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Wellness

Glacial Esker 40 Recap

April 30, 2019

It’s Monday. Two days have passed since I ran the Glacial Esker 40, my first 20-mile trail race. The tension in my shoulders is starting to subside. My hips and knees are getting some mobility back. My quads are still holding onto the effort, but I suspect that will ease by the end of the day. My head has a dull ache and the pesky effects of dehydration are clinging to me like a dryer sheet on a sweater. In many respects I’m more depleted than I’ve ever been, but in other ways more invigorated than I can remember feeling in a long time. It’s tough to capture the spirit of the day, but there is certainly plenty to share.

A 6 a.m. call time

For 15 weeks, I’d been checking off boxes on a printed training plan on a half sheet of paper. My best friend Jackie, who I’ve known and adored since our freshman year of high school, miraculously stepped in during week 5, after my brother tore his ACL and it became clear he wouldn’t be able to run. We would greet the sun on Saturday mornings and layer up for training runs around the GE course at Chain-O-Lakes state park, a little over 30 minutes away. Even then, in the company of about 30 other runners, who we’d never met before I knew there was something special about this trail and this tradition.

Around the 5-week mark, I found out that my sweet friend Libby would also be running. Throughout the weeks leading up to the race we’d exchange the occasional text message about how underprepared we were. I’d encourage her and offer tips from the training runs. She’d respond with sweating emojis and exclamation points.

The night before the race, four bags in tow, Libby arrived from Ohio. We went for burgers and ice cream with my crew and then sat on Spike’s bed to sort through the gear she brought. While in hindsight, the day might not have been made or broken by the choice of a mid- or full-length legging, in that moment, it sure felt that way. The weather didn’t really help. It was supposed to be about 36 degrees at the beginning, rise up to the high 40s and then start raining and drop again.

We went to bed around 10 o’clock Friday night. In order to get around, have a cup of coffee, pick up Jackie and make it to the park in time for packet pickup, which began at 5 am, we had to wake up around 3:30 Saturday morning.

At 5:45 the participants, volunteers and race organizers gathered in a heated tent for a brief download. It was like standing inside a sealed container packed tight with concentrated doses of  optimism and nervous energy. We were all just waiting for someone to pop the lid off. Standing in the warm tent, sandwiched between two women I love and respect, I said a silent prayer that we would all make it through the morning. It was nearly 6 o’clock and we had six hours to get the job done.

Outside, the sapphire sky was dotted with the brilliant glow of stars above and the runners’ headlamps below. There was no gun or canon, no playing of any national anthems, no pomp and circumstance. Just a simple, “Go get ‘em!” and the group started to move up the hill toward the mouth of the trail. We’d calculated that, given Libby’s typical road race pace, she should be done about an hour before us. The second things started shifting, she was gone, and we wouldn’t see her again until we came back around the lake we stood next to now hours later and crossed the finish line.

Sunrises and sandwiches

There’s something truly extraordinary about watching the world come alive through the eyes of the forest. There was a small window where we trotted along tentatively under the modest square of light cast down by our headlamps. But very shortly in, I looked up and saw the neon layer cake of dawn filling the gaps between the tree trunks. Everything felt good in that moment – the crisp air in my lungs, my fresh, rested legs.

We hit the first aid station at 2.5 miles in the blink of an eye. The volunteers were phenomenal, offering tater tots and broth and various protein-packed baked goods. I put a half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich down over my empty stomach and we continued along the path in a faint, beautiful light.

I knew Hank was going to be at the next aid station, Rally Campground, at mile 8. He was bringing a change of shoes and socks, bandages and drinks. As we came around the corner, under an arch of pine trees and a bed of their needles, I stepped right into a deep puddle of mud and screamed. Six strides later, my little girls had their arms around my waist.

I debated changing my shoes at Rally. It certainly wouldn’t have hurt anything, but I remembered something LIbby said the night before as she was sorting through gear. “Run in what you know.” I’d trained in these shoes. I knew what the trails felt like in these shoes. A little muddy water couldn’t do that much damage. I sipped some broth and ate another half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Jackie and I took off down the gravel road out of Rally and my two older girls jogged alongside us, joking and giggling. Without intention we reconnected with our slow, carbon copy stride.

All the mud

Jackie and I had never been on the other side of Rally Campground. We had no idea what the terrain would be like.

“It’s kind of fun,” Jackie said in those first couple of steps, “not knowing what’s coming next.”

Within minutes we discovered exactly what was coming next, as we encountered a stretch of mud four inches deep that stretched for as far as our eyes could see. We started by trying to go around it, which proved a fool’s errand. Soon, we realized that no matter which lane you chose, you were going to get dirty. We started plowing up through the middle of the puddles, praying our shoes would stay on and fighting the suction below us.

After we made our way through the first mud pit, we naively expressed our optimism that we might just be through the worst of it.

“OK,” Jackie said. “Maybe it gets better from here on out.”

We heard chuckles behind us. It was a gentleman we’d chatted with many times on our training runs and a friend of his. Both of them had clearly been on the other side of Rally before.

“It’s just getting started,” one of them said. We looked at each other.

They weren’t exaggerating. The next six miles was like navigating the slip and slide from hell. We slid, we tripped, we jerked our feet up out of the earth as it tried to suck us in. Everything burned – my butt, my hips, my thighs. At one point, I stepped down and my foot was entirely submerged in thick, warm, wet dirt.

“Cheese and rice!” I complained. “It feels like I just stepped into a gorilla turd and it ate my foot alive.”

After working through a large stretch of mud, it took a good 20 strides or so for our bodies to remember how to run normally. Our feet were heavy. Our socks squished and rubbed against our toes. We were streaked in brown and still miles from the finish line.

The worst watch malfunction in history

The day before, Hank told me that he would be at Rally Campground and then meet us again at mile 16.5. My watch vibrated on my wrist indicating we’d reached mile 17, and I started to hypothesize with my trailmate.

“Huh, I know this part of the trail from camping up here, and I know there isn’t a road for a while.”

“Yeah?” Jackie panted.

“Yeah. Hank must have calculated wrong.”

“Maybe.”

When the mileage on my wrist read 18.5, I saw Sloppy Joan running down from the top of the hill. Her momentum took over and she face planted up ahead of us. Her heels kicked up behind her. She lifted her dirty chin and started to cry. I reached her, and the other two, and picked her up off the ground.

“You guys are going to have to help her,” I instructed. “I’m too tired to carry her.”

We jogged on, leaving my girls to sort out the suffering of their smallest member. I came up to Hank at the final aid station. In my mind, we had 1.5 miles to go and I wanted to get rid of everything. I took off my hydration pack and my vest. I was shedding clothing like I had fire ants under my shirt, except for my handkerchief. I tucked that into the back of my pants. I chugged a small sports drink, kissed him on the cheek and took off again. We were almost done, and the volunteers promised it would be all downhill.

My watch vibrated every half mile to alert me of our progress. After the second vibration, with what should have been just .5 left to cover, I started to worry.

“Jac, where is the lake?” I asked. “Like, if we have just a half mile left, shouldn’t we be able to see the lake? And why don’t we hear any cheering?”

“Maybe no one’s finishing right now,” she offered. But we both knew something was wrong. She waited a few minutes and then said, “What if Hank really was at mile 16?”

“There’s no way my watch is that off, right?” I negotiated with her and also with the universe. “I mean, that would mean it was like multiple miles off.”

As we jogged along, our bodies turning to rust with each exchange of our hips, it became abundantly clear that the watch could, indeed, be that far off. If there was any moment that broke our spirits that morning, it was that one. It didn’t happen on a steep hill or in a mud puddle like we thought it might. It happened two miles away from the finish line on a relatively flat path where we momentarily misplaced our hope.

“Well, it is what it is, right?” Jackie finally said. “We have to get out of here one way or another. It’s just gonna hurt really bad.”

And it did. It hurt really, really bad. It packed the sting of disappointment and the brilliant burn of exhaustion for at least 15 minutes. An older woman came up behind us and announced we were at 19. The news gave new life to our limbs as we picked up our pace the slightest bit. It was a shift undetectable by the untrained eye, but we felt it.

The woman was waiting for her husband. “We always cross the finish line together,” she shared. And soon the couple, and their daughter, ran right past us.

“Stage 4 cancer survivor!” the daughter said to us over her shoulder.

“If I can do this, anyone can!” the older gentleman, her father, added.

We could hear cheers now. We were that close. The last stretch of trail ran parallel to the lake. We could see the tent and the parking lot less than a mile away. I can’t remember what we said to each other in those final minutes, but I do recall hearing, “Let’s finish this.” It might have come from my lips, it might have come from hers. I could see my girls. I could see Libby. I saw Hank standing off to the side with his phone recording the moment for us so we’d never forget. The race organizer gave me a high five as we crossed the finish line, just before 11 am. I cried and pulled Jackie in for a hug. We each got a wooden medallion on a string of twine placed around our necks with “GE 40 – 20 Miles” burned into the face. The medal was a token of accomplishment taken from the trail we’d just conquered and in that moment it meant more to me than gold.

