A Greener Biener

I’m having one of those days.

Actually, it’s been a few days but who’s counting.

No matter how fast I spill my wheels I can’t get out of the mud.

The mud here being work and kids and meals and gardens and field trip slips and summer plans and exercise and homework, never mind my poor neglected novel sitting in a dusty corner crying itself to sleep at night.

I’m running in circles.

There is smoke coming out of my ears.

Even my loving family would probably tell you I’ve been a tad on the cranky side.

I’ve duct-taped my head on so I won’t lose it, but everything else is getting away from me.

I could scream.

I could tear my hair out.

But I’m a grown-up.  I’m holding it together.  Besides, if I’m down and troubled and I need a helping hand at least I can lean on my new friend.

This is my new friend–

Isn’t he gorgeous?  I’m in love but we’ve agreed that it’s best for us to just be friends, what with all the prejudice against inter-species dating these days.

I’m pretty sure his name is Herbert.  He’s a grass-fed Highlander who lives far, far away at Nectar Hills Farm in New York.

And I love him.

You bet I accepted the Huffington Post’s Week of Eating In Challenge. I’m all in.  Shine that spotlight on homemade meals and watch me frugally budget.  Who knows? All that money I’m saving could add up to bags of gold that will allow me, some day, to bid adieu to my aging appliances and rip out the Formica that callously imprisons my kitchen in the late 1970s.

Pledge-smedge, bring it on.

We eat in all the time anyway and what a perfect excuse to try out new recipes and yippee for family cohesion and what? What’s that you say? It’s this week? Oh no that simply won’t do.  This is the week of my 40th birthday and I’ve got visitors in town and lunch dates and hey, BACK OFF!  I’m pretty sure that everyone out there in pledgeville would agree that no one should have to cook dinner on her 40th birthday.

How about this?  I’ll gladly pledge you Tuesday for a birthday dinner today?  Just this week, that’s all I’m asking and then I promise I will cook at home from here to eternity.

I can say this with conviction, because based on my incredible haul of birthday loot I know that there is an awful lot of cooking in my future.

It’s awesome, isn’t it? My gorgeous cherry red Kitchen-Aid surrounded by the best books in the biz. I can’t wait to start flinging flour.

Rest assured I am going to spend hours gleaming expert advice from these legendary cookbooks.  I will create masterpieces that will have eaters in tears.  Already I have visions of Crepes Suzette dancing in my delusional head.

But I have to tell you, despite thousands of pages of beautifully detailed recipes, the advice that captured my loins attention came not from a renowned book nor from a celebrity chef.

No, one voice stood out from the crowd.  His beautiful, naked request really spoke to me.  Grabbed me in that visceral sort of way. (Visceral sort of way = passionately around the waist as the sun set over the waving wheat and he easily hoisted me up onto the saddle and steadied me with one bronzed arm as he steered the steed towards the nearest haystack.)

Now that I am older and wiser I understand why, as some women age, they seek to make changes.  Some take up knitting.  Some go blond.

In honor of my 40th birthday I have officially changed my name.

Call me Biscuit.

Recently I participated in a conference call with Secretary of Agriculture Tom Vilsack.  By participated I mean that I told him a thing or two about feeding our nation’s children and doing right by our schools.  Either that, or I listened quietly and jotted down a note or two.  It’s kind of hard to remember.

The call centered around Michelle Obama’s campaign to end childhood obesity and the possible role that the FDA might play, particularly with regard to school lunches.  If you don’t have kids in public school you may not know that current lunches are almost as nutritious as chocolate coated bike tires.

We’re gearing up for a change.  But it’s going to cost money.  And it’s going to ruffle feathers.

I know this because our district got a jump start on this by hiring Renegade Lunch Lady Ann Cooper to remake the face of lunch in Boulder County Schools.  She is clearing out the high fructose corn syrup and the chemically constructed chicken nuggets.  She is offering fresh fruits and vegetables and locally sourced hormone-free milk.

Inconceivably, it’s got some folks really upset. Grown-up folks.

