I wish nutrition, weight management and optimal health were the mysteries we think they are. What is frustrating to me as a Nutrition Consultant is that the facts and information about optimal health are not only simple, but frankly, uninteresting. In addition to that, when you give people information about what changes to make, it's entirely unoriginal. People know that in order to feel better they should eat more vegetables. It's not new technology to tell people they can lose weight by implementing an exercise routine.
Sometimes I feel as though if my clients don't really need me, my menu plans, and nutritional meal data. Instead, they need their grandmothers. Yes, they need the matriarch and her handy Fannie Farmer Cook Book. I remember making mousse with my grandmother one Saturday afternoon, and I can tell you first hand it was so much work there was no guilt in eating it!
So what I mean to say is that the current health crisis is not so much about a lack of information; it's about lifestyle. I would go so far as to say the "health crisis" is at its core, a time crisis.
The value of a home cooked meal goes beyond its nutritional benefits. The fact that when you cook from whole foods you can control sodium, fat and sugar content, and that you can avoid additives like chlorine dioxide, heptyl butyrate, benzaldehyde, and sodium steroyl-2-lactylate are simply an incidental benefit of having the time to nurture yourself, your environment, your family and your local economy.
When you buy your vegetables at the farmers market every cent of your dollar goes to the farmer who grew your food, as opposed to the 0.05-0.15 cents to every dollar when you buy at the traditional grocery store.
When you bake your own bread, simmer your own soups, and sit down to eat with friends and family, dinner is the event of the evening instead of a necessary chore to choke down enough empty calories to keep you conscious as you rush to the next commitment on your calendar. You are breaking bread with loved ones and feeding your soul, instead of burning fossil fuels, inducing heartburn, and amping out your adrenal system when the stop light feels like it's taking too long.
So take some time this fall to smell the roses and even learn a few recipes on how to cook with them. It's harvest season and the sugar pumpkins are bursting with beta carotene and vitamin A. Figs are oozing magnesium, potassium, and calcium. Apples are at their maximum crispness, and cabbage is begging to dress up your salads and stir-fry’s - just waiting to lend a helping hand in fighting off cancer, ensuring adequate vitamin K, and escorting toxins out of your cells.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Thursday, October 18, 2007
The Hound and the Heeler
Sometimes it seems unfair to me that all of the dog stories I share with people are about Truman, and Izzy tends to get less publicity. The truth, though, is that Izzy is compulsively well behaved. My husband I joke that it's like living with Lisa and Bart Simpson. She drinks espresso and reads the Wall Street Journal when we go off to work. Truman helps himself to strawberry milk and then goes back to bed. Yes, and I mean bed. We obviously don't have kids because our solution to keeping Truman off the couch was to buy him a "doggie futon." I know. I'm not proud of it, but it did the trick. We used to have to pile other pieces of furniture on to the couch every morning just to come home and find them all over the living room floor. Occasionally he would empty a laundry basket of dirty clothes and make himself a pillow to boot.
Izzy, on the other hand, is the dog that sits at our feet and stares at us devotedly every moment she's near us. When Truman got his head stuck in a rose trellis, Izzy was the one who tugged on Chris's pant leg until he followed her outside. When Truman ate the 2 pounds of chicken marinating on the kitchen counter, Izzy paced nervously around the living room, and then hid under the table when we discovered the theft. Meanwhile Truman didn't think to even leave the scene of the crime, and just stood there pleased and punchy, licking his lips. When Truman ate my sewing kit and managed to embed 12 needles in his esophagus, Izzy met me at the door, so haggard and anxious that I knew something had happened, and that certainly Truman was involved. (He lived - thanks to the extraordinary 24 hour veterinarian care available referenced in the picnic excerpt).
Our vet calls Izzy "the brains behind the brawn." Izzy can tell by what shoes I reach for in the morning if she is going to the park or just around the neighborhood. Izzy knows what a suitcase is, and my husband has arrived more than once on a research trip and found shoes and socks had been pulled out before he zipped the suitcase. Once, while he was on a particularly long trip I came home from work to find she had collected all of his things within nabbing reach - shoes, socks, a T-shirt, and had brought them to her bed. (She has a more traditional dog bed - one that lies on the floor. It's still quite lush and fluffy though).