My starving child

I hobbled over to the car and changed out of my blocks of mud. Libby had been done for an hour, just as we predicted. She looked rested and glowing with achievement. She’d loved the race. Every bit of it, just as I’d hoped she would.

Someone mentioned there was food in the tent where we’d been briefed earlier that morning. The girls were at my sides as we surveyed the offerings.

“Does this cost anything?” Sloppy Joan asked one of the volunteers. It was a question I had never heard my almost five-year-old ask anyone ever. The volunteer laughed.

“Can I have a grilled cheese?” Spike asked. One of the women running the griddle kindly obliged and handed her half of a sandwich.

“Me too, please,” JoJo said. “And a cup of soup.” Again, the volunteer obliged.

But when I asked for two more, for me and Sloppy Joan, I started to get the sense we might be abusing their generosity. It all clicked for me at once. The half portions, the tiny cups of candies, the hamburger buns cut into fourths. We were unknowingly ransacking an aid station! This wasn’t a celebration meal for the families. This was a fuel stop for all of the amazing men and women who planned to continue on and do the 40 miles.

“Let’s wait and make something at home,” I told Sloppy Joan. But, like a bad dream, she was already mid motion, picking up a giant spoon they’d placed in a bowl of goldfish crackers and shoveling them into her hot cocoa-rimmed mouth.

“Everything is free!” she cheered, and I wanted to crawl in a hole.

“Four year olds,” I said, mortified, and handed the volunteer the spoon with her greedy spit on it. It was time to take my homeless child out of the tent and get everyone home. It was time to let the healing begin.

All the stuff you feel later

Libby ended up finishing fifth overall for the women in the 20 mile race. Such a badass. Jackie and I were a little closer to the back of the pack. I’m just in awe that it’s over, and experiencing a bit of a race hangover to be honest. I can remember being in my 20s, and talking to people who ran about how much I wished I could be a runner, but conceding I just didn’t have it in me. We tend to achieve what we believe. I believed this myth that you had to go at a certain pace or look a certain way, but watching my silhouette move across the ground as I racked up more and more mileage, I accepted a new belief. I accepted that a runner is anyone who can cover the distance. It’s the person who shows up. Our race might not have been the prettiest, but we put in the time and training and we saw it all the way through.

For my first long distance trail run, I couldn’t have asked for a better experience. Every single person involved with the GE 40, from the other runners who checked in as they passed by, to the volunteers who offered to fill water bladders and fry up tater tots in 30-degree weather, to the organizers who treated every participant like a friend, it was a blessing. One of the organizers told me I’d be ruined for any other trail run and I imagine he’s right.

I am so proud of Jackie and Libby, for being brave enough to throw their hats into the ring and make the race what they needed it to be. The most treasured part of the process for me is the opportunity to be around these positive, uplifting women and be witness to their wins. They say intense situations tend to make people bond faster and more intensely. I don’t know about that, but seeing two people who are really important to me, who didn’t know each other five hours earlier, embrace and share in such a joyful moment, is what it’s all about. I’m constantly amazed and inspired by their abilities, their support and their sisterhood.

Without ever stepping foot on a trail before that day, Libby came out and killed the game, but she treated us like we finished right behind her. She wears her success paired with a touching humility and they just don’t come any better than that girl.

Jackie is my ride or die. We’ve been breathless and broken together more times than I can count, and we always come out on the other side a little bit stronger. She understands my “why” because hers is ultimately the same. We have things to prove to ourselves and we’re just getting started.

But race day MVP goes to Hank. He picked up the slack all those Saturdays when I went to knock out a training run and never once held it over my head. He got the girls around and up to the park at 6 o’clock in the morning and anticipated our needs and put them above his own comfort and convenience. He showed up. It wasn’t easy, but he showed up. In the cold, early hours of one of my biggest accomplishments, he was there. That’s what love should feel like, look like, sound like. I would run all over this earth for a love like that.

Glacial Esker 40 Mile Run from Red Tide Productions on Vimeo.

Every time I try something new and it doesn’t kill me, I’m reminded of how much I love seeing what’s on the other side of the mountain. Every time I face what intimidates me and choose to cross over that bridge between who I was and who I just might be, I discover a whole new depth to this life. There’s a richness in exploring what comes after the fear, after the pain, after the doubt. If you want it bad enough, you simply refuse to quit. You accept that it’s going to hurt like hell, and you put your head down and you keep moving until someone puts the medallion around your neck. Until someone hugs you and you know you made it.

Wellness

Training checkin – 10 weeks out

February 12, 2019

Less than three months from today, I will [hopefully] be able to say I’ve tackled my first 20-mile trail race. Seven weeks into my training schedule, I thought it would be a good time to kick the tires, check the gauges – share an unfortunate update – and start offering some behind-the-scenes intel for those wishing to place their bets on the main event.

Body scan

Honestly, I feel pretty good. Well, we’ll call it 75 percent good. I’m a few weeks post January Whole30 detox and the ole bod is fairly happy for the time being. Although you and I both know it’s the honeymoon phase. The trick is to keep my sugar dragon in the dungeon so that ugly inflammation doesn’t rear its ugly head. This has always proven to be a fool’s errand for me. I blacked out during the Super Bowl halftime show after eating a healthy assortment of Girl Scout cookies and when I came to Adam Levine’s nips were jumping out at me. Other people saw that, right?

For me, food is something that demands a lot of intention setting. Each day, I have to wake up, reset and resolve to be an active decision-maker. I have to choose to put some collagen in my coffee and let a little fast do some magic until at least midmorning. I have to choose a kale salad for lunch instead of a fried chicken wrap from the cafeteria. I have to choose not to eat chocolate at my desk. I have to choose to have one, not three, muffins at dinner. I have to choose to let fruit be enough of a dessert and stay out of the cookies. For some people, the impulse to make the unhealthy choice is a whisper. For other people, like myself, it is a constant roar, screaming and hollering and jumping up and down inside my head.

Typically, I can find balance. If my stomach is rumbling, my mind can consult MyFitnessPal and come up with a reasonable resolution. If my mind fixates on a mirage of brownies or burgers, I can check in with my stomach and assess the degree of true hunger, often, but not always, talking myself down off the sticky, sugary ledge. But it’s the days I log more than a handful of miles that really throw me. On those occasions, my mind and body are both in cahoots, telling me that I burned an abundance of extra calories so I can have allllll of the things. I can fill up a thousand-calorie deficit in one sitting. Just hand me a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, some ice cream and a bag of chips and then get the hell out of the way.

The elements + the miles

The biggest struggle has been the weather. The good Lord gave me one Saturday in early January that was like 50 degrees and sunny. The entire city was crammed onto one four-foot-wide path, riding and running and strolling with smiling pups. But other than that, it’s been all snow storms and wicked wind chills over here, which has left me predominantly confined to the hamster wheel in the basement.

I am not a treadmill gal. It all feels a little too human lab experiment to me. But to conquer six miles at week four, I had to put on my big girl pants and the Taylor Swift concert on Netflix (I made a promise to a friend that I would give her an honest shot at winning me over) and just crank it out. A week later, I called upon Justin Timberlake live in Vegas to get me through seven. He got it done, and so did the Tennessee Kids, and so did I.

Side note, can we real talk for a second … Am I the only person who finds it unbearably tempting to take multiple mini breaks on the treadmill? It’s just way too easy to put your feet on the side rails for a few pants and let some .10s tick by while you grab a drink. I rarely hear that evil little voice when I jog outside. I guess because I know that if I’m not moving, the distance between me and my house isn’t either. But on the treadmill, that rubber mat’s churnin’ and burnin’ with or without my tired legs on top of it.

Besides, nothing magical happens on a treadmill. Nothing. For example, this past weekend I had to tick off 9 miles, and I just knew there was no way I could do it inside. They were predicting mid-20s and no wind, so I decided to get up at 7:30, layer up and get out there to snake along my suburban training course. Around mile 4, my right hip started to hurt. This is common for me. But then, as the sun began to crest over the rows of houses, I could see the lightest dusting of snow flurries falling from the sky. The flakes sparkled out in front of me, and I pictured a group of angels dumping salt shakers filled with glitter over my head. It was magical. Euphoric. Because when you get outside and put yourself under the heavens like that, a little bit of wonder is bound to fall upon you at some point. That’s not happening on a treadmill in your basement.

Anywho, we’re gettin’ it done over here. About halfway through and staring down the barrel of some big daddy training runs, it’s all been pretty uneventful all things considered. Well, that was, until a few weeks ago…

How things are going as I train for my first 20-mile trail race.

