If you didn’t watch Jamie Oliver’s Food Revolution last week, you missed an entertaining hour of America at its best. Liberal, British chef meets stubborn, “you can’t make me” West Virginians. Jamie Oliver, (The Naked Chef), is in the small, Appalachian town of Huntington, WV - recently deemed the unhealthiest town in America. His first day, he is raked over the coals by the good ol’ boy radio show host at DAWG radio, then he is greeted with cynicism and flat out hostility of the elementary school cafeteria workers.
As a Southern girl, I was a bit appalled at the lack of hospitality offered to Jamie. He (at least on camera) maintained politeness in the face of outright rudeness. What is wrong with trying to make food for kids better? Healthier? How dare he! Who gave him, a Brit, the right to care about our kids’ health? The nerve!
Now, I can relate to the busy parents raising picky eaters. I raised my daughter, Carson, like many single moms – on Cheerios, Velveeta shells & cheese, and yes, chicken nuggets. She hated fruit and only liked one vegetable – green beans. I worked full-time and every day was a race to and from before and after-school care, and work. Grocery shopping, cooking, and meals were to be done as quickly as possible and preferably without tears - from me or from Carson. Somewhere around 2002, I was diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease and began reading about the dangers of all the processed foods we eat. I decided to eat more natural foods and cut out processed foods. Let me tell you, it was damn difficult to do! I love shells and cheese! Wendy’s burgers! Bugles! Their little cone shape, that crunch… Oh, sorry…
Now, let me assure you, none of my friends would call me a great cook behind my back. These days though, I buy fresh green beans, fresh salad, squash, peppers, fruit, whole grain pasta and whole wheat bread. I don't buy canned veggies other than green beans (because my daughter loves them). I don't buy boxed meals, frozen meals, or white pasta. I buy organic dairy and meats. Warning! It does take more preparation - like fifteen whole minutes more. So, it is not for the faint-hearted! When I first started this little meal plan in my house, there were outcries from the masses (that being my daughter).
The deal was, I cook and you eat. If you don’t like it, you don’t eat. Carson learned to like it. I’m not saying there weren’t tears ever, but today my 12 year old daughter requests steamed veggies and roast chicken. She knows fried foods don’t live in our house and cookies are contraband that my husband sneaks in with the potato chips. (Well, he’s Canadian so he’s used to sneaking things across the border.) Now, we’ll have burgers and fries but it’s maybe once every 4 months – not once a week or once a day!
Jamie Oliver is meeting tired, beaten down parents that want the best for their children, but don’t know what that is. They believe the marketing promises on food labels of cookies “fortified with calcium” and they trust the government to provide good food for kids in school. Maybe the USDA (who regulates the country’s school nutrition programs) should abide by my rules. If I can’t pronounce and define more than three ingredients, I don’t buy it.
I was frankly surprised at the extreme resistance Jamie Oliver met in the first episode. I know people are afraid of change, but he’s not suggesting we feed them bean sprouts and tofu! He’s suggesting we cook fresh foods for them – our children! Rather than filling them with carbs and sugar.
Off with his head! This is America! We’ll feed our kids crap ‘cause it’s our God-given right!
Open your eyes, people! You make choices for yourself and your kids everyday. It’s worth the battle to get kids into healthy foods – start young and they’ll live longer, healthier lives!
Sermon over. Please return to your regularly scheduled French fries.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Reinventing Childhood
I stretched my arms overhead, interlacing cramped fingers and groaned. Rain splattered the window in mad pelts, creating a dreary curtain over the cottage. The smell of oils and turpentine was sharp in the air as I scrutinized the half-finished painting in front of me. The forest trees were full, mature and protected the faint ring in the lush grass below. A Fairy Ring. There had been one at my home as a child. Many days I would lay in the middle of the ring, arms askew, the tickle of the occasional ant on my tanned bare leg.
“It’s a Fairy Ring,” my mom would say with a twinkle, “so you have to be careful.”
“Careful of what?” I’d ask.
“To not be carried away! The Fairies love children you know.”
Ah, if only! I longed to be carried away by the beautiful Fairies! The Fairy Ring had lately been haunting my dreams. I was wandering around, lost, almost frantic for something or to get somewhere. – you know the feeling of anxiety in your dream that something terrible is going to happen if you don’t get where you’re supposed to be going? Sometimes I was in town, sometimes just hurrying around my house. But I kept ending up at the Fairy Ring of my childhood. Why? I hadn’t thought of that place in years.
