You Don't Know Hunger Like I Know Hunger

If you had attended the fundraiser Tell It Slant for the Lincoln Square Friendship Center Food Pantry like you should have, you would have heard this story during the open mike:

I have lived my life on the edges of survival. My husband and I were just barely able to scrape together enough money to buy a house in the whitest neighborhood in Chicago. Every other house on the block had their additions and dormers done months before we were able to take this step. The weary front lawn shows signs of insouciance, the garage door opener has been inoperable for years, and most days I don’t even know where my next minivan is going to come from.

I have experienced hunger and starvation almost every day—in the middle-class, western sense of the word, of course. I decided to keep a hunger journal to share my struggle with the world.

March 2. I first notice my hunger at 7:24 a.m. I immediately scan the bedroom for sustenance, but the Girl Scout cookie boxes are all empty. The cellophane sleeves are lying around like empty condom wrappers the morning after a fraternity party. They are the detritus of our own middle-aged version of a wild bacchanal—a night of watching the Agent Peggy Carter finale, eating overpriced, déclassé wafers with reckless abandon, and falling asleep by 9:30.

10:00 a.m. Eating my first satisfying meal in at least twelve hours—not including the Trefoils.  It’s been hell. This peanut butter and bacon on toast with Diet Coke might as well be prime rib and Chateau Margaux, that’s how good it tastes.

10:30 a.m. Medium Diet Coke, easy ice, from the Golden Arches. I know I already had a Diet Coke earlier, but every addict knows that McDonald’s has the good shit.

2:30 p.m. Store-bought tamales and leftover chateaubriand under glass fuel my waning energy early in the afternoon. When you’re dealing with this level of deprivation you don’t stop to think about food pairings.

7:30 p.m. Currently drinking domestic merlot from Trader Joe’s. Essentially I’m having fruit salad for dinner, only without the coring and chopping. The wine feels warm going down. I dig a Thin Mint and a dollar fifty-seven in change out of the couch cushions and thank the little baby Jesus for small blessings. Spending time with Simon Baker, Jason O’Mara, and my other pretend TV boyfriends will distract me from my suffering and sustain me through the night.

I hope. Sometimes I just want to give up.

March 3. I’ve noticed that I mostly feel hungry when I haven’t eaten. I decide that the easiest solution is to eat all the time, proactively, so that I can avoid the gnawing pangs of my body slowly consuming itself. It’s a desperate ploy, I know, but I’m starting to be able to see my own toes. I’m fading into a mere shadow of my formerly zaftig self.

March 4. Jury duty. This usually goes well for me. A couple hundred citizens sit through a video explaining the court process—as though we haven’t all watched seven thousand hours of Law and Order over the past twenty years.

The grandmotherly lady next to me wears her puffy coat indoors while I am seconds away from spontaneous combustion. Must be nice to be post-menopausal. She unzips her Spiderman vinyl lunchbox and pulls out two granola bars. The crunchy kind. I eye them longingly. I sense hunger lurking like a panther ready to pounce. Grandmom chews with an abundance of crunching and slurping.  She also mutters to herself and hums. Even with my earphones in I can hear her lips smacking. 

I want to kill her.

…

This hunger journal reminds me of something my unofficial foster son L. Peevie told me twenty-plus years ago. I’m about as white as a person can be. I had never been a parent before, let alone a parent of a teenager, let alone the temporary parent of a black teenager from the west side. It took some adjustment on both sides.

I soon figured out that teenage boys eat a lot. I could not keep food in the house. It disappeared within minutes after I got home from Dominick’s. Sometimes it didn’t even make it into the ‘fridge or pantry. He’d snatch it from my hands like a wildebeest on the plains and eat it without even removing the packaging.

One time L. Peevie was rummaging around looking for a tiny after-school snack of a few thousand calories. He rearranged margarine tubs containing a bit of chili mac, a dollop of chicken tetrazzini, and a serving of potato salad. The vegetable drawer held a few limp carrots and some sad-looking celery.

“There’s nothing in the ‘fridge,” I told him, “I’ll go to the store in a little bit.”

L.P. looked at me and shook his head. “That’s the difference between black people and white people,” he said. “When white people say ‘there’s nothing in the ‘fridge,’ there’s still a ton of food in there.” He picked up the chili mac and shut the refrigerator door.

“When black people say there’s nothing in the fridge, the only thing in the fridge is mustard.”

My New Favorite Thing: DIYMP

I've come across several mentions of Do It Yourself Microwave Popcorn (DIYMP) on The Internets, and I became intrigued. So I compared recipes, experimented, tasted, conducted taste tests with my kids; and here, for your snacking pleasure, are the results.

All you need is a bag of popcorn (about $1.50), brown paper bag (standard size, about $1 for 100), salt or popcorn salt, and butter. Don't even sit there pretending that you don't put butter on your popcorn, because you know you do. You probably even put extra butter on your already-buttered pre-packaged microwave popcorn, don't you?