Social status

You might remember, I signed up for this race with my big brother, Matt. Well, around week 5 of training, his knee started to bother him. I meet him sometimes on Monday mornings to lift weights, and when he walked in that particular week, I knew something was off. My man-child of a sibling joined an adult basketball league, which plays on Sundays. After he knocked out his long run the day before, he’d gone to play with the other men-children and his knee started locking up on him. I looked down. His knee was swollen from cap to near mid-calf. He sat down at one machine (mind you, it was leg day in our weight rotation) and extended his legs out in front of him, pressing the pounds he’d loaded on. That was about all his joint was willing to give his pride that day. A handful of reps and a stern, painful warning shot.

The verdict is in. Homeboy has a torn ACL and unfortunate meniscus situation. He’s assessing the options and still plans to show up in April, but we’ll see what the weeks ahead have in store.

The morning after he told me the diagnosis, arching down from the heavens in vibrant, cascading strokes, I saw a double rainbow. If I were looking for a meaning in the natural phenomenon, I might attribute it to the two gals in my life who, in the wake of the news, decided to strap on their sports bras and join me in the woods at the end of April for this ambitious adventure. That’s if I were into symbolism and fairy tales. And I’m far too old, and it’s far too sappy, to equate these courageous choices with such unrealistic ideas. But the rainbows were there. In February. I saw them. I’m just saying.

Wellness

Macros may I …

July 16, 2018

For the last two years, I have been pumping my legs on a 20-pound swing. Every few weeks, fueled by an unflattering tag on social media, I’ll buckle down, shape up for 20 days and drop as many as 10 pounds, before finding some cookies and coasting back in the other direction. The older I get, the appeal of this yoyo becomes less and less sexy. So, I decided to try something brand new. I decided to work with a nutrition coach and get real about my macros.

I have known Hollie for nearly 15 years. We both dated and eventually married Wabash College men. Just as the guys at the all-male school had a special bond, so too did the partners of those men, so I always had an eye on what was happening with Hollie. After leaving her post as a teacher to stay home with her kids and pursue her passion for fitness, she turned her blog, Muscles and Munchkins, into a full scale health coaching hustle. Naturally, I subscribed to her newsletter.

So it seemed like divine intervention when one morning, my button digging into the old man’s neck pouch of regret just south of my belly button, an email from Hollie materialized at the top of my inbox. It was a beacon of sorts. Maybe because I really needed a beacon that day, or maybe because the universe isn’t really as random as some would think.

This particular newsletter was a testimonial from a client who, through implementing strict macronutrient counting, had lost a significant amount of weight, even with the addition of more food. I’d tried calculating my macro goals on my own using the ole’ trusty internet a few weeks before, but the results varied by site, which made it all seem a little vague and unreliable. Which is hard to believe, because I thought everything on the Internet was true. Huh.

I emailed Hollie a few days later, asking for the details on the coaching program. A word about pride here … While I feel entirely comfortable being self deprecating (my favorite medieval defense mechanism) about my weight and food issues, it is monumentally humbling to ask for help with it. Particularly from a friend. Maybe that’s just me. I worried that the initial conversation might be awkward given our history, demoralizing at the very least. But of course, it wasn’t.

Hollie sent me an intake form with questions about my lifestyle and fitness level so she could get to work in the days to come. We set a start date for the third week of June, and the next day I hopped into the car to head to the Outer Banks with my crew.

Twelve days and nine pounds later, Hollie and I had our official kickoff call. The timing could not have been better. I felt blissfully, regretfully bloated and foggy from the fruits of my raging sugar bender; A carb-rich rampage I was still smack dab in the middle of, mind you. I came clean right away.

“My starting weight is a little higher than what I gave you last week,” I said.
“That’s OK,” she offered.
“Is it?” I countered.
“Yeah, I’m not going to adjust your macro goals, because a lot of that is probably water weight,” she said. (I doubted her professional opinion a tad, based on the daily 4pm cinnamon rolls I’d treated myself to at the beach house.)

Hollie walked me through my macro goals and answered each of my questions, including such gems as, “How can I lose weight when I love donuts?” She took my unique goals into consideration; I’m trying to reduce my intake of animal products and I’d like to slay my ravenous sugar dragon.

Last Thursday marked the halfway point of our six weeks of work, which includes texts and weekly calls. I’ve learned some important things, some of which I’d like to share with you here (without giving all of Hollie’s secrets away) to meet you wherever you find yourself in your weight war.

Fat is no one’s friend.

While I’ve been tracking my food in MyFitnessPal off and on for some time, I was only looking at one number: my calories. The other numbers were just like fine print at the bottom of a movie poster. The possible side effects in a prescription drug commercial. But Hollie was quick to point out that, while I hit my calorie goal a good number of days, I was over by quite a bit on my fat. Like, 20-30g over at times.

Think of the most delicious things you can put into your mouth – peanut butter, chips and guacamole, cake, cheese, ice cream – and then just picture an atomic fat bomb exploding in your human plumbing. I lust after these treats like a Kardashian after a lens. I adore them even though I know they are ruining me, controlling me. It’s all very Ike and Tina.

So these days I’m factoring fat into the equation. And protein and carbs as well, but really I’m focusing on controlling myself around the good stuff. A little less chocolate and a few more chickpeas. A lighter pour on the ole’ EVOO. It’s a battle I’m waging one meal at a time.

You have to want it more than beer. Or brownies.

Hollie can download her entire database of knowledge into my brain, but at the end of the day, it’s me holding the fork in my hand. It’s me deciding whether I should pull the trigger.

We spent six days camping over the Fourth of July, and I was able to reign myself in for the most part. I only had ice cream once! But just two days later, Hank and I found ourselves at the Dave Matthews Band concert and I decided to eat, drink and be a bit too merry. All that merriment, it turned out, could be tabulated up to 3 pounds exactly, in a 48 hour time period. I made the choices. They were mine.

When I focus on my future self, I can see definition in my arms and my pre-baby clothes, which currently sit stacked on my closet shelves mocking me. It’s my current self who can’t seem to get with the program. In fact she’s a real turd. Every meal, every right after the meal, every dinner out with friends, every work carry-in, I have to decide whether I want to be kind to my future self or indulge my current self. I have to want it more than the wine, more than the pizza and more than the brownie. And friggin-A brownies are good.

Tracking is the ticket.

I really do try my best not to be one of those assholes with a crick in her neck from staring into my smartphone all day long. That being said, MyFitnessPal has, as the name would imply, become one of my dearest confidants as of late. We’ve been spending a lot of time together; Going grocery shopping and having late night chats about what’s really going on in my protein bars.

The tricky thing about food is that, you think you have a general idea of how “naughty” or “natural” something is, but a calorie tracking app is the truth serum. It’s like feeding a suitcase of food through an x-ray machine at the airport. The app unpacks the compartments of your day – My that’s an excessive amount of fat to be carrying on this time of year – and lays it all out before you on a screen.

I’ve often skinny dipped in the pool of ignorance, and my gosh it was bliss, but now that I’m tabulating every tic tac, I can’t help but wonder just how many grams of carbs, fat and sugar I was taking in on a typical pre-tracking day. I was pounding the beers and the dark chocolate covered almonds like they were born of the nectar of negative calories.

A case study, if you will: A cheeseburger with ketchup, mayo and lettuce like I would order from our family’s favorite fast food restaurant, has 43g of fat. But you don’t have a cheeseburger alone unless you’re a total loser, right? So I make it a combo, add a side of honey mustard for the taters, and tack on another 24g. When all is said and done, I’m pulling out of the drive thru toting a 67g F-bomb. My daily goal, on a rest day, is 50g of fat.

One might argue that life is far too short to sacrifice pleasure for the sake of some simple math, and I can respect that. But I choose to look at it like a game: How can I make this meal still taste satisfying without demolishing my day? I can get away with just one bun. I can skip the mayo and give mustard another chance. Maybe he’s changed. I might even get crazy and ditch the cheese. I’ll probably have to factor out the fries, though our love affair was so hot while it lasted. It’s like a jigsaw puzzle and every day I’m just trying to get all the pieces to come together.

So, that’s what’s going down on my scale these days. I’ll keep you posted on the progress. If you’d like to learn more about Hollie’s hustle, you can check her out here.

Uncategorized, Wellness

The day after vegan

October 9, 2017

Some of you have asked about the day after The Livin la Vida Vegan Challenge, and I guess, in hindsight, I did kind of leave you hanging a bit. Blogging every day for 14 days was a little intense for me. If you don’t want to read on, or suspense just isn’t you’re thing, yes, I finished the half marathon, and yes, I ate ALL the things, and yes, I got sicker than a dog. Read on if you’d like a deeper dive into any of the aforementioned statements.