As I peered at the painting though, I remembered the joy of being barefoot in the grass. The thrill of riding my bike down the biggest hill in the neighborhood, the wind slapping me in the face. Playing German Spotlight in the neighborhood on a cool spring night, damp grass on our knees. Kickball in the streets and rounding third bass marked by the street drain. When was the last time I went barefoot in the grass? Ugh. What if I stepped in dog poop? And my bike? It was home to a happy clan of little house spiders in my garage. As for German Spotlight and Kickball…well, I think maybe Carter was president last time I yelled “You’re It!”
And, there in the grass, a tiny hand clasped the edge of a blade of grass. Unblinking eyes stare back at me from a face the size of a grain of rice, peeking out from its hiding place. I leaned closer to my own painting, frowning in concentration. I didn’t paint that. Was it a weird play of brush and oil? Like when people see Jesus in their toast? A trick of the light?
I stared and tried to bring the bewitching face more into focus, but it turned with a whoosh of the grass, and disappeared into the still wet mix of green paint.
And through the gentle patter of raindrops on the window, I swear I heard a faint call say, “You’re It!”
“It’s a Fairy Ring,” my mom would say with a twinkle, “so you have to be careful.”
“Careful of what?” I’d ask.
“To not be carried away! The Fairies love children you know.”
Ah, if only! I longed to be carried away by the beautiful Fairies! The Fairy Ring had lately been haunting my dreams. I was wandering around, lost, almost frantic for something or to get somewhere. – you know the feeling of anxiety in your dream that something terrible is going to happen if you don’t get where you’re supposed to be going? Sometimes I was in town, sometimes just hurrying around my house. But I kept ending up at the Fairy Ring of my childhood. Why? I hadn’t thought of that place in years.
As I peered at the painting though, I remembered the joy of being barefoot in the grass. The thrill of riding my bike down the biggest hill in the neighborhood, the wind slapping me in the face. Playing German Spotlight in the neighborhood on a cool spring night, damp grass on our knees. Kickball in the streets and rounding third bass marked by the street drain. When was the last time I went barefoot in the grass? Ugh. What if I stepped in dog poop? And my bike? It was home to a happy clan of little house spiders in my garage. As for German Spotlight and Kickball…well, I think maybe Carter was president last time I yelled “You’re It!”
And, there in the grass, a tiny hand clasped the edge of a blade of grass. Unblinking eyes stare back at me from a face the size of a grain of rice, peeking out from its hiding place. I leaned closer to my own painting, frowning in concentration. I didn’t paint that. Was it a weird play of brush and oil? Like when people see Jesus in their toast? A trick of the light?
I stared and tried to bring the bewitching face more into focus, but it turned with a whoosh of the grass, and disappeared into the still wet mix of green paint.
And through the gentle patter of raindrops on the window, I swear I heard a faint call say, “You’re It!”
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
A Plague on your Pickles
I was at the Publix grocery store the other day. I’d already been there once about 15 minutes earlier only to realize I’d forgotten my list and coupons, drove back home to get them, and came back, irritated. I was wandering down the condiments aisle somewhere near the 700 jars of pickles when I noticed a display of toys. For some reason the small plastic bags caught my eye and I looked closer. The top of the bag shouted “Plague Masks” and below were different bags cheerfully called “Bag of Plagues”.
I reread it. Yes. It really does say “Bag of Plagues”. And it’s not a gag but a genuine toy. Now I'm thinking, who asks for a Bag of Plagues for his birthday? I’m pretty sure my daughter hasn’t asked for one. And the masks? They are these morbid child-sized rubber masks – one for each of the 10 plagues. The Lice mask was yellow with big black bugs all over it, the Boils mask was covered in pink dots, the First Born was a child’s face with X’s over the eyes. (Shudder).
I am blocking the aisle staring at this strange display, brow furrowed and pure confusion stamped on my face. I finally noticed the word “Passover” and a little logo from a Jewish company. Ahhh. It’s a Jewish thing for Passover. Okay. Wait. Really?
Oy. Seems creepy to me. But you can order a gaggle of plague bags online and send as gifts! Happy Passover! Here’s your plagues!