Izzy alerts us to every bump in the night, and protects us from the wiley coyotes in the hills behind out house. Truman has to be coaxed and cajoled out of bed in the mornings, and if it's dark, raining, or cold, either my husband and I are sure to be late from work. Friends say, "Just leave him sleeping then!" Based on what little information you readers already have, can you imagine what we would come home to if we left this dog not walked and unfed? You dog lovers know that this would be plain cruel, but Truman makes choices like this happen on a higher level - it's called self preservation. I doubt our insurance would cover it...but they might get a laugh reviewing the claim. Much like my boss did when I was three weeks into a new job and I had to call in to say I would be late because Truman licked an outlet and electrocuted himself. (Yes, we have outlet safety plug-ins. People with kids call it child-proofing the house; we call it Truman-proofing.)
Indeed, the naughtiest thing Izzy every did was eat an unattended cheeseburger my niece had left on an ottoman. Several weeks later Truman ate the ottoman. So, we just don't get the same miles out of our Izzy stories, but as you can see from her picture we always know what she's thinking!
Izzy, on the other hand, is the dog that sits at our feet and stares at us devotedly every moment she's near us. When Truman got his head stuck in a rose trellis, Izzy was the one who tugged on Chris's pant leg until he followed her outside. When Truman ate the 2 pounds of chicken marinating on the kitchen counter, Izzy paced nervously around the living room, and then hid under the table when we discovered the theft. Meanwhile Truman didn't think to even leave the scene of the crime, and just stood there pleased and punchy, licking his lips. When Truman ate my sewing kit and managed to embed 12 needles in his esophagus, Izzy met me at the door, so haggard and anxious that I knew something had happened, and that certainly Truman was involved. (He lived - thanks to the extraordinary 24 hour veterinarian care available referenced in the picnic excerpt).
Our vet calls Izzy "the brains behind the brawn." Izzy can tell by what shoes I reach for in the morning if she is going to the park or just around the neighborhood. Izzy knows what a suitcase is, and my husband has arrived more than once on a research trip and found shoes and socks had been pulled out before he zipped the suitcase. Once, while he was on a particularly long trip I came home from work to find she had collected all of his things within nabbing reach - shoes, socks, a T-shirt, and had brought them to her bed. (She has a more traditional dog bed - one that lies on the floor. It's still quite lush and fluffy though).
Izzy alerts us to every bump in the night, and protects us from the wiley coyotes in the hills behind out house. Truman has to be coaxed and cajoled out of bed in the mornings, and if it's dark, raining, or cold, either my husband and I are sure to be late from work. Friends say, "Just leave him sleeping then!" Based on what little information you readers already have, can you imagine what we would come home to if we left this dog not walked and unfed? You dog lovers know that this would be plain cruel, but Truman makes choices like this happen on a higher level - it's called self preservation. I doubt our insurance would cover it...but they might get a laugh reviewing the claim. Much like my boss did when I was three weeks into a new job and I had to call in to say I would be late because Truman licked an outlet and electrocuted himself. (Yes, we have outlet safety plug-ins. People with kids call it child-proofing the house; we call it Truman-proofing.)
Indeed, the naughtiest thing Izzy every did was eat an unattended cheeseburger my niece had left on an ottoman. Several weeks later Truman ate the ottoman. So, we just don't get the same miles out of our Izzy stories, but as you can see from her picture we always know what she's thinking!
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Picnic Connoisseur
Romantic picnics and sunbathers slathered in coconut oil…at the off leash dog park…even my dog is a foodie…
There is only one off-leash beach in Santa Barbara, so it’s with mixed chagrin that I chase after my coonhound as he catches a whiff of the giant salami in the sky about 100 yards away towards a family of unsuspecting tourists. I suppose they turned left at the lifeguard station to the off-leash part of the beach out of naïve interest in the novelty of being able to watch dogs fetch balls and chase birds in an untethered splendor that manifests all the romantic notions of life in Santa Barbara. The locals are sun drunk and friendly in the thick of January’s darkness, while folks in higher latitudes shovel snow and seek counseling and medication for seasonal affective disorder. The children are fit, bright, and know how to surf. The adults are sophisticated farmers market shoppers with an affinity for fine wines and local cheeses. It stands to reason that the canines of Santa Barbara herald an unprecedented connotation of the expression “it’s a dogs life.” Indeed it is, with gourmet treat shops, spas, acupuncturists, remarkable veterinarian care and even a canine day camp complete with waterfalls, swimming holes, shaded cots for nap time…and one off leash dog beach.