The big race.
This was my third half marathon (running, sixth if you count the times I walked that mug). The beautiful thing about coming into a race like this with a few under your belt is the reassurance that you will, eventually, finish. It might not be pretty, but you’ll get there. I think that’s the most encouraging mantra to keep in your back pocket. “I will finish this. I will not die. I will finish this. I will not die.” People always say, “I couldn’t run that long,” or ask, “How do you do that?” and the truth is, you just keep shuffling along.

Jackie (my partna) and I are not record-setters. We don’t wear the fancy, fast shorts that look like bathing suit bottoms. We don’t have compression socks, or special sunglasses. We are just a couple of moms, with semi-soft bodies (me more so than her), who’ve been friends for a couple decades, who like to come out together and turn in a lackluster performance. That’s just us. That’s our m.o. We own that.

Forget your corral letter, forget your pace group, that is the categorization that matters. When you know who you are and what you’re doing there, the perspective really alleviates the pressure. We’re pretty content in the middle of the pack, because, for us, it’s just about proving our bodies are still capable of carrying us that far. We are not broken. We are not entirely swallowed up by our roles as mom or wife or nurse or writer. We are strong, amateur athletes with veracious lions (or more like angry kittens) sleeping just beneath our skin. At least for one day of the year that’s what we are.

The morning of the race was chilly. I didn’t eat any meat or dairy. I made a smoothie with spirulina, 1 scoop protein powder, coconut water, spinach and some Beet Elite. I ate a bowl of multigrain Cheerios, too, because it sounded good. That was it. And my stomach felt … off.

It was touch-and-go right up until the cannon went off marking the start of the race. Once we got moving, things in my belly really calmed down. In fact, the first 3 miles flew by. I felt great, Jac felt great. We were right on the heels of the 2:20 pace group. Considering we finished around 2:23 last year, that was pretty damn good.

“At Mile 4, let’s stop and have a chew and some water,” I said.
“Yup, that’s what I was thinking,” Jackie agreed.

This would be the biggest mistake we made all day.

Mile 4 is where the course takes a turn off of the initial long drag. In the past, it’s been a point where we picked up momentum. This year, it was the death of it. There was a gradual decline in our pace from Mile 5, on. I felt fine mentally, and it was an absolutely gorgeous day, but my legs just started running out of steam. Like, in my mind they were flying, but in my shadow they looked more like a baby colt in a pool of tar.

We walked a few times, but we knew our friend Molly would be waiting at Mile 10.

“If we can just get to Molly,” Jackie would say.
“Right,” I’d agree.
“If we can just make it to Molly we’ll stop, have a chew, and then finish strong.”
“Yeah.”

And then …

“There’s Molly’s ass!” Jackie yelled.
“That’s not Molly’s ass.”
“Isn’t that her ass?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“There’s Mol!!” I said, pointing to our dear girl, standing on a corner waving with her two kiddos.

It was like seeing a well in the desert. We’d been talking about her for so long. I think we both thought something might spark deep down inside us when we reached her embrace on that sunny September morning. But instead, we just felt full of dread.

Three miles to go.

My hips for sure hurt, though not as bad as they had on our longer training runs. Jac’s knees were getting to her. But bottom line, we just had nothing left in the tank.

“Oh shit,” Jackie said, motioning her head over her shoulder.

I turned to see the 2:30 pace group right behind us, seconds from passing. I shrugged and reminded her we just wanted to finish. We were racing ourselves. And all the other bullshit we tell ourselves to get our broken down bodies across the finish line.

And cross the finish line we did, at 2:31. “Totally plant-powered!” I exclaimed in a rush of dopey adrenaline. Jac wasn’t into it.

Passing my small tribe on the way into the arena, I was reminded, yet again, why we do this. Why we log the miles for 12 weeks beforehand. Why we abuse our aging bodies and spend so much time away from the kids. It’s for that moment you look down at your feet, knowing you can stop. That your children are watching. That you and your best friend just ran 13.1 motha truckin’ miles, together. Just a couple of moms, with semi-soft bodies (me more so than her), who’ve been friends for a couple decades, who like to come out together and turn in a lackluster performance, just ran 13.1 miles.

I ate 1.5 donuts and half a Gatorade. My stomach, again, was … off.

The very hungry caterpillar.
At noon, I had a Big John from Jimmy Johns and chips, but I was still hungry.

At 12:45, I had 2 cookies, but I was still hungry.

At 3, I had 2 giant chocolate truffles, but … I had to go to a wedding.

Dinner, and a deathblow to veganism.
The wedding was so amazing. It was touching and lovely and just entirely enchanting. I had to leave before the reception and head over to Matt’s for his Second Annual Fancy Dinner Party. I chugged water with an electrolyte tab on the way over and prayed for a solid stomach.

My brother bid on a special dinner-in-your-home package at a live auction last fall, and that night a special group of friends, myself included, would garner the rewards of that bid. The theme was Bourbon Pairings, so, on the plus side, we all knew we were in trouble right outta the gate. There wouldn’t be any surprises.

We started with bourbon sours. They were that perfect storm of delicious flavors in small glasses. When we ordered another round after the first course I think we sent ourselves down the path of mass destruction. It was a force greater than ourselves. They were too delicious. The glasses seemed so tiny, so harmless.

Basically, from there what transpired was a parade of meat butters and creamy dairy delights. Goat cheese-stuffed dates, fancy tater tots with a sauce you want to cheat on your husband with, duck tongue tacos (I know, I had the same reaction, but those tongues were tasty), pork belly that fell apart the second it touched your tastebuds, and bourbon s’mores. As meals go, this one was up there with the Wicked Spoon buffet in Vegas and last year’s Straight Outta Compton Fancy Dinner.

First Course
Herb De Provence chevre stuffed dates / wrapped with prosciutto ham / blue cheese fondue

Second Course
Patatas Bravas / Parmesan-truffle encrusted / smoked paprika aioli

Third Course
Duck tongue taco / bourbon barrel smoked salsa rojo / spiced red onion escabache / queso fresco/ achiote crema

Fourth Course
Pork belly confit / bourbon gastrique / pickled English cucumbers/balsamic pearls / charred tomato dust/orange blossom mousse

Intermezzo
Blood orange sorbet

Fifth Course
Woodford reserved braised short ribs / oaxacan mole sauce/lemon scented farro grain / coconut espuma

Sixth Course
Bourbon Marshmallow s’mores / ”campfire smoke”/ snap-crackle-pop graham crackers / dark chocolate ribbon

 

I emerged from my brother’s basement – the scene of the meat butter massacre – around 11:30, sat down, and let the doom wash over me like a 50-gallon bucket at a waterpark. I was in trouble. My stomach, my head, my body. I’d been still long enough for everything to catch up to me and now there was no running from it. My legs were too tired. My tummy was too full of all the animal things I turned away for two weeks. Plus, the bourbon. I gave Hank “the look” and we made an exit.

I slept on our new bathroom floor.

It was cold.

Linoleum.

And that, dear friends, is what happened the day after the Livin’ la Vida Vegan Challenge.

Wellness

Livin la Vida Vegan Day 14 (food and gratitude)

September 30, 2017

Holy hot dogs made of carrots, batman! We made it to Day 14 of the Livin la Vida Vegan 14-Day Challenge. I doubt that anyone is half as excited as my husband and children, who are anxious to get the flour-coated gluten balls off their plates.

It’s an interesting day because it’s the day before race day and the last day of this crazy adventure. I’m very aware of my body today, I guess is what I’m saying. How does it feel … How will it feel in the morning … Was this smart … Will this pay off … Will I have enough gas in the tank come morning? I’m not quite sure what the ole’ girl has in ‘er.

7:30 a.m.
I gave myself a splash of the Califa this morning, against my better judgment, and went about blending up the same smoothie as yesterday. The spirulina gets less noticeable every day, but I need to find a way to get the chocolate protein powder completely out of the equation. Baby steps. I have to keep reminding myself that the work doesn’t end just because the jumpstart is over. Sunday can be vegan. Monday can be vegan. (Tomorrow is definitely not going to be vegan.)

12:30 p.m.
I picked up my race packet and grabbed lunch at an adorable diner downtown with a friend from work. There were so many vegan options, I was pleasantly surprised. I opted for this insane veggie panini (hold the havarti) and kettle chips. Big, meaty mushrooms and thin strips of zucchini and tomatoes … it was fire! The chips weren’t bad, either.

It’s interesting, you’d think it would be so hard to go out, but truly it’s just a matter of leaving off a few things here and there. And honestly, as heavy as they sauce and suffocate things with cheese these days, I find they actually taste better without all of the fixins on occasion.

5 p.m.
I ate celery and almond butter for no good reason.

6 p.m.
Every Friday night we have dinner with my folks, then come back to our house and play three hands of euchre. We have an ongoing tally: Boys: 204, Granny Panties 157. It’s always a big deal … Where are we going to go? What sounds good? It’s a tradition rooted in food and an ultra-competitive card game. Tonight we went to a local place with a huge menu. I assumed there would be something to bring us home on this thing.

