Walking the Line as a Foodie

Just for the record, I'd like it noted that I barely minded being called Miss Granola at the salon in Portland, Oregon where I first began my massage therapy career so many eons ago. And, it's also true that I did make all of my own baby food.

I've long prided myself on my healthy eating. I'm also convinced my aversion to preservatives in my food far outweighs my passion for butter and cream.

But it's not always easy to eat healthy when you're a confirmed foodie. I grappled with this continually in my 20's but it was when I at last found myself making homemade frosting to mask the cardboard-esque flavor of fat free, sugar free, wheat free cookies that I knew I had gone too far. It was time to return to center.

Now I only rarely stray a few steps to either side. Early last week I did try no-carb flour tortillas but I unexpectedly tweaked myself by beginning to ponder what wheat becomes without the carbs. In the end, I tossed those.

Yesterday, by accident, I picked up fat-free half and half. If you take the fat out of half and half, doesn't it become skim milk? I hate skim milk. I tossed it. Not to mention that the pondering of what made it as thick as regular half and half again tweaked me.

Neither here nor there, but I also accidentally picked up orange juice with extra pulp. I meant to pick up the no-pulp (the Florida Nienhaus' are die-hard no pulp people).

But that I just strained. This throwing away of food that now has only elements of real food is making a noticeable dent in my grocery budget. 

How do they get extra pulp into the orange juice? 

So, as adventurous as it sounds, I better wait until next week to try the fat free, black bean brownie recipe.

The picture you see above is a bowl of zucchini "noodles" - one of the many unusual dishes offered at a tea I recently attended at Ms. Tina ________'s home - "Tea in the Raw". All the food was raw vegetarian. It was fascinating and tastier than you might imagine but I confess to a wild craving for a burger on the way home.

A Deep Belly Laugh

I've discovered, just the other night as a matter of fact, that actors - as a group - are a volatile demographic. When you hang with them, you have to expect that sooner or later, some assortment of them will break into improv and you will be left trying your best not to...well you know what can happen once you begin laughing so hard you can barely breathe and your jaw at last begins to ache.

Part of my Tea-A-Ria cast - Ms. Donna, Ms. Carrie, and Doc Sherwood (or if you prefer - Nona Lena, Aunt Sabina, and Tomasso DeLuca) - and I went to Fred's Diner last Thursday night so they could get a feel for the place. Of course, we had to sample the available food and libations. 

It was helpful and so much fun, but never did I expect to be so mightily entertained on the way home. I'm still unsure how poor Doc Sherwood, our designated driver, could even drive the car as he was laughing so hard.

I so wish I could convey what Ms. Donna and Ms. Carrie were saying but alas, it was a moment that defies explanation.

I'll tell you this though, the healing power of deep belly laughing cannot be denied!

And just to be on the safe side, I've now seen fit to make Kegel exercises a daily part of my routine. It would surely be grossly inappropriate for the director to be seen...well, again, I think you know where I'm heading here.

Pictured above is my darling Ms. Carrie - my right arm I might add.

Spontaneous Dance and Bald Eage Cool

The traffic on Fort Myers Beach during our high season is legendary. As a local, I early on developed a zen attitude about it all and so it rarely fries me. It does, however, drive some to the brink of madness.

I happened to be stuck in it at a dead standstill - trying to get back onto the beach - just the other day. Suddenly a handsome, shirtless black teen jumped out of his car and began dancing on the road between the two lanes of traffic.

The man in the vehicle behind me was clearly in a cranky mood. I could see him shaking his head and looking at the young man's moves with growing disdain.

I found this young man to be wildly entertaining. And then it occurred to me. Oh my gosh, what if all kinds of people - young and old - just jumped out their cars and broke into spontaneous dance in this traffic line. 

Can't you see it? Break dancing, ball room dancing, the swim, the twist. How joyful! What a picture op! What a way to pass the time!

I shared this with Dorothy, who grew up here, this morning at our weekly Tuesday breakfast at the Heavenly Biscuit. She told me that prior to our sky bridge and back in the days of the old swing bridge - taken out by a hurricane in 1926 - people anticipated long waits in long lines. People did indeed get out of their cars. But, they visited rather than danced.

I suppose the powers that be would today encourage us all to remain in our vehicles, but I'm feeling a certain desire come on.  I want to break into spontaneous dance in a most unlikely place.

I'm sure some cranky cat will be appalled but I hope such an unexpected vision will bring a smile to some soul in need of it or better yet - they'd get up or out and join me.  

Breaking into spontaneous dance - what if it became a nationwide phenomena?

I love my beach! I took this picture of a bald eagle in the back bay after my husband wooed him with whistles and sweet words in an effort to get him to look our way. He was, apparently lost in thought and paid us no mind at all. But I think he knew we were trying to catch his attention.  He was playing it "bald eagle cool".

Fair Is Just a Word

When either of my kids used to cry "That's not fair!", I had a favorite reply. 

"Fair is just a word, my Darlin." 

This, of course, drove them crazy. More so, I observed, as they maneuvered through their teen years.

Interestingly, that was an era in which I took even greater joy in my little catch phrase. Ooohh, the yin yang of it all! 