Maybe the vacationing family had to leave their own pooch behind at the kennel and was hoping to satisfy a vicarious need to imagine their own Rover bolting after pelicans and hopping waves. Maybe they thought the kids would stop lamenting Rover’s absence by being able to watch busy labs focus obsessively on their fetching sticks. Maybe the kids are unrelenting in their begging for a dog, so the parents chose the off-leash side of the beach to illustrate exactly how challenging life can be with a canine pal. If not, this is surely what occurs to them when they meet Truman…all 85 pounds of love and vigor as he dives into their picnic at 20 miles an hour.
It’s nearly a religious experience; I feel almost deity like, knowing what is about to happen to this family before they even have a second to anticipate the events unfolding in the sliver of their periphery. They don’t know it yet, but the next two-and-a-half minutes are about to define a significant portion of their day, if not the tone of their vacation altogether. At the very least, no doubt they will turn right at the lifeguard station next time. But in the meantime I run. I more than run. I sprint, fighting flip-flops and sand, hollering over the crash of waves and holiday chatter that fills the spaces in between each dog walker; “Truuuuuumaaaan!!! Truuuuumaaan!”
He is still a good 25 yards ahead of me, chasing a god far greater than all the hours or training, schooling, treat-bribery and scolding. Although I know better than to slow down, I realize I won’t make in time. His enormous hound-on-the-hunt-nose will be in the cooler, and depending upon the level of scuttlebutt and screeching I will be able to tell whether or not the family went left instead of right on purpose.
I see them become aware of Truman almost exactly at the moment he skids into their towels, toppling their umbrella, spraying sand all over them as his nose finds its target. For a split second amidst the din I am impressed at his precision. He manages to brake and land at the exact center of a foot-long hoagie, and he emerges so pleased with himself it does not occur to him to run away with his prey. Instead he jogs a circle around us with a triumphant swagger, rubbing it in, taunting the sandwichless.
Surprised, unafraid, undaunted, and not to be denied a picnic, (and all the other clever ways to say “pissed”), the man of the camp shoos Truman away while the children duck, dodge and giggle in shock as the wife leaps up in disgust. “Get him out of here! Roy! Do something! Get him away from the cooler!” Roy is wrangling the sandwich from Truman as I approach reciting the “sorry, sorry, so sorry” speech I have become so familiar with the past five years it spouts from my mouth on reflex. I am a mere 5 feet away, so close to leashing Truman and dragging him from the scene and changing how all of us will remember this day, when he does something even I didn’t see coming.
I try to understand as I replay the scene later, and the only thing I can imagine was going on in his coonhound brain was, “If I can’t eat the sandwiches, at least I can make them mine.” He begins a sprint as I reach for his collar and with a quick lift of his left hind leg he manages to ensure no one else, certainly, will eat the picnic now.
There is only one off-leash beach in Santa Barbara, so it’s with mixed chagrin that I chase after my coonhound as he catches a whiff of the giant salami in the sky about 100 yards away towards a family of unsuspecting tourists. I suppose they turned left at the lifeguard station to the off-leash part of the beach out of naïve interest in the novelty of being able to watch dogs fetch balls and chase birds in an untethered splendor that manifests all the romantic notions of life in Santa Barbara. The locals are sun drunk and friendly in the thick of January’s darkness, while folks in higher latitudes shovel snow and seek counseling and medication for seasonal affective disorder. The children are fit, bright, and know how to surf. The adults are sophisticated farmers market shoppers with an affinity for fine wines and local cheeses. It stands to reason that the canines of Santa Barbara herald an unprecedented connotation of the expression “it’s a dogs life.” Indeed it is, with gourmet treat shops, spas, acupuncturists, remarkable veterinarian care and even a canine day camp complete with waterfalls, swimming holes, shaded cots for nap time…and one off leash dog beach.