It’s mind boggling to me, because surely they love their kids.  And I know that they want what’s best.  And yet they are stomping their feet because someone took away their chocolate milk?

We want our kids to be healthy. To grow strong. To have every opportunity to learn.  So why are we sitting back and watching as their brain cells are taxed with highly processed foods? How can we challenge teachers to feed their minds when we’re not doing our best to nourish their bodies?

Why are we okay with this?  Other countries aren’t.  Other countries have stepped up and said no to things like hormones and antibiotics in their food.  They aren’t thinking about chocolate milk.  They are planning for the future.

It’s high time we take some steps towards ours.

I’m glad the schools are putting the brakes on shoveling bad stuff into our kids.  Now we need to start figuring out our food.  What’s in that snack we throw into their backpacks each morning?  We need to know, because then we can help our kids make smart choices.

We’re the grown-ups here;  if we don’t sell it there’s no way the kids are buying.

Whooo-hooo!  It’s party planting time.

I know that you’re digging out from feet of snow and shivering huddled around a cup of coffee while your runny-nosed, snow-bound children run ragged through a house that hasn’t been aired out in months, but come on.  I’m ready to get down and dirty dig in some dirt.

My garden is on board. Right, garden?

Hmm, garden seems to be hibernating.  What am I supposed to do with all this pent up excitement? Thanks for nothing, Pioneer Lady for posting this gorgeous tutorial on building raised vegetable beds and getting me all revved up for gardening.

And thanks alot Gardener’s supply.  You and your incredible and fantastic online garden planner that lets me select veggies and decide whether or not the cucumbers will twine up the same trellis as the snap peas.  Just what do you think you’re doing?

The anticipation is fabulous.  I can almost smell the sun-warmed squash.

So what that it’s not planting time.  This is crazy fun.

Time out.

Crazy fun? Um, hello?

We need to talk.

Perhaps you’re forgetting who you’re talking to.   I am the party girl who raucously rang in her 21st birthday on a Mardi Gras day much like today.

There was drinking and dancing and parades and partying on the streets of New Orleans.

That was crazy fun.  And it was not all that long ago.

Or maybe it was all that long ago.

And I guess it was far, far away.

But how did this happen?

How did I go from shimmying to shoveling?

From drinking to digging?

From partying to planting?

Oy.  I am staring at 40 and getting all hot and bothered about garden planners.  Somebody send help.

Somebody?

Anybody?

Help.

I’m not going to lie to you, teeth are revolting.

Not those straight pearly whites sitting nicely in your mouth.  Those are gorgeous.  I’m talking about the natty bloody things that swivel and dangle and eventually jump ship from the mouths of my babes.

Ewwww.  They are so gross.

I am not a wimp.  I can handle this mothering stuff with one hand tied behind the tylenol.  I have weathered dislocated arms and bloody contusions and concussions.  I’m tough as nails.  Just don’t make me wiggle your loose tooth.  I cannot stomach the teeth.

(While we’re at it you may as well know:  I don’t handle eyes that well either.)

I adore my children.  I’m just looking to outsource the management of their eyes and teeth.

Speaking of managing the teeth, I’m in a bit of a pickle.  Having been previously accused of callously recycling precious scraps of artwork, I have taken to saving things, ridiculous things, all in the name of doing this mommy job right.   Which is exactly why I find myself in this current quandary.

There sits, in my bedside drawer, a small vial.

It is a vile vial.

Contained within it’s gruesome hold are nine baby teeth; eight from child one, and now one from child two.  It is disgusting, but I don’t know what to do.  I never got the memo. Are we supposed to save the teeth?  Am I all alone here with my macabre collection, or are parents everywhere harboring vulgar hoards of discarded body parts?

All of which goes to prove my point:  this tooth fairy-ing business should be left to the professionals.

I’m begging you, before another one bites the dust, be our tooth fairy.

There’s a buck a tooth in it for you.

This face?

Give it a chance.   I swear it’s not one of those only a mother could love.