There wasn’t much. Hank got a veggie wrap that looked less than awesome (and he reported tasted as such) and I got veggie tacos. They had a pound of black beans on each tortilla (blech) topped with a corn relish and sliced underripe avocadoes. It came with, what else, a side scoop of black beans. Not the coolest way to go out, but I did the job. We were fed.

I stared at my mom’s pulled pork sandwich like a little girl outside a bridal shop.

8 p.m.
A vegan everything cookie to silence my screaming internal sugar demon and some ginger kombucha. For the record, just so everyone is crystal clear on the matter, my father believes that the Standard American Diet, paired with exercise is really what people need … none of this microbiome, gut health mumbo jumbo the kids keep yapping about. Write it down, somebody. We’re all going to regret shooting apple cider vinegar and gagging down tubs of sauerkraut one day.

9:50 p.m.
I feel like a half an almond butter sandwich is a smart choice right now. I don’t think I got enough protein tonight and I’m nervous about my plant-powered 13 in the morning. I’m just going to sit here and think about it until I get up and make it.

It was the right call.

10 p.m.
So … final thoughts on this whole thing. I guess the most common thing people ask is, “Do you regret doing this?” No. I learn something every time I try one of these challenges, and I think that, even though I didn’t lose 20 pounds in 14 days, which, let’s be honest, I was secretly hoping would happen, I did change my mentality a bit. And big change often starts with “a bit”.

I’m sleeping like a dead man, my head fog is gone and I move easier when I exercise. In truth, I doubt 14 days is sufficient for something like this, though I suspect I knew that all along. It was a convenient, manageable chunk of time, but now, on the other side of it, the ending feels abrupt, premature. But I’m sitting here, fingers on the keys, focusing on all the wins.

I can remember, not that long ago, staring at my Pinterest boards for hours trying to come up with Meatless Monday ideas. I’ve known for some time that less meat, less dairy, less animal fat, is better, but I’ve really lagged on the execution. Now, I know that this house won’t crumble without a deep freezer full of the cast of Babe chillin’ in it. I know we will eat our tofu lettuce wraps and carry on.

Every day, for 14 days, more than 500 people stopped by to see what we ate, how it went over and how we were feeling about the whole thing. That just blows my mind. From your time here on these pages, whether you’d been to the blog before or not, I can only hope you garnered a laugh and an actionable takeaway. Maybe that was a product recommendation (likely from Costco, let’s be honest) or a recipe to try. Whatever it was, I pray that our experiment sparked one of your own.

If you’re a veteran vegan or a newbie or considering a change or just a supportive friend, I thank you for spending some of your day with me and, of course, I invite you to stick around for the regular DSS chatter on life, love and losing my shit on a daily basis. Your interest and advice has been one of the greatest pearls from this whole experience. Every text, every email, every instant message, every private message, every comment, every shared pin, every everything. Your kindness was an unexpected, beautiful byproduct of dipping our toes into the vegan pool. I feel humbled and encouraged.

As for us? Well, tomorrow is Vegas, not vegan. I plan to chase the half marathon with donuts and a tub of cookies, none of which I will apologize for. Then we have a fun dinner with friends on the books for the evening and I plan to wear maternity pants and just get into bed with all the foods. All of them.

But after that, we’ll see. I finished my meal plan for next week and it’s all meat- and dairy-free for me. These other yahoos will have to sort things out for themselves. Of course, I do 90 percent of the cooking, so it could get interesting.

Good night, sweet friends, old and new. It’s time for me to turn in. Tomorrow seems like a great day for a run, doesn’t it?

Wellness

Livin la Vida Vegan Day 13 (cheese heaven and carbonara crap)

September 29, 2017

Despite our temporary vegan insanity, somehow, miraculously, the world in our house keeps turning. For instance, all the chicks have a cough, Spike lost her second tooth yesterday and, perhaps most notable, the pen pal saga continues. I thought we were past it, but then I got this in my notebook from JoJo this morning:

Dear Mom,
I Don’t know why But I still Don’t want you and Spikey to Be Pen pals. I mean Spike still eats her snot And sneaks food and never is around to Play. She even punched you once and she fuses a lot!!!!!!!

Secret: I can Do a Back Pull over!!!! What do you think? Hey mayBe we should start sending secrets right?

Love,
JoJo

How to heal this wound? How … how … how? These are the special things you run into as a mother and just smile up at the heavens for placing such adorable dilemmas in your lap.

Then you have Spike, whose note simply read:

Dear mom,
Do you know that ALL are LOVE is Like Coming in My Haret more LOVE and More LOVE Thank you for ALL the ClEning Up DOn AFter the [SOMETHING]. Thank you for you anD DAD

That girl has a very special soul. They all do. I cherish the gift of peering into their little hearts. And then you have Sloppy Joan, who stood in nothing but her Pull Up at 6:30 this morning screaming at Spike, who was perched on the pot, “I–have–to–POOP!!!!!” She, too, is a delicate flower. Perhaps the most delicate of the whole bouquet.

7:30 a.m.
Don’t fall over, but I managed to leave the crack creamer out of my coffee this morning, saving myself 6g of sug. I added only a splash of cashew milk. I felt very grownup about the whole thing. Again, working to get my sugar (satan’s juice) stats down, I left the banana out of my smoothie this morning as well, opting simply for: 1.5 teaspoons spirulina, a handful of spinach, turmeric, 1 scoop chocolate protein powder, 1 teaspoon hemp seeds, cinnamon, 1 tablespoon plain coconut yogurt and cashew milk. It was tasty. Turquoise and tasty.

I’m trying to pound the water today in preparation for the race Saturday. It’s go-time for hydration. Do you guys follow Heidi Powell at all? She’s Chris Powell’s wife (Extreme Transformation), and she offers up some really helpful fitness and nutrition tips here and there. Anyway, I read this post on her blog … or maybe it was a caption on Instagram … that suggested taking 10 gulps of water every time you bring it to your lips. It helps you hit your fluid goals a little easier. I even say, “chug, chug, chug,” to myself in my head while I do it, so I feel like a girl of 19 again.

Noon
Ohhhhhhhh, you guys. I did something really bad that was so, so good at lunch today. I couldn’t do a salad today. I just couldn’t. It’s a little cool here and I found myself craving a grilled cheese sandwich. Now, I’ve had several of you mention that you aren’t necessarily interested in a vegan lifestyle, but you are going dairy free. Well, you are going to be happy you opened this post today.

I have found THE CHEESE. It’s the Chao Original Creamy dairy free cheese and it is freaking outstanding. True to its name, it’s so creamy and indulgent, making it both a miracle and the birth of a very dangerous union.

For today’s episode of “I shouldn’t have, but I did” I took two pieces of sugar-free whole wheat bread, put vegan shortening on one side and kite hill cream cheese on the other side of just one of the slices. I then added a slice of heaven (the Chao) and a generous handful of spinach. I was drunk on sodium and thoughts of the dairy of yesteryear and it was all just too perfect. I nearly ate the whole damn thing before I snapped a picture. My hand was in serious danger here.

Sensing my mistake (that I’ll never apologize for), I panicked and threw some things in a blender a la Rich Roll to try and right the wrong. I grabbed a cup of kale, a small cooked beet (mistake), ¼ cup blueberries, one chuck frozen mango, 2 tablespoons coconut yogurt (plain), ½ cup coconut water, and 1 tablespoon chia and flax mix with cocoa and coconut. It was … earthy, which is a common term around here these days. It was like licking an entire garden.

The whole thing tallied up to 755 calories, so dinner will be lettuce wraps, with lettuce filling and water sauce. I make the BEST water sauce.

5:30 p.m.
Opened these. Had a mouthgasm.

6:30 p.m.
Vegan Tempeh Carbonara. What we have here, folks, is a common case of something looking, smelling and operating under the facade of something delicious, when in fact, it is not quite … good. I should preface this by saying that I don’t like pasta IRL. I am not the person who goes face first into a giant plate of spaghetti or has a sauce recipe to hand down to my children.

Nope, I like my mom’s lasagna, my friend Nissa’s manicotti and other than that, I’m good without the stuff. So, vegan pasta didn’t really stand much of a chance.

I used edamame pasta from Costco, which might be good with stir fried veggies or something, and my new best enemy flax tempeh, and followed the recipe other than that. The first bite was promising, but much like last night, it got worse as it sat. The cashew cheese sauce had a nice flavor but the consistency totally grossed me out once I took it off the stove. I’m beginning to think that the vegan community paid the Pinterest and cookbook communities a ton of cash for some false advertising and I’m buying it up like a housewife at Tuesday Morning. I feel duped.

I did have some killer white nectarines for dessert. Thank you, fruit, for always being true to your breed. Apples taste like apples, peaches like peaches, watermelon like watermelon, berries like berries … At least a gal stumbling through a vegan no man’s land can count on something.