Maybe the vacationing family had to leave their own pooch behind at the kennel and was hoping to satisfy a vicarious need to imagine their own Rover bolting after pelicans and hopping waves. Maybe they thought the kids would stop lamenting Rover’s absence by being able to watch busy labs focus obsessively on their fetching sticks. Maybe the kids are unrelenting in their begging for a dog, so the parents chose the off-leash side of the beach to illustrate exactly how challenging life can be with a canine pal. If not, this is surely what occurs to them when they meet Truman…all 85 pounds of love and vigor as he dives into their picnic at 20 miles an hour.
It’s nearly a religious experience; I feel almost deity like, knowing what is about to happen to this family before they even have a second to anticipate the events unfolding in the sliver of their periphery. They don’t know it yet, but the next two-and-a-half minutes are about to define a significant portion of their day, if not the tone of their vacation altogether. At the very least, no doubt they will turn right at the lifeguard station next time. But in the meantime I run. I more than run. I sprint, fighting flip-flops and sand, hollering over the crash of waves and holiday chatter that fills the spaces in between each dog walker; “Truuuuuumaaaan!!! Truuuuumaaan!”
He is still a good 25 yards ahead of me, chasing a god far greater than all the hours or training, schooling, treat-bribery and scolding. Although I know better than to slow down, I realize I won’t make in time. His enormous hound-on-the-hunt-nose will be in the cooler, and depending upon the level of scuttlebutt and screeching I will be able to tell whether or not the family went left instead of right on purpose.
I see them become aware of Truman almost exactly at the moment he skids into their towels, toppling their umbrella, spraying sand all over them as his nose finds its target. For a split second amidst the din I am impressed at his precision. He manages to brake and land at the exact center of a foot-long hoagie, and he emerges so pleased with himself it does not occur to him to run away with his prey. Instead he jogs a circle around us with a triumphant swagger, rubbing it in, taunting the sandwichless.
Surprised, unafraid, undaunted, and not to be denied a picnic, (and all the other clever ways to say “pissed”), the man of the camp shoos Truman away while the children duck, dodge and giggle in shock as the wife leaps up in disgust. “Get him out of here! Roy! Do something! Get him away from the cooler!” Roy is wrangling the sandwich from Truman as I approach reciting the “sorry, sorry, so sorry” speech I have become so familiar with the past five years it spouts from my mouth on reflex. I am a mere 5 feet away, so close to leashing Truman and dragging him from the scene and changing how all of us will remember this day, when he does something even I didn’t see coming.
I try to understand as I replay the scene later, and the only thing I can imagine was going on in his coonhound brain was, “If I can’t eat the sandwiches, at least I can make them mine.” He begins a sprint as I reach for his collar and with a quick lift of his left hind leg he manages to ensure no one else, certainly, will eat the picnic now.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Eat, Pray, Love
I've been hearing a lot about this book, so I plan on reading it soon. People tell me they actually can't believe I haven't read it already, but there are so many great books to keep up with! If only my sole responsibility was to feed my soul with literature and conversation in the company of kind people while we savor homemade soup and a cup of tea!
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Family Values
I was saddened to hear of Lady Bird Johnson's death recently, but heartened by the way she has been remembered across the news channels. "Lady Bird Johnson was a true, strong, Texan woman," declared one current Texan politician. "She supported her husband's career, and some say she even saved it," said a news person. It makes you think for a minute about that expression "behind every successful man is an exhausted woman." Not only have we worked harder and done a better job for less money, we've been doing it on behalf of the whole family, and in Lady Bird's case, the whole country.
So different from some of the competing headlines today about the sex scandals of "Family Value" candidates and their prostitution escapades. I wouldn't care so much about what they do in their bedrooms, if only they didn't care so much about what happens in the bedrooms of their constituents. Hmmm... "Me thinks thou dost protest too much..."