I reread it. Yes. It really does say “Bag of Plagues”. And it’s not a gag but a genuine toy. Now I'm thinking, who asks for a Bag of Plagues for his birthday? I’m pretty sure my daughter hasn’t asked for one. And the masks? They are these morbid child-sized rubber masks – one for each of the 10 plagues. The Lice mask was yellow with big black bugs all over it, the Boils mask was covered in pink dots, the First Born was a child’s face with X’s over the eyes. (Shudder).
I am blocking the aisle staring at this strange display, brow furrowed and pure confusion stamped on my face. I finally noticed the word “Passover” and a little logo from a Jewish company. Ahhh. It’s a Jewish thing for Passover. Okay. Wait. Really?
Oy. Seems creepy to me. But you can order a gaggle of plague bags online and send as gifts! Happy Passover! Here’s your plagues!
Friday, March 19, 2010
The Commute
Ellen McNare stretched her leg under the steering wheel, twisting her left ankle this way and that. Molten steel clouds draped over the city for the tenth day in a row, angry spitting slivers of rain smacked the windshield. Her mood was dancing on the edge. A forced cheerfulness had her singing with the radio, but she couldn’t settle on a satisfying station which led to spurts of rage. Rage that her car was ancient and didn’t play her iPod, rage that she didn’t have any decent cds in the car, rage that every radio station had commercials at the same time.
As she approached the intersection at Mack Hatcher and Franklin Road just south of Nashville, she decelerated with a low curse at the yellow light glaring at her. Sitting through the red she continued snapping buttons on the radio until giving up and leaving it on NPR, reasoning she could at least learn something. Green glowed on the wet windshield and she pushed the gas. But another vehicle shot in front of her from the crossing road, cutting her off in a swirl of brakes and curses. It was a maroon minivan, the back bumper was crumpled on one end, contorting the “Choose Life” bumper sticker to read “Choose Li”.
Punching the horn, a beam of white light shot from Ellen’s little Camry, hit the minivan, and disintegrated it. One second it was there, the next – vanished. A thrill of fear warred with excitement in her veins. But where did it go? Did she just kill that moron? She would have been ok with the driver running out of gas or getting a flat tire, but she didn’t actually want to kill anyone!
Or did she? Glancing around, no cars stopped, no one paid any attention, no one cared. It was like the minivan never really existed. Shrugging, she took a deep breath to settle her jumbled nerves, and drove on.
Across town, Joel Wisneskie jerked his maroon minivan over onto the trash-covered shoulder of I-65. What the hell? Frantic, he whipped his head around seeing the football stadium, the Nashville skyline just across the river, the interstate split leading to Kentucky. Rather than being in Franklin, three minutes from his office, he was suddenly north of Nashville in the gridlock of the morning commute heading towards town. A good 45 minutes from the office. Slamming his hands on the grimy steering wheel, he snatched up his phone to tell his boss he would be late. Again.
In Franklin, Ellen smiled as she noticed she had enough time to stop for a coffee before hitting the office. And the sun peeked out in a shaft of golden light.
As she approached the intersection at Mack Hatcher and Franklin Road just south of Nashville, she decelerated with a low curse at the yellow light glaring at her. Sitting through the red she continued snapping buttons on the radio until giving up and leaving it on NPR, reasoning she could at least learn something. Green glowed on the wet windshield and she pushed the gas. But another vehicle shot in front of her from the crossing road, cutting her off in a swirl of brakes and curses. It was a maroon minivan, the back bumper was crumpled on one end, contorting the “Choose Life” bumper sticker to read “Choose Li”.
Punching the horn, a beam of white light shot from Ellen’s little Camry, hit the minivan, and disintegrated it. One second it was there, the next – vanished. A thrill of fear warred with excitement in her veins. But where did it go? Did she just kill that moron? She would have been ok with the driver running out of gas or getting a flat tire, but she didn’t actually want to kill anyone!
Or did she? Glancing around, no cars stopped, no one paid any attention, no one cared. It was like the minivan never really existed. Shrugging, she took a deep breath to settle her jumbled nerves, and drove on.
Across town, Joel Wisneskie jerked his maroon minivan over onto the trash-covered shoulder of I-65. What the hell? Frantic, he whipped his head around seeing the football stadium, the Nashville skyline just across the river, the interstate split leading to Kentucky. Rather than being in Franklin, three minutes from his office, he was suddenly north of Nashville in the gridlock of the morning commute heading towards town. A good 45 minutes from the office. Slamming his hands on the grimy steering wheel, he snatched up his phone to tell his boss he would be late. Again.