P.s. Hank just told me there’s Parmesan in pesto, and I put that on our sandwiches this weekend, so this whole thing just became a giant lie and I feel the need to confess to you, 300 people who are invested, because I am just as big of a fraud as those bait-and-switch images on Pinterest.

7:30 p.m.
This also happened today. I’m thinkin’ I’m into it.

Just one day to go! Viva la Vida Vegan, baby!

Wellness

Viva la Vegan Day 12 (disappointments and talk of tempeh)

September 28, 2017

Don’t panic! Nobody panic! The cookies are tucked away in a pan with a lid and a slice of bread to keep until Saturday after the race. Phew! It’s all going to be alright. Not even being temporarily vegan can stop me from taking some cookies to pound town.

(p.s. This is not a birth announcement. This is Sloppy Joan workin’ some hand-me-downs. Don’t freak, Mom!)

This morning, on my drive in, Rich Roll was discussing his Vitamix blends. Essentially, homeboy rounds up every ingredient of the earth – fruits, veggies, hemp, herbs, coconut kefir, spirulina, nuts, chlorophyll – throws them in the high-powered blender (whole, i believe) and pulverizes them into various juices. He has one for breakfast, one before dinner and one after dinner, if he wants dessert (fruit, coconut milk and cocoa). His ingredients vary, depending on whether he needs energy or recovery.

Curious, I jumped online. I want to pulverize healthy stuff and drink it. Did you know that the most basic Vitamix is $300? Three hundred dollars!! For a blender. A small machine with blades in the bottom. I’m really going to need to turn up the heat on this side hustle business if I’m going to procure a $300 blender. Can it possibly be worth it? Would I get my money’s worth? My questions are endless.

7:30 a.m.
I changed up my smoothie today. My Ninja suddenly seeming subpar, I managed to liquify my experimental recipe: 1.5 teaspoons spirulina, .25 of a banana, 1 scoop chocolate plant-based protein powder, 1 tablespoon slivered almonds, 1 teaspoon hemp seeds, ginger, cinnamon, turmeric, 1 cup spinach.

This drink is turquoise, man. Surely it should turn me into a superhuman powerhouse with one sip. If I don’t finish this post, that happened.

Noon
There’s an appreciation cookout at work today. It’s a meat fest. I wonder if I will ever get to a point where slow cooked pork just isn’t appealing to my olfactory senses in the least. This spread featured phenomenal smelling Korean BBQ sandwiches, Black and Blue Salmon Burgers and hot dogs … For me? Bagged lettuce and asparagus. I decided to head home, instead, for a delightful repeat of my taco salad from the day before. Leftover taco “meat”, guacamole, a dollop of plain coconut yogurt, salsa, and crushed tortilla chips. Today I also added a tablespoon of Seeds of Change quinoa and brown rice. Hoping to feel a little fuller a little longer today.

Confession time: In some ways it feels like I’m not doing this right, or my body isn’t adapting. Something is off. The last few days I’ve felt so bloated. Like, none of my skirts fit and it kind of looks like I’m a tad pregnant … with twins. Not exactly the look I was going for when I set out on this whole thing. I launched a full investigation, meaning I pulled up MyFitnessPal and started diving into the macros, because that’s the only thing I know to do. My sodium was high yesterday; 900g high to be exact. I’m thinking that’s part of it.

The biggest offenders appear to be the fake meats (seitan and “beef” crumbles), which tend to be pretty high in sodium, as does guacamole, which I didn’t really realize. I cooled it on the nuts and seeds, because I suspected those were contributing to my vegan weight explosion, but I was still over yesterday without them. And I can’t lose the guac, you guys, I just can’t.

Guacamole has been my constant. Through all of the Whole30s and sugar detoxes and now vegan experiment, guacamole has been there. It’s a comforting, indulgent, familiar friend that makes me smile in every way. On an egg sandwich, with tortilla chips, on hot dogs, on burgers, on fried tofu, on tacos. I don’t care, I love it. I need it. I want it. I can’t fathom the thought of a world without the green stuff. I don’t want to. So that sodium in particular is going to have to stay.

Luckily there’s Google to fetch me a sea of strangers who have experienced or are experiencing the same crazy things as me. According to the blogosphere, bloating is incredibly common for beginner vegans and usually subsides within a month or so of adopting the diet. So 16 days after this experiment is done, I’m going to be in good shape.

These veteran vegans recommend a range of things to get your tummy moving in the right direction. Those who attribute the bloat to a messy microbiome, suggest strong probiotics and foods that naturally promote more of the good bacteria in your gut. Others point the finger at the dramatic increase in fiber and carbohydrate consumption that accompanies the vegan diet, and recommend good grains, patience and Beano.

The answer for me, specifically? No clue. Bigger skirts.

But it does feel like, although I am feeling some success in other, more subtle, ways, I’m not seeing the weight loss people probably expected or were hoping to see (no one more so than me). And that kind of feels like I’m letting everyone down, mostly myself.

7 p.m.
Another night, another recipe that demands way too much time to prepare. I made a Madeira Peppercorn Tempeh from the Crazy Sexy Kitchen cookbook. It’s my fault, I should have read ahead. The tempeh had to sit in a stovetop sauce for an hour, at least. Then the sauce had to sit and thicken for 20 extra minutes. I ask you, who has 80+ minutes to watch something cook?

And let’s talk about tempeh for a sec, shall we? It’s soybeans fermented to make a cake. Earth Fare had original, flax or whole grain. I figured original would be best for a beginner. I ate it. But I still don’t really know what it was. Who knew that soybeans could be manipulated to create so many questionable food things?

Everything was going wrong tonight. The fuse in the kitchen kept popping and dinner was already running late because of the generous marinating times and JoJo was trying to climb the crabapple tree in the backyard and it was all just a big, messy shit show. And to top it all off, it wasn’t that good. I hate nothing more than when I work my ass off to make something and it tastes like pink school erasers in a semi-decent breading.

It wasn’t a total loss. The sauce with this recipe was good. A pain in the ass to make, but good. It was basically scallions, wine (I used Chardonnay because who the hell has Madeira laying around), vegetable stock, vegan butter and thyme. It had a really nice flavor, which was good, because the tempeh was less than awesome. In the recipe’s defense, it would probably be really good with tofu. The tempeh texture was bizarre and off putting. Even Hank struggled with it. It got worse the more I tried to push through.

I rounded out the meal with baked potatoes (I put vegan shortening and half a slice of this new Chao Creamy Original cheese I got at Earth Fare that was so good), roasted beets, sweet potatoes, parsnips and carrots, and berries.

Then I ate two vegan sugar cookies – such a loser – and watched the premier of This is Us. You guys, that last scene …

Wellness

Livin la Vida Vegan Day 11 (pissy pants and sizzling seitan)

September 27, 2017

I need to take a pause from the vegan diet updates for just a sec to talk about something very troubling. It’s pee. Piss. Urine. Golden streams. Or yellow puddles. In my regular routine, I come into contact with pee – not my own – no less than three times a week. Whether it’s my kid, or another kid, or a dog or a frog, there is a No. 1 situation flowing right through my day, at some point in my day, every day.

It’s like running a kennel for special puppies with small bladders. Yesterday, when I got home from work, JoJo’s sheets were in the laundry room. One of the kiddos who comes to our house during the day had an accident during nap. It happens. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that we basically live in a giant urinal. Well, my eldest was having nothing to do with it. She funneled her fury – which was only further fueled by her discovery that Spike and I might also start a pen pal exchange, similar to the one JoJo and I have – into a very strongly worded letter.

It read as follows:

Dear Mom,
Tomorrow I’m giving MeeMee (the sitter) a piece of my mind about my bed!!! I’m ganna say that no more kids in my room and no kids sleeping in there! And you and Spikey canot be pen pals! Focus on you and my Because I’d crie to my death.

[Illustration of JoJo with a happy heart (“Mom and JoJo pen pals”) and then a messy stick figure with the caption “me cring. heart Broken.” just below that.]

Love, JoJo

But oh how the mighty do fall. At 4 o’clock this morning, I woke to the gentle whispers of our oldest daughter, confessing that she herself had an accident on our floor. Why she was on our floor, right next to the hairy, nasty dog bed, and not in her sister’s cozy queen size bed? I don’t know. I never know. This is an every night thing in our house. Does anyone else know?

Hank threw a towel over it, cleaned her up and moved both her and Spike (who was spooned up next to her on the ground) back down the hall so we could go “back to sleep”. Of course, we’re never really back to sleep, are we? Parents. Anything past the REM cycle is considered a luxury at this point in life. Right up there with solo time on the toilet and sitting. I guess that’s just what this chapter looks like … tired souls with urine on their hands.