As far as I can tell though, we've never really gotten over our chagrin at giving women the vote to begin with. The next thing we know, women want to read, have equal access to education, college admission, professional opportunities, and maybe some day - equal pay. We have a historical struggle with strong, outspoken First Ladies. Roosevelt has an entire chapter in Doris Kearn-Goodwin's book "Roosevelt" called "I Can't Do A Thing About Her," in reference to Eleanor’s incorrigible social reform agendas. I remember living in DC when Bill Clinton was elected and the Washington Post was obsessed with speculations about who would actually be wearing the pants in the administration. We know who was not wearing the pants, but more importantly, why were we so intimidated about a high profile woman with ambition, and why were we so disconcerted about a woman with visions for health care and education reform? Remember "It takes a Village"? Was Hillary wrong to speak out on the verge of globalization? Is it inaccurate to say the time has come to revisit the role of our local community economies? Stunning isn't it, that less than 100 years after being granted the right to vote that we would be after the White House. Lady Bird would be proud. Come to think of it, so would Martha, Abigail, Louisa, Eleanor, Jackie, Rosalynn...
So different from some of the competing headlines today about the sex scandals of "Family Value" candidates and their prostitution escapades. I wouldn't care so much about what they do in their bedrooms, if only they didn't care so much about what happens in the bedrooms of their constituents. Hmmm... "Me thinks thou dost protest too much..."
As far as I can tell though, we've never really gotten over our chagrin at giving women the vote to begin with. The next thing we know, women want to read, have equal access to education, college admission, professional opportunities, and maybe some day - equal pay. We have a historical struggle with strong, outspoken First Ladies. Roosevelt has an entire chapter in Doris Kearn-Goodwin's book "Roosevelt" called "I Can't Do A Thing About Her," in reference to Eleanor’s incorrigible social reform agendas. I remember living in DC when Bill Clinton was elected and the Washington Post was obsessed with speculations about who would actually be wearing the pants in the administration. We know who was not wearing the pants, but more importantly, why were we so intimidated about a high profile woman with ambition, and why were we so disconcerted about a woman with visions for health care and education reform? Remember "It takes a Village"? Was Hillary wrong to speak out on the verge of globalization? Is it inaccurate to say the time has come to revisit the role of our local community economies? Stunning isn't it, that less than 100 years after being granted the right to vote that we would be after the White House. Lady Bird would be proud. Come to think of it, so would Martha, Abigail, Louisa, Eleanor, Jackie, Rosalynn...
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Your Body Your Planet
It’s easy to compartmentalize our choices in life - it’s what we need to do in order to dash through the exhaustive to-do lists beeping at us all day long on our blackberries and blinding us with pop-up appointments across the computer screen. What we sometimes don’t have time to reflect on is how those day-to-day choices intersect with one another. I’ve got my hand in several great books right now about nutrition, the climate change, the coming health crisis, the impacts of our global economy and the hidden costs of cheap consumer goods. It’s not usually my style to be involved in so many leisure academic activities at once, but I feel like I literally opened the NYT book review one Sunday and found the publishing houses under a siege of all the soap boxes and rants I’ve been chasing people around at dinner parties with for the last 15 years.
Thus, the Sacred Harvest blog - the place where I will muse on topics such as:
* What does the childhood obesity epidemic have in common with climate change?
* How are international human rights connected to conspicuous consumption in the United States?
* What is the common denominator between fast food and poverty?
* Can you implement sustainable living practices and simultaneously reverse stress related health disorders?
* What are the global impacts of our food choices?
* Are "green products" the real answer to the environmental crisis? What are the impacts of production and distribution of so-called "eco-friendly" products?
Welcome to the Sacred Harvest! I look forward to your comments and participation as I build this site out. I hope it can be a place of community development and discussion where we all learn how to lighten our footprints and embrace the sacredness of daily life on this amazing planet we call home.
Take Back Your Table
The whole revelation of how many of our food products come from China has been incredibly eye-opening in our household. When the tainted dog food was announced we knew it was only the tip of the iceberg, but we had no idea how big this iceberg was. Now we know a toddler that is recovering from a life-threatening case of Salmonella from Veggie Booty. Here are a few facts to mull over about food imports, and notice too that some of your favorite "hippie food companies" are in fact partially owned by organizations such a Phillip Morris, Heinz, and General Mills.