Well. My Kenny and Torie Montana have an opportunity to call it back to me for I'm now crying, "This is isn't fair!"

How, I ask, can a woman who's said to have a "mesmerizing" speaking voice not be able to carry a tune if her very life depended upon it. It just isn't fair!

Naturally this is not a news flash in my life. My own mother gave up hope years ago. The very minute she now hears any melody attempting escape from my lips, she says, "Laurie, honey, you're singing again."

But, it occurred to me a few months ago - as I was harmonizing with Sugarland in the car - the only place I can sing without being asked to stop - that perhaps the problem was I had forever been attempting the role of soprano. Should I have been sitting - all these years - in the alto chair?

While it might be late in life to begin a career in music, with a little practice I could surely improve my joyful noise. Maybe those around me might then cease with this cruel covering of their ears. Maybe I might never again hear those cruel words, "Make it stop!"

Ever the eternal optimist, I simply began practicing. Yes, in the car. 

I've lately begun unveiling my personal discovery - via live performances - to those closest to me.

My question now is this: Where do you find people who'll tell you exactly what you want to hear? I've surrounded myself with those compelled to share only their honest thoughts. Brutally honest thoughts I might add. Apparently my circle hasn't the dimmest concept of sugar coating. 

"Hhhmmm...no. Laurie, you still can't sing."

It's SO unfair!

The Q and A

When you perform for a library, you must stay put upon finishing because a QandA is the expected and final act of your appearance.

This isn't a problem unless you know nothing about your topic other than what you've just shared. I learned early on to do enough research so I could anticipate most questions about my subject matter.

But, there is always the chance there's someone in your audience with a mind that reaches.

The first time I experienced this was when doing a Darjeeling tea tasting for a group of investment brokers - mostly men. One gentleman asked, "How many hectares are there in an acre?"

There I was, immediately struggling with irritation...how on earth could he even think of asking a question whose existence and answer had totally escaped my notice. Grhh.....

Thankfully I caught the smartaleck reply before it left the tip of my tongue..."Well sir, perhaps if you tried focusing your attention on darjeeling tea we'd both feel better informed."

It was a lesson well learned and it's been a long time since I've again found myself in such a situation. That is, until this past Wednesday, where after my talk on the militant suffragist Alice Paul, I was tossed a series of unanswerable questions.

What were Alice Paul's three degrees?

What is the origin of the word suffrage?

Where did her Quaker family get their money?

In your opinion, in what election since the 19th amendment have women voters made the most impact?

I don't know the answer to that, nor that, to be honest I've never thought to research that, and unfortunately, perhaps our most recent election.

Actually a woman in the audience threw out the answer to that last question. And, the crowd roared - but I think it was her delivery to which they responded. It was perfection.

In order to head off any more unanswerable questions, I added - once the laughter subsided - "Ladies and gentlemen, I must insist that you ask only those questions to which I know the response."

But that last question was a good one. I wonder what the answer really is?

Clearly I need to dive a little deeper into Alice Paul. And perhaps into political science as well. 

But I can now tell you this. Alice Paul - one of my favorite women in history - possessed a B.A. in Biology (1905), a M.A. in Sociology (1907) and a Ph.D. in Economics (1912).

Oh...and FYI - 1 hectare = 2.47 acres.

More Than a Sweeping Glance

I see words to be put to paper, ideas to be corralled and, lately, an outdoor showering room nestled within a lovely moon garden.

So why, I wonder - with all this "vision" - have I not seen the dirt and grim making itself comfy in my kitchen?

Yesterday morning I slipped on my cream silk writing pajamas. A new blank page awaited, I had just moisturized and my tea had only moments left to brew. Cat Stevens played softly in the background.

And then I stepped on something. Upon picking it up, I was fairly certain it had once been a bleu cheese crumble. I've been out of bleu cheese since New Year's. 

As I studied it, resisting the urge to discover just how long the odor of bleu cheese lingers, my gaze fell upon my kitchen cabinet. When was the food fight?

I could feel panic rising from deep within my chest. My eyes darted this way and that. What was that sticky glob at the bottom of the refrigerator door? Was that a baker's dozen of dead gnats on my light fixture? Was my ceiling fan freakishly misshapen or was it only the measurable dust on the blades' edges that made it appear so?

Cat ceased to play. Instead I heard only the shrieking music played in horror movies just as the heroine opens the one door she should not. My mouth formed a voiceless scream.

Crumbs and Criminy. I had to clean.

I couldn't let Cat back. You can't clean to Cat Stevens. You need the Eurythmics.

Off came the cream silk writing pajamas. My tea grew cold. Out came my capri overalls and strong coffee. Promise you'll never drink tea while you clean! Trust me when I tell you it's just wrong.

I don't really mind cleaning once I get started and, of course, all feels marvelously right with the world once you've finished. I should try to keep up with it all better than I have been.

If only the occasional sweeping glance worked even a little magic!

BTW, the odor of bleu cheese does have some longevity.

And, no, my kitchen was not as bad as the above picture suggests. That was taken years ago upon gutting the upstairs bedroom on Fyler street in St. Louis - the construction site we called home for seven years.