7:30 a.m.
I put a full teaspoon of spirulina into my smoothie today, and backed down a bit on the powdered peanut butter, which has more sugar than I’d like. The algae flavor was slightly more noticeable, but not enough to tickle the ole gag reflex, so on we go. I’m thinking phase 2 is cutting the creamer from my coffee. It’s a liquid sugar bomb, and it’s got too tight of a hold on my heart.

I had a text from my bud Ryan:

I mean it’s not hard, because that’s really what this is. It’s totally doable, but also an insane life choice that’s making everything ten thousand times harder. It’s natural and against my human nature. It feels healing and like all my weaknesses are exposed. It’s funny because it’s really just food, but the change is making me a bit of a kook. And kooky people are freaking hilarious.

Noon
Earth Fare run for seitan and tempeh at lunch. There’s a sentence I never thought I’d type.

I came home to throw together a taco salad with my leftovers, but something was wrong. Terribly wrong. There, on the counter in the kitchen, sat a box with a dozen cookies from my favorite local bakery. Come inside my sick mind for a sec, k …

“What … the truck … is that? Why are those there? Who put those there? Is someone messing with me. Someone’s messing with me. Is there a camera in here? Who would do this? What kind of sick, twisted person would do this?! [Find card.] The car dealership?! Why in the hell is the car dealership sending us cookies?! It was a gosh dang trade in for crying out loud! Those bastards. Those car-selling bastards, with their sweet treats and good customer service. OK, I’m just going to lift the lid. [Lift lid, stick nose into sugar cloud. Close eyes.] Oh, shit. Alright, what’s my end game here? Should I throw them away? Just throw them away. My God, you can’t throw these away! You’ll be arrested. I’m a grownup, just set them out for the kids. But they won’t appreciate them the way I would. Maybe we can freeze them. Yeah, I’ll freeze them. We’ll just pull out our favorites and freeze those, give the rest to the kids. But I love them all. I’m going to put them down in this cabinet until Hank gets home. He’ll know what to do.”

And then I put the box of cookies down low, behind my slow cooker, and walked away; unable to discard them and unable to give them up. This, brothers and sisters, is how you know you are ill.

I assembled my salad: leftover taco “meat”, guacamole, crushed up tortilla chips, a dollop of coconut yogurt and salsa. It was bomb. I stood, leaning against the cabinet door where my cookies were sleeping and enjoyed every single bite.

“Goodnight, sweet cookies. I’ll see you again soon.” I whispered.

3 p.m.
What I really want is chocolate and popcorn, so what I’m having is the rest of my suja organic ginger kombucha. Really hoping that quenches the craving.

6 p.m.
Made it! Tonight, we’re cookin’ up some Crispy Orange Seitan from the Vegan for Everybody cookbook. Oh my gosh … you don’t know what seitan is? How do you not know what seitan is, you silly, carnivorous fool. Psych! I don’t know what the hell it is, either. And I looked at the ingredients, so that makes it extra scary. From what I gathered, it’s like globs of gluten or something? They call it “wheat meat”. So there ya go.

The toughest thing about these recipes is making sure you have all of the ingredients on hand. “It looks like you emptied out your cabinets,” our sitter said, as she watched me assemble the handfuls of sauce components. But once I had it all in there, this one came together pretty fast. The nice thing about cooking with these fake meats – tempeh, tofu, seitan, veggie crumbles – is they cook up fast as Rizzo. It’s a big time saver.

I used bagged cauli rice from Costco for a side, along with some peanut butter + celery courtesy of my sous chefs and chopped up plum, mango and blueberries for dessert. (I’d like for it to be known that I did NOT have a cookie tonight.)

This was pretty darn good, I gotta say. The cauliflower needed a little more flavoring, but the seitan was a pleasant surprise, as seitans go. Hank dubbed it “fine” which, if you speak Hank, you know translates to, “not exceptional, but good”. I would make it again.

This is my 6-year-old on seitan:

7:30 p.m.
I knocked out my last training run before the race Saturday; A snail-like 3 miles with lots of sweat. I notice on this diet, I don’t cramp as much and I can steady my breath a little easier during the run. Could be the training or it could be some vegan magic. Either way, by the time I was done, I knew my body needed something. I slammed a handful of walnuts, dried blueberries and pumpkin seeds.

JoJo was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. She found the notebook I gave Spike so we, too, could be pen pals. She told me I broke her heart. That she wanted to be special. That Spikey could never write messages as special as hers would be. It felt like the emotional climax of a Nicholas Sparks novel. I think I got her down off the ledge enough to sleep tonight, but we’ll see. There could be tears. Or pee. Maybe pee.

Wellness

Livin la Vida Vegan Day 10 (Bad habits and creepy cheese)

September 26, 2017

The alarm was particularly obnoxious this morning, but here we go Monday. I see you, ya little chump. We have just five days left in this Livin la Vida Vegan 14-day challenge, and I gotta say, it’s flying by. The pace isn’t necessarily a reflection of the food so much as everything revolving around it, but, all the same, we’re in the homestretch here.

I weigh in every Monday and every Friday, first thing, preferably before coffee. I do this because I like to ruin both the beginning and the end of the work week. I find it humbles the soul. This morning, the digits were up a tick. Not surprising considering I ate an entire tub of guacamole and drank a case of beer over the course of two days. And all of the vegan marshmallows, too.

Just for kicks, I went searching for posts from other beginner vegans who found themselves gaining weight post lifestyle switch. There was a common thread throughout their musings. Basically, people will tell you that you shouldn’t worry about tracking your food or looking at portions when you go plant-based because it’s all generally good for you. But then you gain 10 pounds by eating an entire bag of shelled pistachios (speaking for a friend) and you realize that’s a giant wheelbarrow full of crap.

For me, I think I went around the Internet and local groceries hoarding every food item I could find that was compliant out of a fear we’d starve, thus creating a winter stockpile of plant-based goodies. And then we ate all of it to get through the first week because we didn’t know what we were doing with ourselves and we were panicked about protein.

But now I know we’ll be OK. There will be food. There will be things we can buy at restaurants and other such places, so there’s no need to stash it all in my cheeks and, eventually, my thighs. Instead, it’s time to go back to the basics of smart portions, smart foods, just within the vegan parameters. Combine the rules that apply to the standard American diet with the vegan principles and perhaps that’s where the magic resides?

Of course, one of my major goals is to lose weight for sure, but moreso, it’s to just feel good in my body. And I feel physically good, I do. But I’m 100 percent not where I want to be appearance-wise. I guess what’s important right now is that I feel more capable of getting there, so we’ll start there.

Now that I’ve said all that, watch as I royally F up this day, dietarily speaking.

7:30 a.m.
I added ½ teaspoon of spirulina to my usual smoothie this morning. The color is intimidating, like beta fish gills, so I backed down from the recommended tablespoon. I could taste it, but it wasn’t as offensive as one would expect from something that brags about its high algae content. I’ll add in a bit more tomorrow. Sometimes bravery trickles, rather than rushes in.

10 a.m.
Snack attack came early today. Trail mix with extra pistachios. I only ate half of the serving, so, see, I have some control.

10:35 a.m.
I ate the rest of the trail mix.

Noon
Hey, hey! The gang’s all here! The usual salad – mixed greens with Salad Topper and [too much] Greek dressing from Primal Kitchen – plus some leftover guacamole, Late July Chia and Quinoa tortilla chips, and the three remaining samosas. I also enjoyed a yummy suja organic ginger kombucha drink, which I will consume half of today and the rest tomorrow.

So, remember just a few minutes ago when I was talking about not being able to eat whatever you want, just because it’s technically vegan. Well, I just looked up the samosas. The fried casing really should have tipped me off. When all was said and entered into MyFitnessPal, the dressing, tortilla chips, Salad Topper and samosas came in around 150 calories each. So, what I’m saying is, I have like 100 calories left for the day going into dinner, which is tacos. Which I love. Which means I’ll be way over on my calories for the day, even though nothing I ate was too crazy.

It’s the nuts and seeds and dried fruit. It’s the healthy fats. It’s just all adding up to the same numbers in the red as when I’m not eating vegan. Same loss of control, different ingredients.

3:15 p.m.
A handful of Boom Chicka Pop because that is my favorite and there’s always an open bag in my top drawer.

6 p.m.
Hank had to work late tonight, so I threw tacos together. To get crazy, I also put this 10 Minute Vegan Nacho Cheese Sauce in the mix. I used beef imposter crumbles for the meat and it came out beautifully. I always just throw the seasonings – cumin, paprika, chili powder, salt, pepper, onion powder, garlic powder, oregano – in with whatever crumbly meat stuff I have nearby, and fake meat was no different. I made a taco first, with the meat, guac, lettuce, salsa and a torn up piece of daiya cheddar. It was good, but didn’t need the feddar (fake cheddar, get it? We’ve been doing this a lot.) Then I just put all those fixins on a plate and mixed ‘em around for a taco salad. Sensational.