In Franklin, Ellen smiled as she noticed she had enough time to stop for a coffee before hitting the office. And the sun peeked out in a shaft of golden light.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Misbegotten Luck
Millions of people around the world will claim Irish heritage today if only to make their Guinness go down smoother. Some, I’m not saying who, will “forget” to wear green in desperate hopes of receiving the thrill of a pinch from the gal in the cubicle across the way. But aside from green beer, squiggly-springy headband googles, and a lot of kissing and pinching - what’s the story? Why are we all so keen on being Irish?
The Irish have no right to be considered “lucky”. Take a glimpse of their tortured history of constant invasions, famine (1845-50), in-fighting, and terrorism. And then, there were all those snakes St. Patrick drugged with darts from his magical flute…no, sorry, that’s another story. The bloody English tried to kill and maim the Irish out of the people. It was even illegal to speak their own Gaelic language. And when the Irish turned to music to express themselves, Queen Elizabeth I ordered pipers and singers to be hung on the spot. (No ‘Wild Rover’???)
More than 7 million Irish immigrated to America from the 1700’s to the 1900’s so, yes, many of us surely have a “touch” (ahem) of Irish in us somewhere! Sadly, (and not so lucky) many were indentured servants sentenced by the British or they were running for their souls from religious persecution. They were – in a sense – exiled from their beloved Ireland. However, I digress into far sadder stories than I want to discuss here.
To me, there is a romanticism of Ireland that endures in spite of its angst-ridden past. One need only see the magnificence of the Cliffs of Moher swathed in mist to conjure tales of Faeries and ill-fated lovers. Pirates and steadfast women. The blue streaked Celts fighting with Clive Owen (ahhh).
Mostly, I picture a dark, smoky pub loud with laughter and fiddle and a quiet American boxer named Sean Thornton gone home to his White o’ Morn cottage. That’s what I love about Ireland.
“May God bring good health to your enemies enemies.” Irish Blessing.
The Irish have no right to be considered “lucky”. Take a glimpse of their tortured history of constant invasions, famine (1845-50), in-fighting, and terrorism. And then, there were all those snakes St. Patrick drugged with darts from his magical flute…no, sorry, that’s another story. The bloody English tried to kill and maim the Irish out of the people. It was even illegal to speak their own Gaelic language. And when the Irish turned to music to express themselves, Queen Elizabeth I ordered pipers and singers to be hung on the spot. (No ‘Wild Rover’???)
More than 7 million Irish immigrated to America from the 1700’s to the 1900’s so, yes, many of us surely have a “touch” (ahem) of Irish in us somewhere! Sadly, (and not so lucky) many were indentured servants sentenced by the British or they were running for their souls from religious persecution. They were – in a sense – exiled from their beloved Ireland. However, I digress into far sadder stories than I want to discuss here.
To me, there is a romanticism of Ireland that endures in spite of its angst-ridden past. One need only see the magnificence of the Cliffs of Moher swathed in mist to conjure tales of Faeries and ill-fated lovers. Pirates and steadfast women. The blue streaked Celts fighting with Clive Owen (ahhh).
Mostly, I picture a dark, smoky pub loud with laughter and fiddle and a quiet American boxer named Sean Thornton gone home to his White o’ Morn cottage. That’s what I love about Ireland.
“May God bring good health to your enemies enemies.” Irish Blessing.
Myths of St. Patrick's Day
Myths of St. Patrick's Day
Posted using ShareThis
Misbegotten Luck
Millions of people around the world will claim Irish heritage today if only to make their Guinness go down smoother. Some, I’m not saying who, will “forget” to wear green in desperate hopes of receiving the thrill of a pinch from the gal in the cubicle across the way. But aside from green beer, squiggly-springy headband googles, and a lot of kissing and pinching - what’s the story? Why are we all so keen on being Irish?
The Irish have no right to be considered “lucky”. Take a glimpse of their tortured history of constant invasions, famine (1845-50), in-fighting, and terrorism. And then, there were all those snakes St. Patrick drugged with darts from his magical flute…no, sorry, that’s another story. The bloody English tried to kill and maim the Irish out of the people. It was even illegal to speak their own Gaelic language. And when the Irish turned to music to express themselves, Queen Elizabeth I ordered pipers and singers to be hung on the spot. (No ‘Wild Rover’???)
