the Atkins plan for the full two-week induction period and lost a total of eight pounds. Gradually, as the diet proposes, I added back in certain fruits and vegetables but still continued to lose weight, finally leveling off at my goal and have been quite comfortable adhering to a high protein/low carbohydrate diet ever since. Since 1994, when I first wrote this piece, I have seen many diet trends come and go, but on July 7, 2002, the next best thing since Jennifer Lopez made the big tush a big deal happened. The New York Times published an article in the Sunday magazine section: What if It's All Been a Big Fat Lie? by Gary Taubs, vindicating Dr. Atkins and his recommendations. Basically, it said:

Hey, Doc, you were right after all. Sorry we stigmatized you for thirty years, but it seems we made a bit of an error in the food pyramid. Turns out, we were holding the picture UPSIDE DOWN.

The article was controversial and downright inflammatory for anyone who “believed in” a low calorie, low fat diet. I still remember sitting down at the table that Sunday morning with my cheese omelet and real bacon, while some members of my own family became hostile and utterly incensed by the heresy I was gleefully reading aloud.

And now, twelve years later, science still seems to be on the side of low carbs as was again noted by Anahad O'Connor in The New York Times on September 1, 2014: A Call for a Low-Carb Diet That Embraces Fat. I’ve been eating a low carb/high protein diet for twenty years, trading in the diabolical tea for increased water consumption, and have found it to be a simple, satiating way to maintain a relatively lean, strong body and healthy heart. I am no scientist or nutritionist, but I know what has worked for me. To find out more about low carb diets, below are links to the 2002 and 2014 articles. 

What if It's All Been a Big Fat Lie? 
http://www.nytimes.com/2002/07/07/magazine/07FAT.html

A Call for a Low-Carb Diet That Embraces Fat 
http://www.nytimes.com/2014/09/02/health/low-carb-vs-low-fat-diet.html?_r=0

Stay tuned for some new Fit Fuel Low Carb recipes coming soon!

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    Loren Martz

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