I don’t know what that nacho cheese shit was, but it wasn’t anything resembling cheese. At least no cheese I’ve ever had. It wasn’t a bad taste, it was just not a great taste. Or a taste I’d ever need to taste again. Plus, it was misleading. Like if you fixed a recipe for chocolate chip cookies but they came out tasting like cheeseburgers or something.

Hank came home later and confirmed my take on the gunk.

“I don’t know about that cheese,” he said, as I put away laundry.
“Yeah, I know. It was strange.”
“Definitely not my favorite flavor.”

[Delete pin]

Then I ate three vegan sugar cookies. They were small, but does it really matter? This is where I set myself up for failure. The treats were left over from our camping trip, a purchase so I wouldn’t feel left out of dessert. If I hadn’t picked them up, I would have felt deprived and likely gone off course. But now, having them in the house, I’m going off course during the week … three times. I get caught in this sticky sugar web of mental trap doors and temptations a lot.

Plus, I was so irritable tonight. I don’t believe this has anything to do with the diet. Everything the girls did made me feel like a mad woman. Do you ever have those nights? JoJo wasn’t listening and Spike was hitting Sloppy Joan and Sloppy Joan was stealing apples and taking them to squirrel away all over the house and I had to get the downstairs swept and mopped, and dinner made, and three baskets of laundry put away, and I just had zero energy in reserves for their drama and rotten fruit. Some nights I can find all the blankets and solve all the fights, and some nights I just have to stick the babies in a corner.

Try That With Matt, Wellness

Livin la Vida Vegan Days 7-9 (happy campers with cucumber sandwiches)

September 25, 2017

I’m back! The girl who went into a weekend of camping on a mission to stay vegan and came out on the other side with recipes to share.

Friday had more landmines than the whole weekend put together. Thursday morning I got an email from my boss (like, my boss’s boss), asking if I wanted to grab lunch and catch up on a few key initiatives. Yes! I absolutely do. I most definitely do. I’m looking so forward to i– Aw, crap … What the hell am I going to eat? My official response went something like:

Dear inspiring leader,
I would be thrilled to catch up. One thing I feel like I should mention, I am doing this vegan thing for 14 days and it would be amazing if we could go somewhere with super boring salads or the one vegetarian place in town with questionable options. Great, thanks for this opportunity!

But people have a way of surprising you. Not only did she keep our lunch date after my pain in the ass request, she actually looked up the menu at the restaurant ahead of time and found a vegan-friendly salad for me. Say what? Michael Scott, hand over your World’s Greatest Boss mug, am I right? And, it was so damn good, you guys. I didn’t take a picture because, you know, corporate adulting, but it was a glorious mouthparty of cashews, avocado, cranberries, kale, spinach, fried tortilla strips and an avocado lemon dressing. I only had to have them hold the creme fraiche, and I don’t know what the hell that is anyway.

We were leaving for our camping adventure Friday evening. Our tradition on these weekends is for me to pick up Jimmy John’s on the way home and then we eat it en route to our destination. Welp, that’s not going to work. I came home and gathered all my Earth Fare booty I’d gathered the night before, packed our bags and got to work putting together a meal for the road. Less convenient, sure, but it really wasn’t that much of a bother.

I put sandwiches, nectarine slices and avocado oil chips in a cake pan with a lid for the chicks to share in the backseat. Then I made Southwest Quinoa burgers, and leftover warm cabbage slaw with crispy tofu for Hank and me. The burgers were just OK. They had whole lentils in them, which gave me some texture issues. I gagged a few times. No actual vomit, so don’t worry, everyone. Not my favorite meal, but it did the job. I find that the quinoa and lentils fill me up a lot faster than the meals I used to make. But forget those damn beans, man.

I couldn’t tell you much about Friday night. We pulled in after the sun went down, set up our home away from home, and I curled up and passed out to PBS Kids.

Saturday morning I got up and went for a nice 3 mile run around the campground. By nice I mean, the scenery was sightly until the sweat ran down into my eye holes rendering me completely blind. I stopped at a spot overlooking the reservoir and stretched my legs. I tried a little mindfulness, which was refreshing.

I phoned it in for breakfast and went with cereal (with almond milk) for my first meal of the day, with this bomb ass cinnamon coffee Hank picked up. He was still asleep so I took my mug outside to watch the sun finish rising. Just lovely.

Our friends arrived around 10 that morning. They have three boys, which is such a fun social experiment. Spike forgot to put underwear under her skirt at one point and we had to talk about when privates are appropriate (hardly ever). We started pulling lunch together after they set up camp. Nutella sammies for the chicks and my best invention ever for us. Get ready, because this layered creation is a thing of pure love. OK, I took a sandwich thin, opened ‘er up and, on one side, put vegetable hummus, and on the other, plain kite hill cashew cream cheese. Next, some basil pesto on top of the cream cheese. Then sliced cucumber, broccoli sprouts and mixed greens. I’m telling you it was a flavor fireworks show behind my teeth. I rounded it out with grapes and a few avocado oil chips.

Then I started pounding Summer Shandys and all was well with the world. We spent a few hours down at the beach because it was 12 thousand degrees outside, and then went back to the campsite for a water balloon fight and more beers for the grownups. Dinner was sausage and hot dogs for the others and buffalo quinoa burgers for me and the Mr.

You know what I’m finding? Good friends do things like humor you when you say you’re going to go camping but you can only eat things from the earth. Well, things from the earth and things manufactured to appear like they came from the earth … am I right? My girl brought a tasty salad (vegan approved) and some stellar trail mix. We roasted up some tiny potatoes and boom! Dinner was a wrap.

I’m a dessert junkie, so you know my ass was going to find a workaround for some s’mores. And I sure did. Dairy free chocolate (not so good) with gluten free graham crackers and vegan marshmallows. I also had vegan molasses and sugar cookies from Earth Fare and I threw a mallow on one of those molasses puppies just for kicks. I wasn’t mad at it or anything. Pretty tasty.

Sunday morning was stress-free. Mama had some vegan-friendly pancake mix, both plain and chocolate chip because you know I like my baked goods kind of dirty, with some butter-flavored coconut cream and veggie bacon. The vacon, as Hank called it, was interesting. JoJo loved it! It was kind of like the forbidden marriage of beef jerky to a dog treat. I ate a piece, but a piece was enough. The pancakes on the other hand … Gosh dang. Murdered those things. No evidence remained.

After a gorgeous, sweaty hike through the Sahara with six kids in tow, and one conversation about where babies come from, we went back to break camp, sadly. I recreated my green goodness sandwiches from the day before and wrapped them up for the road. I threw in some grapes and leftover guacamole with flax and chia chips to really get ‘er done and off we went. (I make that sound so simple, but it actually takes forever to get all that shit put away, the crap tank emptied and on our way.)

From the second we hit the driveway after a camping trip, it’s laundry and cleaning and running around like Elizabeth Shue in the last 5 minutes of Adventures in Babysitting. I’m like spraying counters with Windex and whatever just to make it look like a bunch of animals don’t live in this place. It never works. My toes just found a crayon the dog chewed up and left for me – along with 3 turds – in the front room. To be clear after rereading this, my toes didn’t find the turds, Hank did, earlier. Gross.

I had a 7-mile training run (my last long one), so I knew I needed to pull something together for dinner early so I could be pounding pavement by 7pm. I went to the freezer and pulled out a box of somosas I got from Costco. There is no picture because I ate these perfect little purses of flavor so fast, there was just no time for pleasantries. While there was also a chicken option in the variety pack, we opted for the potato and chickpea varieties, which came with a zingy little cilantro chutney that took things to the next level. I paired them with a quinoa and kale packet, also from … you guessed it, Costco. [pitter patter goes my heart]

I chugged some beet elite, and took off about 45 minutes later. I. felt. so. good. I mean, not like I could run forever good, but I really felt pretty energetic. After a typical camping trip, with all the baked goods and hot dogs and mayonnaisey salads, I could never go run 7 miles. It would have been an unthinkable task. But it wasn’t that big of a deal.

I interrogated Henry on our drive home earlier that day. I wanted to know where he was at, a week in.

“Do you notice anything?” I asked.
“I mean, I’m a bad person to ask,” he said. “I never really notice much. Like, even with Whole30.”
“Right.”
“I mean, my back hurts. Does it hurt less than usual? Maybe.”
“OK.”
“I feel like I’m eating enough, but when it’s time to eat, I’m definitely hungry. That’s probably a protein thing.”
“Yeah, probably.”
“Yeah, I dunno …”

So, there ya have it. An exciting report from the hubs. I feel invigorated just by how manageable it’s been, truly. I know people think I’m blowing smoke, but it hasn’t been too terribly hard. The convenient foods are so tasty, but I find they’re mostly made of shit. I’m encouraged by how relatively simple it’s been to eliminate the shit. Here’s to the next five days and no more convenient shit. Wait, …