More than 7 million Irish immigrated to America from the 1700’s to the 1900’s so, yes, many of us surely have a “touch” (ahem) of Irish in us somewhere! Sadly, (and not so lucky) many were indentured servants sentenced by the British or they were running for their souls from religious persecution. They were – in a sense – exiled from their beloved Ireland. However, I digress into far sadder stories than I want to discuss here. (There’s a great book called Out of Ireland on Irish emigration by Kerby Miller and Paul Wagner if you are interested).
To me, there is a romanticism of Ireland that endures in spite of its angst-ridden past. One need only see the magnificence of the Cliffs of Moher swathed in mist to conjure tales of Faeries and ill-fated lovers. Pirates and steadfast women. The blue streaked Celts fighting with Clive Owen (ahhh).
Mostly, I picture a dark, smoky pub loud with laughter and fiddle. A quiet American boxer named Sean Thornton gone home to his White o’ Morn cottage. That’s what I love about Ireland.
“May God bring good health to your enemies enemies.” Irish Blessing
Posted using ShareThis
Misbegotten Luck
Millions of people around the world will claim Irish heritage today if only to make their Guinness go down smoother. Some, I’m not saying who, will “forget” to wear green in desperate hopes of receiving the thrill of a pinch from the gal in the cubicle across the way. But aside from green beer, squiggly-springy headband googles, and a lot of kissing and pinching - what’s the story? Why are we all so keen on being Irish?
The Irish have no right to be considered “lucky”. Take a glimpse of their tortured history of constant invasions, famine (1845-50), in-fighting, and terrorism. And then, there were all those snakes St. Patrick drugged with darts from his magical flute…no, sorry, that’s another story. The bloody English tried to kill and maim the Irish out of the people. It was even illegal to speak their own Gaelic language. And when the Irish turned to music to express themselves, Queen Elizabeth I ordered pipers and singers to be hung on the spot. (No ‘Wild Rover’???)
More than 7 million Irish immigrated to America from the 1700’s to the 1900’s so, yes, many of us surely have a “touch” (ahem) of Irish in us somewhere! Sadly, (and not so lucky) many were indentured servants sentenced by the British or they were running for their souls from religious persecution. They were – in a sense – exiled from their beloved Ireland. However, I digress into far sadder stories than I want to discuss here. (There’s a great book called Out of Ireland on Irish emigration by Kerby Miller and Paul Wagner if you are interested).
To me, there is a romanticism of Ireland that endures in spite of its angst-ridden past. One need only see the magnificence of the Cliffs of Moher swathed in mist to conjure tales of Faeries and ill-fated lovers. Pirates and steadfast women. The blue streaked Celts fighting with Clive Owen (ahhh).
Mostly, I picture a dark, smoky pub loud with laughter and fiddle. A quiet American boxer named Sean Thornton gone home to his White o’ Morn cottage. That’s what I love about Ireland.
“May God bring good health to your enemies enemies.” Irish Blessing
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Crime Scene
It occurs to me that Washington D.C. is a crime scene. It is marked by vibrant yellow crime scene tape and little chalk figures of the American people strewn about. I turned on CNN this morning - coffee in hand, cat on lap - to see the "Crisis" America is in with Israel because Hillary Clinton "took the gloves off" in an interview. POW!
What was the dastardly comment she made in said interview? It was something along the lines that the US "was insulted" by Israel's actions while she was there visiting.
Them's fighting words. Aren't them?
Flash to McCain, smacking Clinton's hand for "disparaging remarks against Israel". Whap!
For me, it's just another check in the disgust column of the worthlessness that is our Nation's Capitol. It is like a crazy Seinfield episode, remember that one with Bizarro Jerry? Our politicians are working tirelessly to drive us to apathy.
Bam!
Another chalk outline bites the dust.
What was the dastardly comment she made in said interview? It was something along the lines that the US "was insulted" by Israel's actions while she was there visiting.
Them's fighting words. Aren't them?
Flash to McCain, smacking Clinton's hand for "disparaging remarks against Israel". Whap!
For me, it's just another check in the disgust column of the worthlessness that is our Nation's Capitol. It is like a crazy Seinfield episode, remember that one with Bizarro Jerry? Our politicians are working tirelessly to drive us to apathy.
Bam!
Another chalk outline bites the dust.
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