Not that there’s anything wrong with the stuff.  In fact, a brief perusal of the internet uncovered signs that whiskey is loaded with antioxidants.  I just don’t enjoy fire cascading down my throat, so trust me when I say that whiskey and I ended our affair before it ever began.

I tell you this in the interest of setting the record straight.  Seems I’ve gone and acquired a bit of reputation.

And for that I blame my kids.  Oh those munchkins and the things they say golly gee if it doesn’t make me want to roll them in oats and shove them in the fridge for a day or four.

You know, to temporarily cool their chattering jets.

I’ve heard that kids say the darndest thing.  I just didn’t know that she’d say them to her teacher and a room full of 9 year old punks.

Seems the third grade is all a twitter about mountain men (I take it they are something like cowboys, only less sexy.)  The teacher told her class tales of the wild old days.

My darling explained,

‘The mountain men drank lots of whiskey and they gambled.  Sometimes they even lost their wives in card games.’

‘That’s why I thought of you, Mom.’

Fair enough. My name has long been synonymous with liquor-swilling and Texas Holdem.

She continued,

‘We were talking about whiskey so I told that story, you know, your story. The one with you, in the mountains, with the whiskey.’

My story? I have a whiskey story?  My apologies to the dead horse, but really, I don’t even like the stuff.

And my darling child continued some more,

‘My teacher called on me, so I told the class about that time you drank too much whiskey and then went to lie down and sleep in the street.’

Of course.  Right.  What self-respecting mother doesn’t regale her kids with her sleep-off-the-bender-in-the-road story as she tucks them in at night?

By the way, I thought I’d finally include a picture of my no good, rootin’-tootin’ road-sleeping, saloon-frequenting self.  You know, to go with my new reputation.

I did it. I one upped my Grandma.

It’s not a nice thing to say, I’ll give you that.  But it’s true.  I made Grandma’s cake, and mine came out better.

Huh, it sounds kind of obnoxious when I write it out loud like that.

Still, if she were here today I know she would be proud.  She would take one look at this beauty…

and kiss me and tell me that not only am I beautiful and talented but I am also the smartest girl in the whole wide world.

Grandmas are good like that, and yet here I am spouting off about making a better cake.  I am truly a rotten creature.

Though in my defense I did publicly admit that my sweet old granny, were she alive today, would be the odds-on-favorite to beat me at arm wrestling.  Probably she had her reasons for making the cake her way, which was a bit heftier and came in sets of two.

Which brings me to the initial reason for reworking the recipe – the mathematical fact of the situation is this:  I make 2 cakes, I eat 2 cakes.  Never mind that I don’t have a house of people clamoring for dessert.  I will eat them alone and I will eat them fast and I will eat them all and then, even though chocolate is my very best friend and would never punch me in the face like some vegetables I know, I still might end up with a touch of a tummy ache.

So no, two cakes are not a feasible option for me and my pathetic lack of self restraint.  But one cake? One cake is gooood.  Really really gooood.

Warning: I push cakes like thugs sell drugs.  If you feel vulnerable you should step away now.

Because Grandma’s cake (gloriously updated) is delightful. It’s light, it’s fluffy, and it’s low enough in sugar that it’s (heads up, pun ahead) a piece of cake to convince yourself that 4 helpings a day is reasonable. (That’ a small piece after lunch, a nice piece for after school snack with the kids, a piece for dessert after dinner, and one nice slice with a glass of wine after the kids go to bed.)

I’m not going to tell you that you’ve got to make and eat this cake.  No, scratch that, I will tell you exactly that:  Make this cake. You won’t be sorry.

Trust me.  I’ve spent the last few years researching the healthy way to eat.  I know vegetables are good.  But sometimes veggies turn on us, and we need another choice.  And that choice, my friends, is cake.

Still not convinced?  Here are the indisputable facts:

1. Nuts are packed with protein
2. Dark chocolate is full of antioxidants
3. Eating cake makes us better human beings*

*this is true but let’s not demean the research but disclosing something mundane like supporting facts.