1. The US has over 400 points of entry for food imports and only 600-something inspectors
2. Only 1% of food imports are inspected, and this does not include food ingredients - only the final products
3. When you see the words "natural food flavorings" in an ingredient list, you can be almost sure it includes animal products
4. There are hundreds of food import refusals in the US every month (only 1% are even inspected!)
5. China has made a deliberate effort to capture the food manufacturing market by under cutting prices by 1000s of % - thereby forcing the closure of many US manufacturing facilities. For example, ascorbic acid (vitamin C - a common food preservative) cost $15 a kilogram ten years ago. Today the Chinese produce 80% of the world's supply at a mere $3.50 a kilogram.
6. Import refusals from China include vitamins and supplements and herbal teas
Here is an except from one of the NPR articles in the below links:
"In the past year, the FDA rejected more than twice as many food shipments from China as from all other countries combined.
The rejected shipments make an unappetizing list. Inspectors commonly block Chinese food imports because they're "filthy." That's the official term.
"They might smell decomposition. They might see gross contamination of the food. 'Filthy' is a broad term for a product that is not fit for human consumption," Hubbard says.
Another rejection code is "vet-drug-res." That means the food product, usually things like fish, seafood and eels, contains residues of veterinary drugs, such as antibiotics and antifungals."
Here are some links you may be interested in if you would like to learn more about what's on our grocery store shelves - even the shelves of your favorite co-op:
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=11478155
http://www.vegetarian-restaurants.net/OtherInfo/Vegetarian-Food-Alert-Newsletter.htm
http://www.coopamerica.org/programs/rs/
http://www.ciw-online.org/tools.html
http://www.consumeraffairs.com/news04/2005/ca_fries.html
http://www.coopamerica.org/programs/rs/profile.cfm?id=232
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=11656278
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=10410111
What is becoming increasingly clear is that we cannot rely on industry or government to protect our health in general, and specifically in regards to packaged consumer goods. It's time for us to take back our dinner tables and make an effort to reclaim our local economies, our natural environments, and most of all, our health.
1. The US has over 400 points of entry for food imports and only 600-something inspectors
2. Only 1% of food imports are inspected, and this does not include food ingredients - only the final products
3. When you see the words "natural food flavorings" in an ingredient list, you can be almost sure it includes animal products
4. There are hundreds of food import refusals in the US every month (only 1% are even inspected!)
5. China has made a deliberate effort to capture the food manufacturing market by under cutting prices by 1000s of % - thereby forcing the closure of many US manufacturing facilities. For example, ascorbic acid (vitamin C - a common food preservative) cost $15 a kilogram ten years ago. Today the Chinese produce 80% of the world's supply at a mere $3.50 a kilogram.
6. Import refusals from China include vitamins and supplements and herbal teas
Here is an except from one of the NPR articles in the below links:
"In the past year, the FDA rejected more than twice as many food shipments from China as from all other countries combined.
The rejected shipments make an unappetizing list. Inspectors commonly block Chinese food imports because they're "filthy." That's the official term.
"They might smell decomposition. They might see gross contamination of the food. 'Filthy' is a broad term for a product that is not fit for human consumption," Hubbard says.
Another rejection code is "vet-drug-res." That means the food product, usually things like fish, seafood and eels, contains residues of veterinary drugs, such as antibiotics and antifungals."
Here are some links you may be interested in if you would like to learn more about what's on our grocery store shelves - even the shelves of your favorite co-op:
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=11478155
http://www.vegetarian-restaurants.net/OtherInfo/Vegetarian-Food-Alert-Newsletter.htm
http://www.coopamerica.org/programs/rs/
http://www.ciw-online.org/tools.html
http://www.consumeraffairs.com/news04/2005/ca_fries.html
http://www.coopamerica.org/programs/rs/profile.cfm?id=232
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=11656278
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=10410111
What is becoming increasingly clear is that we cannot rely on industry or government to protect our health in general, and specifically in regards to packaged consumer goods. It's time for us to take back our dinner tables and make an effort to reclaim our local economies, our natural environments, and most of all, our health.
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