Oh, wait a minute. That might have been me, projecting a tiny bit.

Some prophets of DIYMP say you need to add 1-2 teaspoons of vegetable oil or olive oil to the bag before popping, but I've done it both ways, and frankly, you don't need it. Save the calories and add more butter later instead. Here's what you do:

1. Put enough popcorn into the brown paper bag to cover the bottom with one layer--about 1/4 cup. If you're adding oil, do it now, and shake the bag to coat the kernels.
2. Fold the bag over at the top. Some folks suggest using a staple to hold the bag closed--and I used tape a couple of times--but you don't really need to. The bag will stay shut during popping.
3. Pop the bag into the microwave oven, either on its side, or standing up--however it fits better. Set the microwave to cook on high for 2-3 minutes--but don't walk away. Depending on the wattage of your oven, the popcorn should take about 2 minutes or less. Mine takes a minute and a half. Press stop when the pops are two or three seconds apart.
   

Voila! You have about six cups of hot, fresh, delicious popcorn. Each cup offers 1 gram of protein, 6 grams of carbohydrate, 1 gram of fiber, a trace of fat (until you add the butter), and 31 calories.

Melt your butter (about three or four teaspoons) and drizzle it on. At this point, your risk of dying of a heart attack goes way up--but so does your buttery snackalicious enjoyment. As an added bonus, DIYMP eliminates your risk of contracting popcorn lung, which is not as fun as it sounds.

(Thanks to publicdomainpictures.net for the photo.)

One Little Walk

Is there anything that engenders more optimism than the first hour of a diet or exercise program?

Yesterday I had my whole house and my whole day to myself. No kids, no work projects, no scheduled dates with friends, no urgent errands. It was like a mini-vacation. And I said to myself, "Self, here's your opportunity to start on a road to a healthier you."

So my long-ignored Reeboks and I went for a long, brisk walk on the Other Side of the Tracks. I tried to swing my arms because I read in Prevention Magazine that arm-swinging makes you walk faster and burn more calories--but I felt like a goofball, so I stopped.

All during my walk I planned how I was going to work my hiney off after I got home, doing things I usually assiduously avoid, like de-cluttering the office, washing dishes, and scrubbing spots out of carpet. And here's the totally insane part: I actually did it!

That one walk set the tone for the whole day yesterday, and even for today. This morning, I was positive that my capri jeans fit a little more loosely. Instead of slipping into my comfortable but hideous faux-Crocs, I snapped along in my cute and strappy (but still comfortable) sandals. My body has the same sags, the identical bulges, the exact beauty flaws that it had yesterday--and yet today, I find myself standing straighter, and I feel fitter, prettier, healthier. What's up with that?

One little walk, and I'm a new me.

Caveat: Past performance is not a guarantee of future results. I'm just saying.

Vagina Dialogues, Part I

My pals and I escaped to Michigan for the weekend, leaving jobs and spouses and kids (except nursing infants) behind.

There's nothing like a road trip for food stories. As you may or may not know, I am not particularly choosy when it comes to food. I love really great eats, but I don't turn my nose up at food that's somewhat meh. I love me some crunchy nosh. I'm one of those people--otherwise known as "fat"--
who just love to eat.

With optimism and anticipation I ordered my all-time favorite, nachos, at an Indiana Denny's along I-94. The picture in the menu gave me goose-bumps: crispy golden chips, just-barely-melted grated cheddar, picturesque snips of green onion poking up like crocuses around a snowy dollop of sour cream.

Whoever made the menu was a lying liar who will burn in a special hell. The waitress delivered what looked like actual hurl: gobs of oily cheese oozing viscously over bright yellow rectange corn chips suffering from a bad case of acne; watery sour cream Clearasil separating over the top. Even the plain chips around the edge were inedible, let alone those that had been violated by the curdish goulash gobbed on top. I did not eat them, and I did not pay for them.

By the time my two friends and I arrived at the "cabin," the party was in full swing (read: cocktails and stories were flowing).

Here's the weekend line-up, in no particular order (names have been changed to protect, well, nobody, since anybody reading this will easily identify who's who):

Host, J. Cool: Beautiful, stylish, talented. This is the woman I call when I'm browsing the grout aisle at Menard's, or selecting lingerie for a mutual friend.

Guest of Honor, Bucky: My favorite author is nutty and multi-talented. This weekend was a celebration of her significant birthday.

Bob the Builder: A hot tomboy who thinks she's stronger than she really is. Once she persuaded me to be my own contractor for my kitchen renovation, because it comes so easily to her. I will never forgive her.

Arid Queen: This girl has more even more stamina for staying up late than I do. A independent thinker with a sense of humor dryer than the Sahara during drought season, and great taste in TV boyfriends.

Spike: Twin-set wearing volleyballer with celebrity connections and a secret crush on World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE) superstar Ric Flair (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ric_Flair).