You are driven to eat well.  You have pledged to unearth healthy foods in your quest to do right by yourself and your family.  You will eat more vegetables.

You, my dear, haven’t thought enough about all those involved.

Did you ever stop to think that maybe the chard would rather not be consumed thank you very much?

Or that maybe the broccoli doesn’t particularly want to hang out on the business end of a fork?

You didn’t think, did you?

Well, neither did I.  After all, I thought my focus on eating healthy and providing my family with vitamin-rich foods was an unambiguously positive one.  Little did I know that notching my belt with one antioxidant-wielding super food after another was antagonizing some very powerful enemies.

Lesson learned.

Now I know better.

Veggies are people too.

I guess.

Before I became so enlightened, I callously tore cabbage from a list of ‘what we should eat.’  Thoughtlessly I sliced through the deep purple flesh, and though my hand began to tingle I continued the massacre, dicing and chopping until I had a bowl full of the beautiful bi-colored vegetable.

I added carrot slices, and admired the vividly contrasting hues.  I ignored the itching in my throat while I congratulated myself on discovering a super-veggie that the whole family enthusiastically consumed.

Yippee said I, and happily served up the leftovers to myself and my family the following night as well.

I shouldn’t have been so cavalier.

That cabbage kicked my butt, leaving me with a swollen eye worthy of a heavy weight boxing ring, a face full of hives and a nice pink-all-over kind of rash.  I was dizzy.  I was blotchy and swollen and itchy and boy oh boy was I longing for the days when a nice bowl of chocolate ice cream said dinnertime.

‘Take that,’ said the cabbage.   Man was he mean.

‘There, there,’ soothed the chocolate.

Chocolate is so nice.

Chocolate doesn’t make me look all puffy.

Chocolate is my friend.

By issues, I’m referring, of course, to food.

And by you, I mean of course, me.

Wow, I’m feeling better already just airing out that confession.  Earlier in the week I felt differently.  Earlier in the week I sat smugly way on the other side of a phone call from food issues.

I was talking to my sister, a new mom who is juggling all the complexities that come with feeding a baby.  You know the stream of self-questioning that ensues with all things child-related–

How much is too much how much is too little how do I measure how do I know why is this so hard  I should probably have another cookie or two to help me think straight…

I gave her what advice I could, given that my babies never ate, and then the conversation turned to the challenging task of raising children with normal relationships to food in a world where eating-related issues practically grow on trees.

We talked of modeling healthy relationships with food. We talked about not making a big deal out of food.  We talked about meal times as time to eat, and other times as time for other.  We sounded really smart and rational.

I crossed my self-congratulatory arms across my chest and declared that now that my kids are older I NEVER fall prey to whimpers for nighttime snacking.

Reality always waits until one is not looking to smack one upside her stupid head.

My six year-old was snug in her bed.  Blankets had been tucked just so and band-aids had been applied to every microscopic scrape, imagined or otherwise.  And then she pulled out the big guns…

BUT MOMMY I’M HUNGRY.

I knew my role.  I knew the right thing to say, and I said it:

No honey, you already ate and now it’s bedtime.

But she didn’t stop there.

MOMMY I’M SO HUNGRY THAT IT HURTS DEEP INSIDE MY TUMMY.

And with that I promptly escorted the tough bitch to the door and waved bye-bye to the callous advocate of sending healthy, strong, normal children to bed hungry.  I gave a kick in the pants to lesson teaching and good habits and all such nonsense.

My baby? Hungry?  Get out of my way.  Last I checked feeding my child perched at the very top of my job description.

But maybe she’s not really hungry.  Maybe she is a manipulative little twit who pulls no punches in her pursuit of attention.

Yes, perhaps you have a point, you mean, heartless, cold version of myself.  But know what?  I can’t pop attention into the microwave and serve it up hot as I wipe her tears away.

But I can feed my baby.  And I will feed my babies.

Besides, we’ve had a little chat and now we’re all on the same page.  Eating will be done at the dinner table at dinner time.  And there will be no two ways about it.

(You know, unless she gets really hungry.)