Rock Star: This one makes you ask "Why do some people get it all?" She's got Dolly Parton's voice, Demi Moore's looks, and brains to boot.

Dr. Vespinator: Her special talent is twisting human pretzels. She tools around on a red Vespa, healing everyone she touches with gentleness, humor, and great back rubs.

The Professor: Helps our group stay organized, and keeps her class in line. Loves the little fishes, and hosts an excellent open house.

L. Tiny: The tiniest crazy group member. Slept, nursed and smiled all weekend.

Our ages range from 29 to 55. We're all above average intelligence, of course, and all smokin' hot. Some of us are married, some single; some have kids, most don't. We work in a variety of fields, including construction, communications, advertising, education, and health care. Jesus is our common denominator.

(Hmmm. That last line was sort of queer. Oh, well. So be it.)

More later. Check out the Vagina Dialogues, Part II.

Body Image

I wonder why all the lifeguards here at Wisconsin Dells are Eastern European. But that's beside the point.

I've been looking at a lot of people in bathing suits this week, and I've seen thousands of regular bodies and so far not one single body that looks like the kind of airbrushed perfection that you see in a glossy mag or on TV.

This is the right place to come to get your body image re-adjusted. You'll see plenty of imperfect bodies at play here--chubby, lumpy, hairy, jiggly, bony, disproportionate. Regular and plus-size women boldly wear two-piece suits; most of the men are regular guys with love handles or six-month-pregnant bellies completely undisguised.

And speaking of six-months pregnant, some women are willing to show their awesome pregnant bellies now, and I think it's a good thing. (I know my in-laws disagree. I asked my MIL if she minded bikinis on women who were not pregnant, and she said she does not. She and my FIL just don't think it's appropriate for a pregnant woman's belly to be on display. I don't really know why not, and I didn't ask.)

Occasionally, I'd see an outstanding figure of humanity, but this was rare. A couple of bathing suits were actually shocking, like the tiny brown crocheted bikini that left almost nothing to the imagination. (Nice wax job, girlfriend.)

But mostly I saw people like me, with regular, flawed bodies: saggy boobs, dimpled thighs, flabby pecs, an extra roll around the waist. Slender folks are not exempt from body imperfections: otherwise perfectly-proportioned women had saddlebag hips or thick ankles.

This blog is taking the opportunity to remind you to love your body. Excise from your mind the ridiculous, artificial standards set by media images; they're not real. If you need to lose weight or tone up, fine; get started. But do it for health reasons, and not because you feel like you need to look like Jennifer Aniston or Matthew McConaughey.

Body Image at Age Six

I was wondering if I would come up with a blog topic today, and then my daughter dropped one in my lap.

She mentioned something about being too fat.

"You are not fat, darling," I reassured her. "You are perfect, and you have a perfect six-year-old body."

"Well, my teacher thinks I'm fat," she said.

"Well, she can kiss my shiny pink ass," I refrained from saying. Instead I asked her to clarify. "Why do you think she thinks you're fat?" I asked her.

"My tummy was sticking out when we were in ballet class, and she told me to suck it in during the recital," said M. Peevie innocently.

I was thinking, "She did NOT say that!" but I held my instantaneous rage in check and kept going. "Are you sure that's what she said?" I asked her. She was sure.

This brought back every microgram of shame I felt as a child who felt fat during my growing up years. I never remember a time that I did not feel fat, and I look back on photographs of myself, and I was far from fat. In some of my school pictures I was even pretty slender, and in most of them I was average height and weight. I don't think I was actually overweight until I was in high school, and even then, I think that my self-image was actually far worse than my actual appearance.

I remember being maybe 10 or 12 years old, and as I was buttering my bread at dinner my dad said to me, "Don't put so much butter on your bread--that's why you're so fat!" I left the dinner table crying and ran up to my room. To his credit, my dad knew he'd screwed up. He followed me upstairs and came into the room where I was belly-flopped on my bed. I think he apologized, but honestly, I can't remember. I guess the damage was done.

Maybe you're thinking, wah, wah, wah, it was a long time ago, get over it already. I am over it, but the takeaway from that tiny little episode of pain and neurosis is that I never, ever want to cause my kids to feel shame about themselves. (I probably have, and/or will, and someday the world will read about it in a blog!) And the other takeaway is that I am ready to kick some toned ballet teacher ass over this event.

I was relating this conversation to Mr. Peevie, and C. Peevie (age: not quite 12) was listening in. Being the voice of reason and maturity, he--C.P., that is--reminded me that it was possible that M. Peevie didn't quite get the story right, and that I should give the ballet teacher the benefit of the doubt. Crap. I rilly, rilly just want to go in there this week and rip her a new one, and relate the conversation to the ballet school owner as well. But C.P. is right, darn it all--I must first hear her side of the story.

But I swear, I am prepared to go off on her--in a controlled and mature manner, of course--if she did say something like that to my daughter. There is just no excuse.